Posts Tagged ‘life experience’

Sometimes

July 26, 2017

I’m smiling and you may not know the reason, but I’m smiling and damn it feels good.

I am happy.

I had a great day.

Lots of scootering all over the city.

Lots of errands run.

Amazing what I can do when I’m not working.

Ha.

I mean, I did go to my internship and I saw two clients today.

One who is new and the other who is returning, in fact, my first client, which feels pretty damn good, getting to know this client and seeing how the therapy is working for the client is an amazing experience.

I am growing more and more and finding out more about how I am a therapist.

I model myself a little on my own therapist.

She was fucking fabulous today.

We had an amazing session.

I sat down and said one name.

I want to talk about _____________.

And we dove in.

There was so much there.

I gave a history of the relationship and why it is relevant to me today.

I talked about conflict resolution and how in my past I wasn’t allowed to have conflict.

Conflict was not rewarded with resolution.

It was generally smashed and violently so.

Conflict for me was dangerous and scary and so I just learned at a very, very young age to avoid it at all costs.

Thank you to my school program and working towards getting my Masters in Counseling Psychology, (one more year!) that, oh, what?! Relationships have conflict and that’s ok.

Shit.

Who the fuck knew?

So.

I had some conflict that I needed my therapist to weigh in on.

It was astounding to hear her perspective and when I was stuck she helped me figure out where I was stuck and what it was.

We got to the bottom of it.

I was so freaking happy.

I am still not excited for conflict and when it happened, the conflict I am alluding to, it was years ago but it has become very relevant in present time,  I did not know that resolution could happen, that repair could happen.

I am much better at it now then I used to be.

Some practice, some stepping up and being a woman and an adult.

I remember when I really stepped out of my comfort zone with a former employer and let her know how I felt about an interaction we had and how I was really hurt by it.

I am certain that my past employer had no idea how her words had landed, but man, they had landed so hard on such a tender part of me that I knew I had to address it.

It would mean changing patterns of behavior I had been using for years, survival skills if you will.

And I did.

It was hard.

Man, it was so fucking hard.

But.

It opened a door that I didn’t know was there and an opportunity to exit that work environment a few months later with a kind of grace and dignity that I would not have thought I could have done.

Except that I let the repair happen.

I had the conflict, I said this doesn’t sit well with me, this is how it felt when you said what you did and I want you to know I can’t be treated like this.

It was one of the most powerful experiences I have ever had.

Scary too.

So freaking scary.

I mean.

It was my job, my everything, and I loved my charges so very much I was devastated by the thought that I might lose my livelihood, one, and two, that I would alienate myself from the boys.

Those children meant so much to me it was excruciating to confront their mom.

Yet.

When I did, as I mentioned before, the conflict though hard was not as hard as I had thought it would be and it led to an unexpected resolution and repair of the relationship.

I mean, the last time I saw her we hugged and we both expressed how good it was to see the other person.

Oh there were lots of other things to work through, in that relationship before we got to that point, but the point is that I got to and I grew so much it astonished me.

There is always an edge to push always an experiencing for me to have.

For which I am grateful beyond words.

I have had so many life experiences that I can really be of service and value to my clients.

That is a huge gift and one that I don’t take lightly.

I have to say.

I really like therapy.

I like being a therapist.

I like being smart, I like using my brain, but more importantly I like making intuitive moves and letting things unfold in the field as my clients and I work together.

It is powerful.

It can be really hard too.

But for the most part.

Man.

I am happy getting to be a therapist.

I have so much to learn but that I am actively using the skills that I have learned over the past few years, in school, and the decades of experience I have had over the span of my life and the challenges met, my God, I have had some challenges and I have a lot to share.

And having the tools and language of therapy is a huge gift.

It’s like having done the readings and the trainings and the dyads and all the paper writing and all the books and articles and internet Ted Talks, the podcasts and the lectures that I have sat through, the work I have done on myself, the inventories and the taking suggestions and trying different things, my God, I can see how important all of it is.

And that none of it is wasted.

None!

My therapist has remarked a number of times to me how “alive” I am.

And I am.

I am happy.

I am free.

I am joyous.

I am of service.

I have purpose.

I am love.

I know.

That last one sounds full of myself.

But you know.

I think I am.

Or better.

That.

I am a conduit for love.

That feels more apt.

A channel.

And to know that I have been given that and that I get to grow more into that shape of love excites me.

Even when it feels overwhelming.

It is an amazing revelation.

And I am here.

Open to all of it.

Grateful.

And.

So relieved to no longer be in my own damn way.

It is extraordinary.

And now.

Please.

Pardon me.

I have some happy dance to do.

Sweet.

Sweet.

Sweetest.

Dreams.

See you on the flip.

 

News Flash

November 13, 2013

40-year-old woman has failed to yet figure it out.

What are you doing on craigslist at this time of night, young lady?

I certainly was not looking through the casual encounters, the missed connections, or the used surf boards.

