The Box

I talked to a survivor yesterday.  She is a survivor of everything that could possibly be thrown at one person starting from the time she was a child.  She is now just short of sixty and continues to deal with the impact of her childhood and the consequences of her alcohol use on her family.  Her children are fighting their own demons of drug use and life threatening illnesses.   She worries for her grandchildren.  She takes care of others on a daily basis.  Her kindness, compassion and faith are evident in how she is living her life now.

She has been clean and sober for quite a few years.  Given the battles she fights each day I can imagine that the thought of taking a drink or an extra pill has gone through her mind on more than one occasion.  I asked her how she holds it together.

“I have a box,” she said as she held her hands in front of her, shaping the box in my imagination.  “I don’t put any more in that box that I can handle.  It doesn’t have room for regrets, should’ves, or blame.  It also doesn’t have room for worries about the future.  If it gets too heavy, then something has to go.  The box is only so big and I have to watch every day that I don’t let anything get in there that shouldn’t be.”

I thought about her and the box while I sat on the side of the river tonight watching the water move by.  I can’t worry about what was around the last bend or what is coming at the next curve.  I can only deal with what is in front of me right now.  That is the key.  I tell someone this at least once a week.  It was nice to have someone tell me for a change using different words.  I always need to hear it and I don’t often hear it when I say it.  I am glad I was paying attention.

Finding a Place to Put It All

It is a beautiful day here in New England and after going to the doctor to get my ankle checked (my diagnosis is arthritis) and taking advantage of Borders “going out of business sale”, I am home for the rest of the day in order to try and straighten out my brain and my house. The mess in the house is usually a reflection of what is going on in my head so I am going to try and find places to put things, both literally and figuratively.

I am dealing with stories. Other people’s stories. Years ago, when I decided to become a counselor I consciously made the decision to dedicate myself to work with women who had experienced great difficulties in their lives and were working to try and mend. This has meant that, at times, I become the receptacle in which other people put some of their pain by telling their stories. This is my choice. I can’t take away the pain, but I can help ease the effect on them by hearing their tales and helping them find the strength they have inside to be able to move on.

If I don’t take care of myself, though, these stories tend to accumulate in my brain and I need to find my own place to put them. This week I have heard some horrendous stories; stories of childhood abuse that were unconscionable and graphic. I looked into the eyes of these women and saw pain and heartache along with tremendous spirit and strength. I was glad to hear their stories because I knew they needed to be heard.

I understand at times why survivors of childhood abuse are not believed. I think it has to do with our desire to believe more of humanity, that it is not possible for people to do the things that they do. Some people want to hold onto the hope that these stories cannot possibly be true, because if it were true, then they would have to admit that it could happen to them, their children or grandchildren, to the child next door, the sweet baby boy in the shopping cart next to you in the grocery store. We don’t want this to be in our world. It is, though, and it is so important to believe someone when they need to tell their story. People perpetuate the abuse through unbelief.

I have people tell me that they can’t understand how I do the work I do. The thing is that I don’t understand not doing the work I do. If I think of becoming a florist or a truck driver or any other of the myriad career paths I have considered on my bad days, I realize that I would not be true to who I am by doing something else. I can’t not do it. So, when it starts to get a little tough I have to take a break and find someplace to put it all and get my psychic and physical house in order so that I can be ready for the next story. I do a little retail therapy, get a massage, play my cello, sit on the side of a mountain, or take my bike out for a nice long ride along the river. In order to do what I do I have to take care of myself, because the thought of not being able to do what I do scares me more than doing it.

A Gift for This Cynic

I spent two days with my friends, Joyce and Roland, at their wonderful home on a mountain in Maine. I was encouraged to spend my time in any way that helped me to relax, so I spent a lot of time reading, knitting, and drawing and talking to Joyce. I also ate very well and had a great foot massage by their dog, Maisie. I was nourished in body and spirit by friendship and nature. I was able to rest with no expectations.

The one thing that had the greatest impact on me, though, had nothing to do with the gold finches and hummingbirds, the wonderful soup and garden veggies, the conversations, sunsets, and watching a summer shower move in over the Mount Washington Valley. It had to do with witnessing a marriage that truly works and realizing that there is more to being a couple than pain and heartache.

Given my history and the work that I do, I have developed a cynicism towards marriage. I have seen and heard the worse. I have known men who cheated, who lied, who hurt their wives physically and emotionally, and left their children with emotional scars that last long into adulthood. I have heard stories of women who beat their children and dared them to cry, who left them with neighbors and never returned. I tend to see too much of the dark side.

I was given a gift yesterday that broke through my cynicism and is helping me to see the world in a different way.

Longfellow, Joyce and Roland’s dog, has been taking prednisone for a couple of weeks due to a problem with one of his ears. The prednisone has been working like a diuretic and made it critical that he be taken out at regular intervals. However, yesterday afternoon, after Joyce and I had done a little shopping and Roland had finished putting in a beautiful rose garden, there had been a delay in getting Longfellow out to do his business. Joyce discovered wet spots on two rugs and the bare floor.

It is important to understand that I have vivid memories of my two poodles being hit and screamed at by my father when they had chewed on the corner of the television set. I was crying, my sister was crying, the dogs were whining, and the dogs were sent back to the aunt who had given them to me within a few days. I also remember my ex-husband kicking our dog, Joey, on more than one occasion. I have a history of being frightened by men’s anger and I am easily triggered when there is a possibility that this may occur.

So when I heard that Longfellow had wet the floor, I had a small surge of adrenalin. Now I have to say that Roland has never given me any sign that there is a bad temper lurking beneath his calm Lutheran pastor exterior. I have never seen anything but serenity and peace in that man. However, I felt myself tense up. Then I saw a wonderful thing happen. Both Joyce and Roland treated Longfellow with love, apologized for failing to meet his needs, and they worked as a team to promptly clean up the mess without blaming each other for the incident.

Joyce had told me earlier that day that the reason that she married Roland forty-four years ago this coming month was because she knew that this was a man with whom she would always feel safe. I believe that he has fulfilled that promise each day since then. I also am reminded that there are indeed men who do not need to use anger to exert control, who share responsibility, and who cherish those people, animals, and gardens that are in their care.

Thank you, my friends, for the gift of seeing another way of being and healing a piece of my spirit.