Of Missing Bloggers and Hidden Children
I'm feeling so rusty, trying to write a post.
Not because I haven't been in therapy since I wrote last. (Oh, yes, I have.) Not because I haven't had a million thoughts and emotions and doubts and heartaches. (Oh, yes, I have.) But because I feel so far lost in my brain, that trying to make sense out of things feels futile. I'm sorry for abandoning this little corner. Do you want to hear the excuse? Some family crises that occupied my entire befuddled brain. Maybe a little (or a lot of) dissociation, which was a mix of all that was going on and also the noise my brain was making trying to find my ground in therapy throughout it all. But I'm back now, trying to string a few words together so I can reconnect with you all, my dear friends. (And if you were one of the lovely site members who sent me emails reminding me to post, don't think I wasn't touched, and don't think I didn't spend the next few days starting at a blank screen and trying to think if there were any words left in me to share.) So bear with me as I attempt to revisit Unseen.
And also, please know that I'm working on a brand-new website, which will be more user-friendly and robust and will actually have the ability to be edited in full (unlike this one that has been posing problems for not tech-savvy-enough me) so I can share with you the tens of books I've been reading! (Suggestions for the new site are welcome at email@example.com) ---- Do you have an inner child? Do I? I'm still thinking on it. I was going to beat this system, do things differently than, well, just about everyone. I was going to heal without having to deal with an inner child or a whole lot of them, without having to croon to myself or hold myself or care for myself — the Self of my youth, that is.
It's something I still can't face, still can't own up to, even after all this time on the chair, the chair that, not unlike Dr. Middos' time machine, takes me forward to my death and back to my birth, but it's not a problem. Because when things don't jibe with me I do what I do best, and dissociate.
How old is this part? my therapist asks, again and again. I have no clue. I don't do ages. I don't know. What was it like for you then? I don't remember. I have no memories of my childhood. So I attribute waves of pain, storms of overwhelm, clouds of despair to all types of things. But not to some young version of myself. Not to some inner child trying to be heard. Because unlike so many brave clients who submit to this work, I don't even have an inner child. Until I decide to carve away at my obstinance a bit. To give it a try. To entertain the thought that maybe this is where I'm so stuck in my quest to feel better. And today I say, if just for a few stolen minutes, that this maelstrom in my soul — it's my inner child calling. The inner child who has not yet given up despite being rejected way back in my childhood and continuing to be rejected by no one else but me.
And something in me settles a wee bit. So.. is it possible?
Can it be that I do have an inner child?
Dare I let her out?