Happy Easter!
(These are eggs, by the way. One of E. with his guitar, since he’s in a band, and me with kitties!)
I could say it was wierd being in treatment on a holiday, but to be honest, I barely thought about it. For me it was a relief to not have to do the holiday ritual – going to someone’s house, being faced with lots of food, uncomfortable conversation, and looking at the clock. Today, it was fairly stress free.
One thing I’m still trying to process is a psycho-drama session I had earlier.
What’s psycho-drama? I had no idea it even existed. But now, I’m a firm believer.
The Wikipedia definition is actually right on target: Psychodrama is a form of human development which explores, through dramatic action, the problems, issues, concerns, dreams and highest aspirations of people, groups, systems and organizations.[1]. It is mostly used as a group work method, in which each person in the group can become a therapeutic agent for each other in the group.
However, what Wikipedia does not mention is the invaluable need for a skilled instructor. Ours is deaf, but she can read lips and is really, amazing, awesome, wonderful! I’ll call her Lou.
I tried to Google it to come up with some pictures to help explain it, but there really isn’t a ton of information out there. So, I’ll try my best.
I was picked to be the focus of this week’s group because I was struggling with issues of self-worth – not believing what people were telling me, and instead believing that I’m actually a horrible a person. To take a deep dive into that and where it comes from, Lou first asked me to depict a scene of where I feel worthless in my life today.
“Dinner with my in-laws,” I answered, a little reluctantly. It felt like a betrayal, a guilty secret. It’s something I don’t talk about it because I don’t think anyone will understand.
“Okay,” Lou said, clapping her hands together and staring directly into my eyes. “Describe their house. Where are you sitting?”
I painted the picture of their kitchen – what the oven looked like, where the sink was, the table, what was on the table, where everyone was sitting.
“Pick someone to be your husband. His father. His mother.” Lou instructed, gesturing to the rest of the group circled around us.
I chose my surrogates and arranged a makeshift kitchen of people and chairs.
“Now, what is E.’s mother like? Her personality? What is talking about? Saying?” Lou asked and everyone waited as I tried to put words to my feelings. “She’s very nice, and I know that she really loves me – ” I started, but Lou waved her hands in my face. “No, no. Not what you think you know – I want to know what you feel.”
And then it came pouring out of me. That I really felt that as I sat at the dinner table, they wished I wasn’t there, that they wanted E. all to themselves. That what they said to me was different from what they were thinking. That they were really pressing into Eric that he could do so much better, that they wished he hadn’t gotten involved in such a mess like me.
And as I said these things, the people I choose to be them mimicked my words, and said the things I think E.’s parents are really thinking. And I had to sit there and put myself in their kitchen, with my words and feelings magnified.
My heart beat faster, a sticky, steady beat. One that clung to my chest before heaving itself towards the back of my ribs. My hands trembled as I listened. My shoulders sagged as each one threw out the words I was so sure his family wanted to tell me.
And then it stopped. Lou took me out of that scene and asked me to think of a time when this first happened – when I first believed that what people were saying just wasn’t true.
So, I went way, way, way back to four years old. When I should still have been innocent, carefree, untethered to harmful comments and grown-up talk.
I placed my brother beside, had my grandparents in front of me, my mother off to the side, my father absent – gone to work like always. I always knew growing up that my brother loved me – adored me, protected me. But from what?
I was scared and intimidated by my grandparents. They would come over all the time and seem happy to be around us, but they always wanted to scrutinized me more – what I was wearing, what I was playing, how I talked. And I would hear them – along with so many other people – shake their heads and wonder how my beautiful mother could have such a plain jane daughter like me. My mother, who was so popular, so loved, could produce silly me.
I realized at that young age the importance of looks. My grandparents did not respect my mother, but they tolerated their son’s marriage to her because she was stunning. She was an object that they could hang in the window, that people could look at and admire. And I was suppose to fill that role, and instead I was a major disappointment. I was neither pretty or smart. What was I good for? I would grew up being told I should wear baggy clothes because of my weight, that my hair could look so much better, and why did I look the way I did? Why wasn’t I better?
Through this realization, I was crying, sputtering out comments. And then Lou took me back to the scene at the in-laws.
“What do those thoughts feel like? The ones you grew up knowing?” Lou asked, her words distant as my misery fogged my senses.
“Heavy, like a lead weight. And like a tape recorder over and over again.”
And so, the people in the group acted that out. One person pushed me down, and held me there like a lead weight. Another taunted me with the words I grew up. “Such a plain little girl. She could be so pretty. Her mother is! Her mother is perfect. Beautiful! And her brother is so funny, smart, wonderful. And she’s not at all. A little slow. And silly!”
My breath was quick and panicked against the carpet of the floor. I was suffocating, trapped by the past.
“Come on, Stina!” rallied Lou. “How are you going to get out of this?”
And I waited for E. to pull me up. To shove the thoughts and noise off of me, and let me live.
“No, Stina,” Lou said, more gently. “What are you going to do?”
And it hit me. I have been waiting this whole time for someone to rescue me. When I was younger, it was my brother. Now, I’m waiting for E. to save me. And what I really need to do is save myself.
I shoved the weight off me, and I turned and screamed at the noise. “I am not an object! I was not born for you to parade around. I”m a person! I’m a human being.”
By this time I was sobbing, along with so many other people in the room. It was beyond intense, and opened my eyes to not only the gratitude of the group for making me feel so safe and open for doing this, but also to strength I carry inside me that I need to nurture.
I chipped away a bit of my wall. I let myself be vulnerable with group. . .and for the first time, with myself.
I have a feeling that my recovery has finally started.