Uh, no.

I was, once again, looking to get inspired for a job, a career, a, well, fuck, an anything.

I was chatting with a darling girl friend of mine and she was telling me about all the applications she has going on, the process of applying for jobs, for career jobs, for the next move in the career, more school, the outlying time it takes, and the exhaustion of having a folder of resumes on your desktop that all have to be just so subtly tweaked depending upon who you are sending it to.

The cover letters.

The introductions.

The word of mouth connections.

I thought, man, I ain’t got no drive, just pushing this damn stroller around and around the block waiting for the baby to close his eyes and for the other to not pull my shoulder from my socket as he bounced around in the baby carrier strapped to my back.

I am grateful for my work, don’t get me wrong.

I watch the struggles, pitiful, tragic, comic, of the young kids that circle the head of Golden Gate Park, the trust-a-farians (rich kids run away from home having a little adventure before heading back to mom and dad in Chicago), the hippies, the dread locked, barefoot, smelly ass, ripe, dirty children with their prolific dogs and cigarettes and trying to shock the tourists teenage rebellion.

Some of them are obviously on the streets because they have no other place to go, or have a family life that was better left at home.

Or they are drug addicts.

Or they are naive.

They are hustlers and scam artists, dirty little ragamuffins with shells braided in their snarled hair, and rags on their backs.

I recognize myself in them as well.

Despite never quite going to that place–dirty, homeless in a park in a big city.

I was homeless, though, and more than once.

I couch surfed and squatted, in Madison and the fucking Upper Peninsula of Michigan, now that is just good times.

I called it camping at the time.

But I was homeless.

I am not today and as I struggle with the same story that pops up again and again I pause, step back and get some gratitude in my life for where I am.

I want things to happen so fast.

I want to go, go, go.

Fuck, I am even tired of writing about this thematic.

So, I haven’t got it all figured out.

Oh well.

Next.

Tried on some more dresses for my friend’s masquerade ball this Saturday, no success.

Worked.

Much success.

The boys both napped at the same time and not once but twice I was able to have an undisturbed cup of tea and a good read through the New York Sunday Times.

I rode my bike to and fro.

I enjoy the feeling on my legs, though, not so much the shoulder.

It is still buzzy and painful, but I am identifying what actions seem to be causing the stress and I am not carrying the boys around as much, I am taking ibuprofen and just keeping the fingers crossed that I will get through the week and it’ll magically disappear.

Like I wish my demented thinking about who I am and what I have should go away.

At least I have perspective.

It doesn’t always happen at once, but it does happen and then I grow and learn something else.

I live in San Francisco, for fuck sake.

It’s a sort of expensive town.

If it weren’t for the way I live I don’t know that I would be able to live here.

I don’t know anywhere else I want to be living.

Oh, I have ideas of things that would be nice.

A trip to Africa, another to Europe, more Europe, I only really saw Paris.

Maybe to the Caribbean, haven’t ever done the South Seas, or South America.

Ah, thoughts, so many places to go, so much to disbelieve.

I used to think that everything my head told me was the truth.

That if I had a thought it was the truth.

I discovered that I am not my thoughts and my brain lies to me all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

No one loves me.

No one wants to spend time with me.

I am alone.

I am not enough.

I will be poor all my life.

Blah, blah, blah.

I suppose the trick is to let the brain chase it’s tail like a dog and exhaust itself on the circular thinking.

The writing helps me break it down.

The writing is linear.

Perhaps that is why I need to write.

I need to also lay off giving my self grief about not writing more.

That time too, shall  come, or not.

I am alive and in pretty damn good health and usually in pretty damn good cheer.

I love my little home by the sea and I am thinking about the stars and how bright they were as I opened the garage door tonight after returning from my regular Tuesday night thing at 7th and Irving.

Wow.

Those are bright.

Of course they are.

There is no ground light on the ocean.

I marvelled at the sky.

The Universe, the stars, the few constellations I recognize.

The sway of the Earth to the music of the Spheres.

I tucked away my bike and opened the door to my studio.

“Hello house, nice to see you,” I said when I walked in the door.

It is.

Nice to see my house.

It is nice to hear the Beatles just randomly shuffle onto the player and hear Paul singing sweetly of the black bird singing in the dead of night.

“You were only waiting for this moment to be free.”

I have.

Some candles flickering on the bookcase, a bunny bank from the Marais in Paris, stacks of notebooks, a warm bed, a mug (from the Louvre gift store) full of pens, stickers from Flax, photographs of people I love, books, an electric tea-pot (there is something so insanely luxurious about an electric tea-pot), a music player, a hula hoop, white orchids in a violet glazed pot, French notebooks, pink Gerber daisies in a Mason jar in the kitchen.

Love in my heart.

Thoughts of you as I turn toward the edge of the world and sing my siren song of love to the ocean.

Burning incandescent.

Because that’s how I was made to do it.

 


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