At least I think/feel it’s the youngest. She can’t talk so I have to sense her feelings. I was reading James Hollis’s book What Matters Most, and got to the part where he talks about doing what your soul wants to do, not what your family/culture have taught you to do. So I asked: What does my soul want to do at Kendal? At the moment the work with parts looks like the only thing. I’ve lost dance, I can’t see myself doing astronomy, that leaves therapy and the blog. I decided to work with the one I feel is the youngest. So young, she’s non-verbal, so I have to sense her replies.
From my journal for Saturday, February 17
Thinking about working with younger parts. I feel an ache in my heart. No, I want to learn and grow, explore something bigger. You’ve tried that and they were too big, concepts beyond your experience or ability to understand. What’s wrong with working with parts? It’s been interesting, and brought the good feeling of connecting.
Then I think of the baby, the really young one. I think I need to try to be with that one.
I have the rock that signifies the youngest one. I’m holding it to my heart. I feel that she’s scared.“Yes, but I am here and I’ve got you. It’s OK to be scared, but what happened happened long ago, and someone came and fed you and you didn’t die. I’m here now, and what I want to do is help you to feel safe enough that you can stop being afraid and pay attention to where you are now. We are in a retirement community where we are well taken care of on the physical level.”
Jenny: I want to tell you about my life. It’s been hard. I lived with severe depression for most of it. I did manage to accomplish some worthwhile things, but it has been hard to see their worth. I still have to remind myself, and mostly I don’t feel it, though I can see it intellectually. Yes, I still have a long way to go.
How are you doing?Baby: starting to feel warm.
Me: good. My dog left, scared of ice falling off the roof, so I feel a little bereft, but I’m glad you’re here.
Can I tell you a story?Baby: assents
Me: I went to a women’s retreat, and at some point I shared with some enthusiasm about writing a journal and how much I learned. Toward the end of the retreat, I started feeling uncomfortable and raised my hand to indicate I wanted to work with the facilitator. She had me lie down and relax. Asked what I wanted to work on. I said “Maybe it’s not that important…” She said “I don’t want to listen to your head.” So I relaxed again and the word “woman” came swimming up. “Maybe it’s about being a woman since that’s why I’m here.” I was quiet for a bit and started feeling uncomfortable. So I said “I’m uncomfortable.” More quiet. Then I realized it was because the day before I had talked about my journal. “Maybe that wasn’t OK.” The facilitator said “Why don’t you ask them?” So I sat up and looked at the other women and asked “Was it OK that I talked about my journal?” They said “Yes!” “It was very interesting.” “It was inspiring.” I started to cry. I asked “You mean it wasn’t bragging?” They said no. When I wrote about this incident in my journal I called my reaction “childish,” I think still trying to apologize for myself. It was only much later, after a lot of work in therapy, I realized that Mother had told me over and over “Don’t think you’re so great.” It was her worst criticism for someone. I was afraid I was conceited.
But years later, I was talking to a therapist, with some enthusiasm, about astronomy and the universe. I saw an imaginary plane fly by on my right side, pulling a banner with the words “…THINK YOU’RE SO GREAT.” I said to Mother “I don’t think I’m great, I think the Universe is great.” The therapist said she’d never heard me speak from such a strongly embodied place. I realized that Mother had always felt threatened and jealous and that’s why she said that. It helped a lot to see that. If Mother was threatened and jealous, then maybe what I was saying had some value after all.
That’s a story about how I realized that Mother was wrong. And she was wrong when she left you alone. She didn’t know that it would hurt you, she just felt the burden of being a mom was too much. It wasn’t about you at all.
I feel the baby’s surprise.
Me: “No, it really wasn’t about you, didn’t mean you were bad.” I feel the baby relax.
I was surprised to find myself saying “It wasn’t about you at all” and that it was a relief to the baby. Painful to see how early that belief about not pleasing Mom set in. On the other hand, after I finished this talk with the part, I felt really good, grounded, connected in some important way.