Yesterday, I wrote someone a thank-you note for listening to me ramble and stutter and verbally fumble through a painfully stilted, forced conversation.
Oh, fine: it wasn't really a thank-you note. Rather, it was a check. For one hundred and fifty dollars. Which is, apparently, the going rate for two sessions of therapy.
Therapy. I confess that I cringe and squirm, just saying the word. At the risk of sounding judgmental, I admit that I feel ridiculous, weak and self-absorbed, submitting to therapy.
I thought it would be liberating. I hoped it would be helpful. I felt that my ability to cope, which had never been especially impressive to begin with, had completely imploded over the past few months, and that perhaps a professional could help me sort through the rubble and begin to rebuild, newer and stronger than before.
Is that a realistic goal? I don't know. From the innumerable psychotherapists in a fifteen-mile radius, have I made a wise choice with this one? I don't know. Does therapy actually help anyone, or is it simply a placebo, a sugar pill, a lollipop? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
I'm sure that time will answer these questions and more. But time: well, I'm never very confident that it's on my side.
"I sense that you're feeling a real sense of urgency," she said. YES, I wanted to shout. Yes! Please, just cut to the chase and tell me what to do. Can't we just skip past these little getting-to-know-you exercises, and get to the good stuff already?
Patience: clearly, a challenge for me.
And so, instead of dissecting the events of this past week, which featured a highly unusual 24-hour visit with my father, and then another one with my sister (ahem: my two most dysfunctional relationships), we primarily discussed my mother, and the things she did and said thirty years ago, most of which I only vaguely recall. Agony.
Three sessions, I've promised myself. I'll attend three sessions before I throw up my hands and call this a big fat failed exercise in futility. Two down; one to go.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Mindful
Thanks to architectural tours 'round the Windy City, I'm familiar with Mies van der Rohe's declaration that God is in the details.
And so it is that I'm reminded of my father wherever I happen to be. It's often in the most peculiar moments and minutiae that I see his face.
At Flying Fish for a family-day lunch yesterday, my crispy salad, of all things, jogged the memory of one of his oft-repeated tales: the time he introduced me to fried oysters.
Like the beagle, I'd begged for a taste from his plate. And, like the beagle, I'd promptly declared it inedible by sticking out my tongue at him.
Meaningful? Not in the slightest. But the mindfulness: well, it's reassuring, somehow.
He's not gone, for heaven's sake; right at the moment, he's only a state line away, and he's promised to visit us in a few days.
But I find a small comfort in knowing that he can be conjured so easily, simply by opening my eyes to what surrounds me.
And so it is that I'm reminded of my father wherever I happen to be. It's often in the most peculiar moments and minutiae that I see his face.
At Flying Fish for a family-day lunch yesterday, my crispy salad, of all things, jogged the memory of one of his oft-repeated tales: the time he introduced me to fried oysters.
Like the beagle, I'd begged for a taste from his plate. And, like the beagle, I'd promptly declared it inedible by sticking out my tongue at him.
Meaningful? Not in the slightest. But the mindfulness: well, it's reassuring, somehow.
He's not gone, for heaven's sake; right at the moment, he's only a state line away, and he's promised to visit us in a few days.
But I find a small comfort in knowing that he can be conjured so easily, simply by opening my eyes to what surrounds me.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Revelation
I can see now that it was perfect, the way he told us. Awful and epic and tragic, to be sure, but perfect in its poetry and synchronicity.
There we were, in his hometown, nestled in the hills. It was the town that birthed him and, to varying degrees, shaped each one of us.
It was the morning after his daughter's wedding day, and the happiness still mingled in the air with the fog that drifted lazily over the lake.
Dutifully, the two of us met him on the wooden deck, giddily apprehensive to learn why we'd been called together in his own peculiar way. It was typical, really.
But no: it was anything but typical.
He never stopped smiling, steadily transmitted optimism and cheer, even as the words fell ugly and black, like stones: cancer. prostate. bone. stage four. two years.
My head reeled; my breath stopped. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew how disappointed he'd be in me if I succumbed to my weaker instincts and began to cry.
"You're just like your mother," he'd always said, and it was condemnation, not praise. So I let the words keep falling like stones, and tried to will my emotions up high, to a safer place.
In short order, however, his other daughter started to cry, to my surprise and relief. She'd always been the strong one, cut from the same cloth as him, and so I felt I'd been given permission to let my own tears fall.
But it wasn't until later, when I was away from it all, when I was with the man who knows me best, that I could let go, let every bit of it go. He knew everything, and he let me let go.
I let go. But I think I'm still falling.
There we were, in his hometown, nestled in the hills. It was the town that birthed him and, to varying degrees, shaped each one of us.
It was the morning after his daughter's wedding day, and the happiness still mingled in the air with the fog that drifted lazily over the lake.
Dutifully, the two of us met him on the wooden deck, giddily apprehensive to learn why we'd been called together in his own peculiar way. It was typical, really.
But no: it was anything but typical.
He never stopped smiling, steadily transmitted optimism and cheer, even as the words fell ugly and black, like stones: cancer. prostate. bone. stage four. two years.
My head reeled; my breath stopped. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew I couldn't cry. I knew how disappointed he'd be in me if I succumbed to my weaker instincts and began to cry.
"You're just like your mother," he'd always said, and it was condemnation, not praise. So I let the words keep falling like stones, and tried to will my emotions up high, to a safer place.
In short order, however, his other daughter started to cry, to my surprise and relief. She'd always been the strong one, cut from the same cloth as him, and so I felt I'd been given permission to let my own tears fall.
But it wasn't until later, when I was away from it all, when I was with the man who knows me best, that I could let go, let every bit of it go. He knew everything, and he let me let go.
I let go. But I think I'm still falling.
Muddy waters
There's something about crossing that bridge, the one that carries me across the muddy waters. It's tangible, the shift I feel as I pass from one state to the next.
The past to the present. The known to the uncertain.
Above my head, a sign serves as an official homecoming. Down below, the great river swirls and churns, mighty and swift.
It's creative and destructive. Mystical and inspirational.
Countless tales of love and loss have played out among the hills that roll up and away from the river's banks. This is just one of them.
The past to the present. The known to the uncertain.
Above my head, a sign serves as an official homecoming. Down below, the great river swirls and churns, mighty and swift.
It's creative and destructive. Mystical and inspirational.
Countless tales of love and loss have played out among the hills that roll up and away from the river's banks. This is just one of them.
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