Therapy might just be therapeutic... who knew?

Today I went to my first ever therapy session with a psychologist.  Don't worry, I'm not going to air my dirty laundry here.  I just want to muse over the idea of visiting a therapist.  I found it an interesting experience and I would like to consider it as a thing unto itself.

I have to admit that I was nervous to go there and share my story, or rather all the stories that add up to my story.  I mean, I know it's a psychologist's job to be supportive and non-judgemental, but my experience with people is that they aren't always what they are meant to be.  So, how can you trust them with some of your darkest thoughts and closest guarded feelings?

Well, I mean, it helps that you can tell that this person was genuinely listening.  You can tell when people are distracted or don't really care.  Or perhaps worse is when you are going through something and someone points out to you that it could be worse.  They invalidate your pain, your struggle, your suffering.  It's not about how it could have been worse or how somebody else has gone through worse.  Your pain is real and it's your pain to deal with.

Perhaps that was the most surprising part of this for me.  I sort of expected the therapist to be professional but more distant.  I expected them to calmly and matter of factly tell me that what I was dealing with wasn't that bad and could be dealt with.  What I did not expect was for the psychologist to close their eyes like they were suffering on my behalf.  What I expected less was for them to explain to me that layers and layers of trauma were informing some of my outlook on the world.

Trauma.

That sounds like a harsh word.  But honestly using the word trauma was freeing.  It made me feel like I was allowed to be as crushed and upset as I am by what I've been through.  I don't have to compare or stand next to a measurement and be found wanting on a scale of who has dealt with the worst things in life.  It is irrelevant how many worse things could have been done to me.  The only thing that is relevant is how the trauma, my particular trauma, has left scars and what to do with it now.

In a way, acknowledging that my pain is real, was the kindest thing anyone could do.  And letting me know that it really is hard to sort through these things is in a strange way a reassurance too.  It means that if you struggle to fix it on your own it's not because you're broken.  It's because some things are too big to be dealt with alone.  And that's not some failing on your part.  If it was as simple as do x, y, and z, you would have done it already.

So, I very stereotypically cried through a majority of this, the very first session.  But it was cathartic in a way.  It felt more productive than the times I've cried over these traumas with friends.  Maybe because I was allowed to be completely and unabashedly traumatised by them instead of trying to keep it together and present a strong side so as not to worry anyone. 

So, I hope that seeing this professional will help me deal with my trauma going forward and help me reclaim my life a little bit.  I refuse to let past trauma and fear rule who I am today and in the future.  I don't know if this resonates with anyone but that has been my experience today.

Welcome Sweet Shrouding Fog of Unknown Futures

Goodnight World,

Rest in the peaceful shroud of unknown tomorrows.  May the languid winds of unformed futures gently smooth your weary brow.  Too long have you worried over the unnamed monsters of the morrow; turning desperately this way and that to thwart them.  Morning's harsh light may part the mist and reveal to you the fearful outlines of Scylla and Charybdis.  But here, now, in these final hours of rest welcome the sweet shrouding fog of unknown futures.  Scylla's slashing teeth cannot steal your slumber from you.  Neither can Charybdis change your course this final night of sightless sleep.  Inevitable fate awaits you, World, one man, or even many being powerless to change it.  Fate, ah The Fates, there is no room for fear in the unfamiliar future they have fixed for you.  Mist will rise, the shroud will part and tomorrow you will stride forth boldly into the fray, the fight, the future.  Tomorrow, deeds having been done, the course of the future will unfurl before you in all its fury.  Scylla and Charybdis will greet you and the terrible consequences of the course set before you will be plain to see.  Tonight, embrace the twilight of unrevealed tribulations.  Lay fear aside, thank all the stars that you were not born into Cassandra's curse and gather the dusk around you in the final slumber in the blissfully unknown future ahead of you.

What is my Car squeaking about?

