From my journal for September 1994, about a session with my therapist Karen:
I wanted to focus on that feeling that it’s not OK to protect myself from the noise of the planes by wearing the walkman. We explored all parts of it, the intolerable pain, the invalidation of myself for being so sensitive. She said she also reacts badly to a particular machine sound: the two-cycle engine of a four-wheeler drives her nuts, so that was validating. Then I said that I enjoyed having fantasies about renting or buying the land and shutting down the airport, but that I also felt guilty. (And why should I feel guilty for stopping their “innocent fun”? They feel no compunction about torturing me.) Karen said we should look at that, why do I feel guilty? I groped around for a little bit, and then said “They’re more important than I am” and burst into tears. That resonated with the knowledge, touched long ago, that anything at all is more important than I am, certainly other people’s pleasure is more important than my sanity. Karen hugged me and said I was precious to her. She also spoke about the one who speaks the truth on stage in Journey, who has moved people through her writing and her art. But, I said, I’m not in touch with that one at all, all that’s here is a miserable wimp, who “fusses about nothing” and can’t even keep her house clean. Karen pointed out that those judgements are introjected voices, and I “know” that, but can’t get the distance needed to make it real. Karen asked me to talk to “them” — the ones who think I’m not important, and I couldn’t fight back or argue at all, all I could do is agree with them. And I realized that I was tired of trying to justify myself to them, tired of trying to prove that I deserved to live because I could sometimes write things that move people.
And finally I came to see (again again) that this miserable wimp is herself my task, this person who is so sensitive and precariously balanced, who can’t even keep her house clean, she’s the one that I’m committed, that I commit myself, to protect and nurture. Yes that’s the difference. It’s when I stop resisting the unfairness of God/universe, to have stuck me with this wretched body and damaged psyche, and accept the task, actively commit myself to her welfare, that’s when something changes, and I feel strengthened, and supported by ground under my feet. Riding in the car on the way home, I realized that the hated task that I must stick with is not forcing myself to “live with” the planes, but learning to “live with” my sensitivity, and that understanding also turns it around to something I can do.