I've been lost a little in my life. I've been taking huge spiritual leaps, I've fixed some minor-but-nagging health issues that were distracting me, and I'm finally losing weight again. My finances are still in a tizzy, my home life is chaotic and bustling (or -- to describe more accurately life with a very active eleven month old, staggering, grabbing, shrieking, babbling, Veggie-Tales-watching), and I still have a way to go to find my true creative spot in the world. I'm closer than I was, though.
I have come to see things about myself that I didn't understand before. I see better now what I like and don't like. I have been working on becoming more compassionate and forgiving. I have worked through much of the residual animosity I had for my mother through a couple of very pointed and illuminating sessions of regression hypnotherapy with the amazing Dr. Susan Fisher. While Dr. Susan has studied with the amazing Dr. Brian Weiss, and does advertise that she does past-life regression, for the purposes of full disclosure, the two sessions to which I refer did not involve my being regressed to a past life, but rather to an earlier point in this one.
Regressive hypnotherapy -- where hypnosis is used to review a memory or scene from the past -- can be useful, because it allows you to return to a moment in time and remember with more clarity and, in my case, a completely different visual perspective a memory that has haunted or caused you pain from your past. In both scenes, Dr. Susan sent me back as an observer of the scene, where I watched mother and daughter interact with one another, but I was the today me -- the grown up woman, who stood outside the scene watching, rather than participating. Rather than see the replaying of a hurtful scene, where mother was unduly harsh or sinister with daughter, and daughter was overly sensitive and obstinate, what I saw was two people locked in a struggle to be right, each desperately wanting to be heard and understood, yet each mutually failing to do so for the other. It was still painful, but it was the kind of pain that promotes sympathy rather than anger. How sorry I felt for this mother and this daughter, who were so alike in so many ways, yet so unable to connect on any level! How obvious it was to me, as an adult observer, to see that they did love each other and care for each other, but had somehow drifted apart and were now unable to connect. These sessions made me much softer toward the memory of my dead mother, much more able to see that she wasn't evil. She was clueless and struggling, and she didn't have a Dr. Susan to show her the way.
Alas, I cannot afford Dr. Susan at the moment to help with the lingering ache of my weird relationship with my late father. So how might I finally heal enough to soften my heart sufficiently to forgive both of us for our alternately abusive and neglectful ways toward each other. Fortunately, I had something else besides my subconscious to draw upon. I had my writing. These blog posts, and my long letters to friends while my father lay wasting away from the ALS and the C.O.P.D. have made for a pretty accurate record of that time. I've been reviewing some of my emails to confidantes back then. Today, I was reading through some of my emails to my dear cyber-buddy, Buddhist chaplain and family therapist Bill Hulley, and I came across one that allowed me to do with my father what Dr. Susan had helped me do with my mother. Mind you, this wasn't something Bill had said. As a therapist, Bill's style leans toward the "give 'em enough rope to hang themselves" school. He let me write to him. Exhaustively. Endlessly. Voluminously, even. He sweetly read my letters, he commented here and there, and then he shut up and let me emotional regurgitate on his computer screen all over again.
In the years since my father's death, I have written a mental narrative (similar to the narrative I've always had where my father was concerned) that he did not really like me or care for me much. I believed this, because he made it clear how much he disliked my mother and how much I reminded him of her. Because this narrative was so firmly entrenched, it was easy to reapply after my father's death. But, much like my regressions with Dr. Susan, my own writing of this time with my dying father betrays the way things really went down.
In May of 2007, after I'd burned out, moved out and gone to live in the cave in Northridge, my sister, who had taken over caring for Dad when I couldn't do it any longer, found it necessary to return to her home in Hawaii for a few days to take a well-needed break and tend to her life a bit, which was withering while she'd been living in L.A.. With some dread and trepidation, I moved back into the house during those days and reprised my role as caregiver. I'd had several months to rest and revive myself, and I was determined to approach this time with a better, calmer energy for him. We did not know it at the time, of course, but my father only had a little more than two months to live. I'd forgotten about these days completely, until I stumbled across a letter I'd written to Bill during that time:
May 2, 2007
My sister has been in Hawaii for going on three days now. The first night she was there, she sent me a picture message of her martini. And then her second martini. She really needed a break. Dad only awoke once the first night, with cries that he was falling out of bed. When I got in there, he was not really falling out of bed, but he has no sense of kinesthesis anymore, no concept of where his body parts are in relation to the rest of him. After I'd shifted, first his hips, then his shoulders, then his head, then his knees, he said that was perfect. I swear, if I'd drawn a police chalk outline around his body when we'd started, it would have fit perfectly around him when we'd finished. But it made him feel better, so I guess it was worth it. He's sleeping a lot more (I mean, a whole lot more) than he used to during the day. He asked me that first night who was drugging him. I promised him no one was drugging him, that it might be the changing weather or maybe he was fighting off a bug of some sort. How do you say to someone, "It's probably because you're dying." You just don't, that's all. He knows. I know. But dealing with it every single day gets tiresome and difficult. Let's just pretend its something else, since we can't change it.
What a blessing this find was for me! What a gift! And how rare and grateful I am to have written it in the first place, and then found it again when I needed it the most. The story I have told myself that he did not love me, and that I didn't not love him either, turns out to be grossly distorted. It turns out that the past can do more than cripple and encumber. It can also heal and liberate. And it can make you realize that, deep down, everything you need is inside you, waiting to blossom and come out. In the words of a wise woman I used to know:It's getting easier and easier for me to disconnect the man who used to be so horrible to me when I was growing up from this man here today. It's like this helpless, scared guy was inside that other son of a bitch the whole time, but afraid to come out (not that we can blame him -- we knew the other guy). But that other guy is gone now, and this guy here wouldn't really hurt a fly. Today, I was readying myself to leave for work, and we shifted him in his chair one last time before I left. I asked him if there something else I could give him before I left, and he said, "Just your love and affection," and he reached his hand out to me. It was the first time I can ever remember him asking for a kiss or hug. In my entire life. And if I hadn't come back to do this this week, I'd have missed it. All that schpilkis I had over these five days, and its proving to have been all for naught. One of these days, Bill, I'm going to just trust that the Universe knows what its doing, and then I'll quit my backseat driving.