Here are some things that Bean told me about myself and my memory in relationship to my mom:
~She told me that since my mom doesn’t have the ability to remember things in a sequential (or chronological) way, that I wouldn’t have learned that either.
~I asked Bean, if my memories weren’t “encoded” properly, will I never be able to remember them or access them? She said that it’s not that they aren’t stored in my brain, it’s just they are stored in a different way, in a part of my brain that I don’t have access to. And she said, yes, it is possible to access those memories. It will just take some time and patience.
~She said that most people don’t remember the exact details of events, but they remember the gist of events and the overall feeling, as well as the chronology. They are able to integrate and store memories in a way that it becomes part of the overall narrative. She said that I never developed the ability to construct my own narrative, since I had no one to show me, since my mom didn’t do that. And she said that a big part of therapy is helping to construct a narrative.
~Bean said that our narratives are formed in relation to other people, not in a vacuum. And that if my mom was zoned out a lot, which she was, and if she was dissociative, which she was, and if she couldn’t put events together in a chronological way, that I wouldn’t develop the ability to create a fluid narrative of my life. And that’s how it feels. It feels like my life is fragmented, in pieces, rather than one fluid narrative. I have memories, but it’s so hard to figure out when they happened, or in what order. That’s actually what a huge part of this blog is about – to document what is occurring for me, the ins and outs of my life, physically, emotionally, psychologically, everything, so that I have something to go back to and reference and say, oh right, that’s how it happened. And what an invaluable gift that is.
Fast-forward to: dum dum dummm…. END OF SESSION. [cue a horror movie scream]
Like always, I didn’t want to leave. I began retreating inside my mind, and wasn’t able to speak or engage with Bean at all.
Bean: Did this state come on because it is the end of the session?
I nod, my eyes glued to the floor.
Bean: Well, I have an idea. Maybe we can start off next session at this point. The point where we are now. What do you think about that idea?
I sit, silent.
Bean: You know, I think we can plan to have a longer session at some point. You know, maybe like a three hour session – like the rapid resolution doctor does. I think it could be very effective to do that every once in a while, as needed. But unfortunately we can’t do that right now. Your body is telling us that its had enough.
*By the way, at some point near the end of session, I had mentioned that I was getting a really bad headache. She commented by saying that was my body’s way of saying it has had enough.*
Bean: Okay [Brandic], I’m going to ask you to come back into the room. Can you do that?
I half nod, half shake my head. I’m a mess. I can’t look at her, I can’t speak, I can’t bring myself back. I am lost. I have no anchor. I am floating away. She wants me to leave. She doesn’t want me here anymore. It’s the ultimate rejection. I can’t come back. I just can’t.
She stands up.
Bean: Okay, well it’s time to go.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no I’m screaming in my head. I’m not ready yet! I don’t WANT to leave! Why are you making me leave! Why don’t you care about me?!
I stand and walk stone-faced to the door. I cross my arms to contain everything that’s going on inside, and I walk as fast as I can to her front door. I open the front door, and as I do so, she says, “Okay bye!” and then giggles. I’m guessing the giggle was out of discomfort, but it still made me extremely uncomfortable. How can she be cheerful and upbeat when I’m in the midst of my own personal hell. It’s what my mom used to do. And it’s not okay. I’m not okay. Can’t you see that?
I practically run to my car, anger spewing from every pore.
My emotional mind is telling me she doesn’t care. She just wanted me gone. She doesn’t care about me at all. I’m just another client. The hour was up, and it was time for me to leave. Period. My rational mind is telling me that she really does care, she’s just trying to maintain boundaries. She had even mentioned something about “sticking to the hour time so that I can feel safe and contained” or something like that. That her reasons for having me leave so abruptly on the hour were for my own benefit, not hers. And yet, despite however right my rational mind seems to be, my emotional mind always seems to win out. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want me there. I could just vanish from this earth and she wouldn’t even care, or mind, or notice. That deep down, she hates me. Wishes I didn’t exist. That I make her life more miserable, harder somehow.
Wow, am I projecting feelings about my own mother onto her, or what?!
The adventures in the therapeutic world of Brandic.
Tune in for our next adventure! Coming soon!!