"Chitty squeak, clackety screech" the dashboard in the car sings merrily as we drive about town. It sings like it's someone's Great Aunt Ethel, with a high-pitched voice that is both annoying and familiar; nattering away non-stop as you drive.  Maybe my car is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang's stately relative Great Aunt Ethel.  You don't think cars have great aunts and sing?  Well, apparently you haven't met my car.

If my car really is a Great Aunt Ethel type, it is no doubt telling you to "be careful, and slow down, and watch out for that squirrel, and did you know that your cousin three times removed on your father's side had recently bought those horrid foot gloves that masquerade as shoes and I can't see how it's going to improve her appearance any, and don't you just love those red bougainvillea plants they planted in the median?"

Or maybe it's not Great Aunt Ethel after all.  Maybe the car is singing its own song about roads, stoplights and gas tanks and the smell of freshly paved asphalt roads in the morning.  Perhaps, the car is singing a song that goes "every day out of the junk yard is a good day!"

Maybe I'm driving a cheery realist around town.  He knows and accepts his fate with a dash of cheer, realism, and song.  Its squeaky rattling tune tells of its happiness to be living the life of an automobile to the fullest.  I have enough gas and enough working parts to keep driving, so driving I will go.  Three cheers for working motors!

Or maybe my car is plotting mutiny.  It plans to wait til we have set sail on a long journey of enormous importance and break down leaving us stranded in an inhospitable section of shark infested waters.  Maybe its little creaking symphony is the mutinous mumblings of a car that fancies itself abused and overworked that will crash on purpose at the earliest convenience with a raucous shout of "Drink up mechanics yo ho!" right before it careens full sail into a ditch with faulty brakes.  Just maybe.  Of course, I could just be imagining all of this because I have an advanced case of scurvy induced madness, anything is possible, right?

Whatever it is my car sings or mutters about, it certainly does so at a constant rate.  Sometimes the squeaking cacophony is almost soothing while others it's enough to drive you mad in a mere handful of blocks.  Maybe if I roll a window down a bit it will drown out Great Aunt Ethel's helpful nattering.  Or perhaps, I ought to join in with the song... "every day out of the junk yard is goooooooood day!"  Everyone can use a healthy dose of cheery realism once in awhile, right?

The Heart is the Final Frontier

Be Brave Timid Explorer

Space may seem like the final frontier but the truth is that this distinction lies a bit closer to home than we may want to admit.  However you choose to define frontier, I believe the word aptly characterizes the heart.

Frontier can be defined as:
1. the far-flung limits of knowledge
2. a region of sparse habitation, or
3. a border between countries

I assert, dear reader, that the heart is more mysterious to an individual than any number of complex mathematical equations and questions of science.  A person with a PhD in theoretical Physics will understand things that even the mention of would make my poor brain ache.  And yet, even such a lofty scientific mind could still be utterly baffled by the heart.  Their own heart could betray their rational mind and seem as foreign and bewilderingly complex as any intellectual discipline ever could.  I suggest to you, dear reader, that the heart is the final frontier.

1. the far-flung limits of knowledge
The heart is at the far-flung reaches of our understanding.  No matter how knowledgeable you or I happen to be in a particular field of study, we can still be caught unawares by our hearts.  I don't know about you, but I have often been confused and frustrated by my heart.  There have even been a rare few moments in my life where the realisation of what my heart wants has made my breath catch in my throat.  But the worst of all, are those days I feel lost and restless because I cannot even tell what it is my heart wants; knowing only that it desperately seeks something.  Something I can't quite grasp.

2. a region of sparse habitation
And it's not like there are any road maps in there because the second definition is also true.  The heart is sparsely populated.  It's just you and that crazy desire for whatever it is your heart has decided you need.  There are no friendly locals to point you in the right direction.  You and your heart just have to wander around in your solitary desert til you figure it out on your own.  And trust me, the longer you are lost, the more your heart thinks it's dying.  It certainly feels like an inhospitable desert place in a broken or lost heart.

