For Paris & my Twitter bud Dave...
May 29, 2011
May 26, 2011
Little Me
aww ~ 05/25/11
non-subject: out of hiding
***************
When I got the final email from John Knapp, the one that felt like the final blow of kicking someone who was already down...at first I was numb. I felt like all this stuff was a bad dream.
I felt stupid, small, childish.
Carol, it's not that big of a deal, I told myself.
I wasn't sure how I could ever trust myself again.
John probably knows me better than I know myself.
Does he? He's my counselor. He's a mental health professional. He knows shit that I don't know.
More thoughts that at the time seemed worthy to consider.
I can trust John's judgement of me more than I can trust myself. I'm a moron and a fool.
I'd been deemed untrustworthy by a few of the inner circle at Greasespot Cafe, the online forum where some ex-Way refugees gathered. I'd been labeled not worth a dime for a phone call when I'd AWOLed my Way Corps commitment for the second time.
John knew all that, plus more, or at least he should. We'd covered a lot of ground almost every week in the past two years.
John probably knows me better than I know myself. I wish I could disappear, or wake up and find out all this isn't true.
Carol, it's not that big of a deal. Just pretend it didn't happen, this stuff with Knapp. This stuff with GreaseSpot. This stuff with The Way. Just forget about all of it.
Disconnection. I've been here before. I can disconnect and make it all go away.
But how could I pretend that 33 of my 51 years of life weren't what they were?
I had uncontrollably cried at times in my counseling sessions with John. I had been disempowered at times, feeling as if I were a child and he the parent. Other times, I'd been empowered; John reassuring me that I could trust myself. One time he stated, "Carol, have you ever thought that you might be right?" regarding some of the harms I and others had experienced at GreaseSpot Cafe.
I excelled at self-blame.
There was one session where something happened that I had never experienced before, at least in front of a therapist...or anyone...at least that I can recall. At the time I thought maybe it was a break through session of some sort; of me getting in touch with the child in me or with a fear I'd possibly experienced as a youngster. A fear that I'd maybe buried. Perhaps the fear I'd felt when my father would get angry.
At the moment, I can't recall what preceded the experience in that counseling session. I may have that information journaled somewhere. But something that happened or that I'd read or something, had triggered a type of abreaction from me.
All my counseling sessions with John were via phone or Skype. John lived in New York and I in North Carolina. This particular session was via phone.
I sat in my bedroom on the king size bed that is covered with the off-white down comforter, the black cordless phone in my hand. I sat afraid and unable to speak coherently, unable to formulate words and express myself. All I felt was fear and that I was small, so very small. I was afraid of my own thoughts. I was afraid of John, not because he was John, but because at that moment, I was afraid of everything. Everything except perhaps animals and young children, two sentient species that I seem to resonate well with.
It seems it was this same session where John got a bit firm with me, like a parent would with a child. I responded accordingly. John's approach was actually helpful in bringing me back to my adult self. It seems this may also have been the session where John stated, "Carol when you begin to self-loathe like you do, it's really not much different than self-cutting or self-harming." That observation too helped me come into my adult self. I have thought of John's words subsequently when I would hear the self-loathing scratch at my heart's door. His words have been helpful.
I think it was my next counseling session, as the adult me and not the little me, that I asked John if I acted differently and talked differently when I'd been the little me in the previous session. He responded in the affirmative.
"About what age did I sound or seem?" I inquired.
"Probably around 10 years old," he answered.
"I wonder if something happened to me when I was around 10 years old? Something I only remember in feeling but not in thought?"
I didn't have anymore counseling sessions where I turned into the little me, at least that I recall.
I think the one time scared me enough.
****************************
____________________________
To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
non-subject: out of hiding
***************
When I got the final email from John Knapp, the one that felt like the final blow of kicking someone who was already down...at first I was numb. I felt like all this stuff was a bad dream.
I felt stupid, small, childish.
Carol, it's not that big of a deal, I told myself.
I wasn't sure how I could ever trust myself again.
John probably knows me better than I know myself.
Does he? He's my counselor. He's a mental health professional. He knows shit that I don't know.
More thoughts that at the time seemed worthy to consider.
I can trust John's judgement of me more than I can trust myself. I'm a moron and a fool.
I'd been deemed untrustworthy by a few of the inner circle at Greasespot Cafe, the online forum where some ex-Way refugees gathered. I'd been labeled not worth a dime for a phone call when I'd AWOLed my Way Corps commitment for the second time.
John knew all that, plus more, or at least he should. We'd covered a lot of ground almost every week in the past two years.
