Bleak Again

(Written in February 2006)
Bleak again.  No warmth anywhere.  I feel desperately alone, yet I don’t want anybody to come for fear they would be disapproving and rejecting.  This is the cold of rejection.  This is outer darkness.  I’m outside the container even of God.  Well, no, at some level I know that’s not true.  But I can’t feel the presence of God.  I can feel my butt on the couch, my legs, my foot on the floor.  But I feel all alone in a vast cold emptiness.  It makes sense that this is how a baby would feel when mother has gone away and hasn’t come back.  The baby has cried and cried and nobody came.  There is no one else to come.  She doesn’t know that mother intends to come back.  As far as she knows, she’s all alone in the universe, and she isn’t big enough to take care of herself.  Every now and then my heart softens toward this cold, lonely, frightened despairing creature.  Then I get lost in her again and am back in her cold, stony reality.  Well, I’m not going to leave her, at least not intentionally. I hope when I read comforting books that she can still feel my presence.  I’m struggling to trust that this IS a process, that if I can stay with it long enough, something will change.  The frightened baby will soften.  Or I jenny will develop a strong enough container that I will be able to feel myself holding her, instead of being lost in her feelings.  I remind myself that the feeling of “forever” is the baby’s, not the reality, it is the frozenness of trauma, a vortex I am caught in, and not my whole life.  I look for a resource and find my butt on the couch, thigh resting on thigh, left foot on the ground.  I can see the flames of the fire moving, and squirrels at the feeder.  Things do move. There is a process.  There is a healing process in motion.  It can take a long time to heal terrible wounds.

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