3. a border between countries
Let's face it, the heart is the border between two completely separate countries.  It is the border between rational and irrational thought.  It is an individual's private frontier.  The battle between head and heart is not new to many people, and yet, it is still as violent and hotly contested as it ever was. Perhaps the real struggle of adulthood is deciding which battles to fight.  It is a lucky individual indeed that has a very quiet border at the edges of the heart's kingdom and the crossroads of reason.  Maybe it is only my experience in life, but it is very rarely that my heart desires things that my rational side can agree with.  More unfortunately, my heart very often wants what it absolutely cannot have.

And why is that?

Why does my heart seem to only want those things it cannot have?  No, want is the wrong word.  It is too tepid.  Yearn is more like it.  Why do I desperately yearn for opportunities and realities that cannot and never will be mine?  Why can the heart not accept it's own fate and calm down for just a few minutes in it's restless beating and longing for the things that cannot be?  My heart and head are almost always at war with each other.  Perhaps it is true of all of us.

Courage of the Heart?
In the end, you almost have to admire the heart.  I mean, it has a single mindedness to it's longing that is almost courageous.  Well, it could be called courageous in other people at least.  Maybe you could call it courageous in yourself if it wasn't making you so miserable.  A body could almost learn to resent their heart some days, what with all the sleepless nights spent tossing and turning, pondering the things that might have been, or could still be; the way that miracles could still bring about that one thing you long for so desperately.

Bleary-eyed, coffee-filled doses of morning reality could understandably reduce even the most rational person to hateful thoughts toward their softer side.  If only they were colder hearted, less of a dreamer, more rational, they silently chastise themselves over sips of piping wakefulness...  If only they were these things, they sigh with resignation, they might sleep better, feel less weary and less plagued by life.  If they weren't so irrational they might feel less at war with themselves on the border between desire and reality; less lost in the wilderness of emotional turmoil.  If only they could turn the heart off or around and care about something practical and achievable.

But Nooo!

The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants
The heart wants what the heart wants.  Everyone will tell you this.  They quote Emily Dickinson as if it explains everything away.  But they forget the rest of the line.  "The heart wants what the heart wants, or else it does not care."  The hearts wants, or else...  If the heart doesn't get what it wants it throws a perpetual tantrum to make you miserable because no matter how you wish it otherwise, you just can't care about things your heart doesn't want.  And, if you remember, the heart is at the far-flung limits of our knowledge and it's sparsely populated.  So, you're alone in there with your heart throwing a tantrum that you have absolutely no idea how to stop.  You just get to sit in your barren desert of a heart, all alone, until it finally loses the energy to throw such a monumental tantrum.  This, depending on the tragedy or misfortune, could take days, or even years.  Years of feeling more alone and isolated and desolate than you can even imagine. (That is, more desolate than your rational side would think possible, when it finally has control.)
 
Follow Your Heart?
People will quote this line to you; "The heart wants what the heart wants" they say.  They will do so in a flippant matter like this single quote explains everything.  Well, of course you're miserable the heart wants what it wants.  It will pass.  Or they sometimes manage to imply that you should follow your heart.  But neither of these sentiments are of comfort.  Why does the heart want what it wants?  Why can't it want something that it already has, or something that it could have?  Why must it long for those things it cannot have?  You cannot simply follow your heart when the object of your heart's desire is, in actual fact, impossible.  You may want to sit on the edge of the moon and breathe freely, but it doesn't mean you can.  You may wish for one more hour with a loved one, but no one can turn back time.  You may wish for eight arms, or a new personality, but you cannot snap your fingers and be a different person.  And, no, your misery does not get better by simply acknowledging that the heart wants what it wants, or that it cannot have it.  You already know these things.  Misery doesn't come from your lack of knowledge.  Misery comes because your heart is simply incapable of caring about daily life or anything beyond the one impossible desire it is yearns for.  So, you sit and wallow in your state of uncaring for anything else, because the heart doesn't compromise.  It wants what it wants OR ELSE.

