Yesterday was not a good day. I was agitated beyond belief and needed to spend time cocooning. If there was a sleeping event at the Olympics I would be a gold medal contender.
I had a bad day; I was annoyed with myself for not handling the cause better. However it was a timely reminder that once in a while I will experience a day which really can't be re-framed as even a partial success in the moment and I will have to go through time honoured anxiety attacks etc... until I can find the strength to remember how to re-frame rather more rationally and positively!
I can't say I am worried about this - just hugely thankful that the 'bouncing back' time appears to be getting shorter and shorter.
I have been avoiding going to Art Therapy for weeks. Each time a Friday session came up I would either be a nervous wreck beforehand and cancel or I would be relieved beyond measure that I had an excuse not to attend! This isn't like me in the sense that even when I have been very ill I haven't been slow at naming my 'dragons' and even occasionally, having a jolly good go at throttling them. Therapy has been a life raft throughout.
From the very first moment I met the Art Therapist something wasn't right in me. It is very important that I emphasize that it wasn't comfortable for me rather than there being anything particularly pervasive about the therapist. It was my reactions to a perfectly reasonable set of circumstances that caught me out. I found I was terribly uncomfortable - with the room; with aspects of the therapist; with myself in that position.
The room we were to work in set me on edge. It felt very personalised and I felt like I was meeting someone in their den rather than in a neutral space where we were both going to be working. The therapist's own art work was on the wall - and although it was beautiful - I found myself quickly slipping into admiring an artist rather than listening to the therapist and my own inner needs.
During my first session I was rather overwhelmed by just how much could be packed into such a small space and tried to work out how more than one person could work with her in there without feeling terribly claustrophobic. I've just caught in my head what some of the 'interference' is about; she reminded me, in the manner she had organised the room of an art teacher I had when I first went to secondary school. She was an excellent artist too but she guarded her supplies like a lioness her cubs!
I can remember sitting at the session suddenly concerned that my guide dog would shed hair and leave a mess - and that I would have to ask to use things. At that time I just wanted to explore and do my own thing and not be in the spotlight in any sense. Time in a studio away from home should have felt like I'd arrived in a sweet shop with unlimited money - instead I felt oddly confined and scrutinised. I was already setting boundaries and limitations on myself and we hadn't even started yet! I had gone into the session hoping I could do quite the opposite over time.
I remember I became deeply disconcerted when the therapist wanted me to name my qualifications and skills. I hate all that - and always have done. I am firmly of the rather old fashioned school these days that if you've got it - you have absolutely no need to flaunt it - and if you haven't then it is better to defer to those with more experience and insight. This approach made me edgy. I was out of my comfort zone and struggling to work out what possible relevance having qualifications had to landing at out patients in a psychiatric hospital for art therapy.
We then moved on to self-esteem issues. I brush up good with a touch of pancake (makeup) when I choose to - but most of the time I love the honesty of my face with clear blue eyes and a ruddy complexion (well very rosey cheeks) as it speaks to me of me. I go pink when I am thrilled and excited and pale green when I am frightened and anxious - I have an easy face to read - and it shows I have lived.
We had a long converstation about makeup and I was asked to wear some next time I came. That meant I didn't go back for weeks - until last Friday when I felt well-enough to go without make-up and face the consequences.
The day before yesterday's session felt odd to me. I am much stronger - so I went prepared with a sketchbook and an idea of what I wished to work on - the front cover of The Sharing Space. I had this over-whelming sense that I wasn't living up to expectations, again this is almost certainly my projection - but it put me into a slightly vigilant state of mind. My therapist, in retrospect, was, I think, eager to coax me out of what she may have perceived was my introversion (but is actually my natural predisposition) so she began to talk about her life as a singer; competitions; grades; the Episcopalian Cathedral and a recent debacle there. I kept my head down and got on with the design, trying to answer such questiosn as I could - but immediately back in professional mode because I cannot be drawn into gossip or hearsay or confirm or deny other clergy's actions. I didn't rise to what felt like the bait of a good gossip - and I struggled to work out what the point of the session had been.
For most of Friday I was able to see it is as essentially positive in that I had a chance to test out what I was like in a 'carer' role once more - and then I woke in the night - and had a 'hang on a minute' discussion with myself that lasted all the next day. I was angry (no one's fault but my own - I choose to let people get to me) I had felt cheated from having an art therapy session because the therapist was seeing me ostensibly as another caring professional - at least that is how I felt I was being cast. I also felt I was being pumped as a source of inside knowledge about topics and people that interested the therapist - at a time when I could have been a lot more vulnerable than I actually felt - and may well have inadvertently compromised myself along the way if I hadn't stayed very controlled. Fortunately I worked professionally, whilst resenting I had to I guess.
In reality I learnt a lot from these sessions - particularly Friday's. My therapist has needs and I felt I was subconsciously being invited to meet them - to provide answers to questions and incidents in her own life that had hurt her and underminded her faith in organised religion. I am delighted with myself that in the moment I saw what was coming and acted better than appropriately, I remained emotionally detached and let her take her own journey rather than attempt to make it better or become a pint-sized alternative saviour. I was glad to see I still had the ability.
I learnt that I still haven't found good ways of expelling my own anger and frustration - and so 'lost' a day imploding yesterday in a surprisingly aggitated state. This was anger not expressed healthily.
So I am stating, in this blog, my right to not just be understanding but to also feel a sense of grievance that my needs did not feel as though they were being met in the therapeutic sessions I attended. I am angry about this - as I was so looking forward to the sessions and perhaps even finding ways of dissipating my anger through art. I am proud that I am expressing annoyance - years of care particularly for others who express anger easily and directly has taught me to sublimate these healthy, real and appropriate feelings. Thank God I can at least write about them!
Ironically out of the session came a possible beginning of a book cover design - so while the left brain was busy the right brain did her thing - or perhaps it's the other way round.
All in all no harm done. I have discovered I need to work on expelling my anger and I have rehearsed what I need to say to my therapist - and I have something to cogitate on as a book design. Just a shame I had such a strong nervous reaction to the session. The mind has extraordinary ways of protecting itself - and mine decided agitation and sleep were the order for yesterday. I've no sense of slipping back healthwise - just a blip in learning how to be emotionally healthy.
Today is Palm Sunday and as the daughter of a professional magician it took me years to realise that palm had more than one meaning - and didn't always mean to secretly hide something away without the audience seeing - there's a sermon in that!
Kim McMillen:
When I loved myself enough I learnt to meet my own needs and not call it selfish.
When I loved myself enough I quit ignoring or tolerating my pain.