Tuesday, March 13, 2012
The Fisher King
I'm triggered, y'all. I'm slogging through an original injury and I do mean original. OK, here it is: my mother did not want me, did not welcome me into the world. I don't blame her. I've thought about it, worked through it EXTENSIVELY during my ten years on the psychotherapeutic couch. I know this issue, and have explored it from every which way. I released the anger and blame long ago.
Times were tough in our family when my mother became pregnant with me. She and my father were victims of McCarthy's witch hunts, had a terrible time finding and keeping jobs. They already had two kids; they were stretched thin.
The day I was born, my father was not working. In fact he was in the hospital for something, can't remember what. My mother was worried sick about money, and too it was February of 1953. Can you imagine her medicalized labor and delivery? Oy vey. Did I mention it was Friday the 13th?
To make matters worse, I was a very tough baby - cried all the time, terrible colic, ear and throat infections all the time, did not sleep. I know in my heart of hearts that my mother did her best, but from the get-go there was a basic disconnect between the two of us. She didn't, at any level, understand why I wanted to wear dresses and mary janes rather than dress like my proletariat sisters in brown corduroy pants and sensible shoes. She did not get why I was so shy, why I worried all the time. I worried ALL the time when I was a little girl.
When we went to the grocery store, I stuck close to my mother. My sisters were content to hang out in the aisle with the toys and magazines, which would certainly have been far more fun than riding around in a grocery cart. But I never let my mother out of my sight - I knew she would ditch me if given half a chance. Well, that was my little girl translation of what I felt in my heart of hearts: the disconnect between us. I'm sure my mother never considered abandoning me, but it felt like that to me. One time I fell asleep in the car on the way home. They decided to let me sleep in the back seat for awhile. When I woke up, everyone was gone, I was alone in the car. Needless to say, I lost it - had a major meltdown for which I was shamed for years afterwards. It wasn't until my mid-30s that I stopped worrying, anytime I was anywhere with anyone, that they would forget I was with them, or would decide to leave without me. For heaven's sake! What a powerful wound.
Awww. I can hear one thousand tiny violins playing for me, can you? Seriously, I'm 59 years old and can still be triggered by this ancient truth. Good lord. I can't be psychologically triggered for very long since I've been through the story umpteen times with various healers, and have learned many many many many ways to soothe myself when this issue arises.
This time around I was triggered at a visceral level. For the last week or so I have been doing everything I know to move onwards and upwards away from the old feelings. It has not been pleasant but I'm getting there, or so says my sister Hannah who can read my energy even from 3,000 miles away. But I'm having nightmares about being abandoned by my sibs, cohorts, friends, colleagues and neighbors, evidence of the old wound flaring up. It's kind of incredible to realize it continues to pack a wallop when kicked up and active for a little while. I hope it is only for a little while!
Wish for me some patience, will you? I've been here before, though not for a long time. It won't last forever and in the meantime I'll continue doing everything I can to let go. Thanks for listening. Shalom.