Emily Dickinson knew this.  But those people who quote the first part of her line nearly always forget the second and darker truth.  Emily, they frequently forget, was a woman much beset by grief.  She knew intimately the depths of a heart's pain.  She watched many loved ones and friends die in her lifetime and she struggled with deep depression.  Her line is not a flippant statement that sometimes your heart is unhappy but you'll get over it soon it enough.  There is no "soon enough" for some pain.

Your heart does not simply let the head win or stop wanting impossible thing in exactly two weeks time.  You cannot sit your heart down and lecture it saying "Enough is enough", or "Come, now let's be rational.  Things aren't going to change.  Let's make the best it".  No.  Your heart won't listen.  It doesn't care.  No amount of reasoning with yourself and your heart makes the pain go away.  No amount of reasoning helps your heart to care about anything else when it sees no hope and no future of happiness.  The heart cannot be appeased by mundane trivialities.  The pain settles in for a long and merciless winter hibernation; the sort of winter that perhaps there is no waking up from.

Heartbreak, heartsick, heavy heart, heartache.  Why do you think there are so many words that have to do with temper tantrums of the heart?  And this doesn't even include the wealth of words to describe the emotions including anguish, sorrow, and misery.  Everyone deals with grief and heartbreak at some point in their lives.  Sadly, as the heart is at the limits of our understanding, nobody has figured out a way of making these times any easier.  The heart has a great capacity for joy and love and caring, but if it doesn't get it's way you may have a long road of apathy and anguish ahead of you.

Don't Follow Your Heart
A lot of soul searching, or heart searching if you will, has led me to the conclusion that I do not even know my own heart.  It has layers of wishes and desires, some of them obvious and others latent, hidden even from my own awareness.  I think that the best way to be at peace in life is to somehow reach a balance whereby your heart concedes that current circumstances are not permanent and that hope for future happiness is always a possibility no matter how bleak the day may be.  Letting the heart live in the moment and focus only on despair is too dangerous.  Hope can be a tricky ally, but it is far better than the heartache of despair.  I am not an expert on these things and I still get caught unaware by the sudden tantrums of my heart's desires and apathy... but I am trying.  Trying to understand.  Trying to work towards hope.  Trying to lead my heart out of darkness, but never follow it there.

My advice?  Don't follow your heart.  It doesn't know what it's doing.  Prepare yourself for battle on the frontier between your heart and your head and remember that you will be going in alone, dropped behind enemy lines with no intelligence or maps.  All you will have is your wits and your desire to survive whatever storm your heart is experiencing at the moment by sheer determination and perseverance.  It won't be easy.  But don't give up.

The Heart is a mysterious creature and despite the fact that nobody has figured out how to neutralize it, you probably wouldn't want to live life without it anyway.  No matter how dark today may be.  Chin up, have courage.  If you cannot manage to care about anything in the world today just remember that you are not alone.  We have all been lost in the depths of our heart's despair at some point or another.  If you're lost there now, just allow yourself to be sorrowful.  Tomorrow you can work on finding just one thing in the world that is not bad.  Perhaps the sunlight through a flower, or a best friend's company.  Tomorrow you can slowly try to remind your heart that the world hasn't ended.  Today, you're allowed to just be sad as long as you don't give up altogether.

So, farewell, dear reader, and be brave in your explorations into the final frontier, the Heart.

Breaking News: Mugger claims Scurvy made them do it!

Some day it will come to this.  One day I will hardly be able to fend off the scurvy and the madness and I will simply snap.  This will be my headline.  Mugger claims "Scurvy made me do it!"

I can tell you are confused.  That furrowed look on your brow, that raised eyebrow, that slightly narrowed eye tell all.  You cannot understand what I am talking about.  Well how could you?  YOU do not have scurvy.

