So I’ve been in California for two weeks and a day now. My brother remains about the same and we are no closer to knowing how and when exactly it will end. I’m going home tomorrow.
It’s all a shitty game of statistics. I don’t know when I’ll have to come back–it could be two weeks or two months–seems like I’ve been saying that for a while now. I know from my days in hospice that people can die suddenly when it’s not expected for weeks or even months, or alternately, people can linger for weeks or again months defying all the odds. If someone is hanging on they are less likely to die. People are more likely to die once they accept it–even want it. My brother is not there and at this point neither am I. I like just being around him. Even if it’s not intimate. It has been ordinary and that is special in its own sort of way. We’ve mostly just hung out incidentally while hanging around my sister’s somewhat palatial home. It’s been nice and relaxing at the best and continues to be taxing and overwhelming at it’s worst.
Nonetheless, hanging out in family members homes gets old. I want to go home. I sleep better in my own bed. When I go home I will probably go back to feeling horribly helpless and far away. At least here I am horribly helpless, but nearby. There is no winning in this situation. I’ll simply be ready to jump on a plane again as soon as need be.
This trip has been interesting in some fundamental ways outside of the time spent with my brother. I’ve had a lot of time to myself and I’ve spent a lot of time online which led me to some new insights. I’ve come to some realizations about abuse in my background and how that has played out in how I was treated psychiatrically. I’ve remembered abuses that I had shelved. It’s not that I had actually forgotten them but I had never talked about them until the last few days. I will be exploring in the coming months and probably years how these episodes continue to influence my mental health. It seems I may have to do more than change my diet and lifestyle and dig a little deeper into my psyche.
Some of this has arisen during the week I spent with my dad, who was an abuser. My father is relatively mild mannered now, but I seemed to regress to about 16 years old and I haven’t done that in my adult life–he is still a pain in the ass and I was simply triggered by his crap during this visit. I’m not sure what it’s about except perhaps the process of my undrugging is opening me up to feelings which have been effectively numbed for many years. I’ve spent much time with him as an adult and not had such a severe reaction to him as this time around. After all the drugging began at age 19, barely out of the home and away from my father’s influence.
Anyway, I see it as a relatively positive development though it brings with it some pain. And even though I expressed reservations about my therapist a few days ago, I think she can actually help. What bothers me somewhat about her is that, for example, when I have a conflict with my husband she seems to always take my side and I don’t think that is fair nor helpful. I am difficult to live with and need to find compassion for when I sometimes push him too far. I want help in recognizing how I am unfair, as I know that I am, but when I’m upset I am prone to blame him. I don’t need her blindly accepting my distorted perceptions. Granted he does play a part in our conflicts as well, I do not blame myself entirely–we certainly have a dynamic in action. I just need a neutral party when I talk about those issues as well as many others I’m sure. That is my main concern. She validates my skewed experience too much sometimes and then I don’t feel safe knowing that. And I assume she does the same thing in other areas of my life, where I may be blind to it. I do intend to discuss this.
Oh how to objectively assess our therapists?? I guess it’s actually impossible. In any case, I have an appointment on Thursday.