At first I just thought I was tired from working too hard and maybe the tiniest bit lazy.  But then I realized the terrible truth.  I was in line to buy my handful of bargains at M&S when realization struck.  Out of all the things I could have selected to buy I had chosen to buy a lemon cake, a lemon mousse and a grapefruit.  I wasn't just tired and lazy.  I was craving fruit.  I had scurvy!  The hard yellow evidence was staring me straight in my scorbutic face.

Maybe the presence of this pirate cake alongside my lemon cake subconsciously started this whole thing? Nah, it was the scurvy.  Had to be.

Scorbutic, that's just such a great word.  No, focus Madder Hatter, you must stay focused.  Don't let the scurvy take you like this.

Ok, produce wallet, produce change, pay for citrusy products.  Almost safe.  No, the madness is taking over.  The scurvy... It. Is. Too. Powerful.

I stumbled back to my desk at work, delirious with laughter and the sickness.  I managed to obtain a spoon somehow in this state, peeled back the lid with trembling fingers and dug into the lemony mousse.  Ahhh.  The cure.  I could feel the sugary lemony goodness fixing me.  The madness slowly receded to a normal level and I went back to my work.  I had been saved from the scurvy, but not before I had realized my fate.

You see, it seems to be my fate to constantly battle scurvy.  I do not eat enough broccoli obviously, as I have explained before here.  So it is with a heavy heart that I must realize what my eventual fate will be.  I am destined to battle with scurvy my entire life.  Yes, tragic, but true.

I will not always be so lucky as to be within reach of a cure, however.  So, I am doomed to be the madman on the loose grasping at anything that even looks like a cure.

Mad with the scurvy I will scuttle down the street.  Nobody sitting at a quiet breakfast with grapefruit will be safe from my ravenous need for citrus.  I will be forced to grab lemony desserts from people's hands and down them without elegance or dignity.  Scorbutic hands trembling I am doomed to terrify the lone bearers of fruit flavoured cakes on public transportation.

With wild and anxious aspect I will spy the cakes from a distance, perched prettily on the lap of an unsuspecting bus passenger.  My desperate deficiency heightening my senses and screaming that I act now to restore my health, I will leap to my feet and race to my supposed salvation.  Muttering in demented demeanor aloud to myself about the scurvy I will pitch back and forth with the motion of the bus.  The scurvy will feel the motion, reach back into its ancient memory and believe with renewed audacity that it is afflicting a hapless sailor, demanding satisfaction in a fruit flavoured cake sacrifice to its honour.

I will battle with the scurvy.  I am a good person and won't want to take the poor passenger's cake.  But the scurvy will be strong and I will eventually be forced to steal their cake.  Unceremoniously, I will be found tearing into it to relieve my scurvy and become the world's weirdest and wildest mugger.  Stealing cakes from innocent people.  Once the scurvy has been sated and my sanity has returned to me it will be too late.  I will try to explain that the scurvy made me do it as I am led away in handcuffs for mugging some poor old lady bringing a lemon cake to her friends birthday.  But it will be too late she will already be terrified and traumatized by my public scorbutic debacle.

I am doomed.  Summer days may find me trying to pry orange popsicles from unsuspecting little fingers.  Fingers that will point me out as the orange-handed culprit.  Sure, sure I could have asked where they got their popsicles from, but scurvy doesn't heed logic.  Scurvy does not brook disappointment.  Scurvy is a law unto itself.  It is a bleak bleak future that awaits me.

Even if I try to stockpile on citrus products there is no telling when scurvy could strike.  I could be anywhere and nobody will be safe from my scorbutic mania.  Maybe I should get a lawyer.  Perhaps a good lawyer could explain that these innocent victims had knowledge of the whereabouts of the popsicle and cake vendors and that they were withholding that information from me.  I was forced to steal the popsicles and cakes out of great underprivileged need.

Or insanity.  The insanity plea could work.  The terrified lady from the bus could probably testify on my behalf even.  Insanity may just be my salvation.