John probably knows me better than I know myself. I wish I could disappear, or wake up and find out all this isn't true.
Carol, it's not that big of a deal. Just pretend it didn't happen, this stuff with Knapp. This stuff with GreaseSpot. This stuff with The Way. Just forget about all of it.
Disconnection. I've been here before. I can disconnect and make it all go away.
But how could I pretend that 33 of my 51 years of life weren't what they were?
I had uncontrollably cried at times in my counseling sessions with John. I had been disempowered at times, feeling as if I were a child and he the parent. Other times, I'd been empowered; John reassuring me that I could trust myself. One time he stated, "Carol, have you ever thought that you might be right?" regarding some of the harms I and others had experienced at GreaseSpot Cafe.
I excelled at self-blame.
There was one session where something happened that I had never experienced before, at least in front of a therapist...or anyone...at least that I can recall. At the time I thought maybe it was a break through session of some sort; of me getting in touch with the child in me or with a fear I'd possibly experienced as a youngster. A fear that I'd maybe buried. Perhaps the fear I'd felt when my father would get angry.
At the moment, I can't recall what preceded the experience in that counseling session. I may have that information journaled somewhere. But something that happened or that I'd read or something, had triggered a type of abreaction from me.
All my counseling sessions with John were via phone or Skype. John lived in New York and I in North Carolina. This particular session was via phone.
I sat in my bedroom on the king size bed that is covered with the off-white down comforter, the black cordless phone in my hand. I sat afraid and unable to speak coherently, unable to formulate words and express myself. All I felt was fear and that I was small, so very small. I was afraid of my own thoughts. I was afraid of John, not because he was John, but because at that moment, I was afraid of everything. Everything except perhaps animals and young children, two sentient species that I seem to resonate well with.
It seems it was this same session where John got a bit firm with me, like a parent would with a child. I responded accordingly. John's approach was actually helpful in bringing me back to my adult self. It seems this may also have been the session where John stated, "Carol when you begin to self-loathe like you do, it's really not much different than self-cutting or self-harming." That observation too helped me come into my adult self. I have thought of John's words subsequently when I would hear the self-loathing scratch at my heart's door. His words have been helpful.
I think it was my next counseling session, as the adult me and not the little me, that I asked John if I acted differently and talked differently when I'd been the little me in the previous session. He responded in the affirmative.
"About what age did I sound or seem?" I inquired.
"Probably around 10 years old," he answered.
"I wonder if something happened to me when I was around 10 years old? Something I only remember in feeling but not in thought?"
I didn't have anymore counseling sessions where I turned into the little me, at least that I recall.
I think the one time scared me enough.
****************************
____________________________
To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
May 25, 2011
Repercussions
It's been almost 10 months since John Knapp, LMSW, cut me off.
In my complaint to the New York state Office of Professions, I had to write everything out endeavoring to make what had happened clear. It took me over two weeks to write summaries of the various incidents that happened in my and Knapp's relationships and then to compile the vast amount of emails as evidence.
I state "relationships" instead of "relationship" because of the various dualities in our relationship: counselors, friends, colleagues, and I - the client.
It was a good exercise for me, writing out those summaries. Painstaking and wearisome, yet necessary and in the long run helpful.
I felt horrible filing a complaint. I felt horrible not filing a complaint.
My choice between the two horribles is obvious. I filed.
One of the aspects I summarized were John's accusations toward me which were all exacted in print via emails. I simply summarized John's own words.
According to John:
At the end of the accusatory email(s), John stated he'd find it hard to trust me again on any level. He said he had blocked all my emails, was blocking me on Skype and blocking me from calling his 800 number. He had stated in (what I later learned was) an automated email response to me and the third party that he wanted no contact with either of us.
I was shocked, stunned, cut to my very core. I became numb and was sent whirling into a tunnel of confusion.
I haven't been hostile toward John; have I? I had stated I was confused and a bit angered due to John's previous ultimatum email he had sent to me and the third party. Where is he getting this stuff from? What did I do? I was only trying to help.
I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand.
I destroyed our friendship. I destroyed our friendship. I destroyed our friendship.
I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
John, who had been my mental health counselor; who proclaims healing; who states he "hates' abuse; who exposes alleged abusers; had used my deepest vulnerabilities against me. Vulnerabilities he and I had ferreted through for two years, some that we had just discussed less that a week prior including deep anxieties and doubts I was having regarding my function as "creative director" for John's online discussion board and still-formulating, upcoming non-profit.
Vulnerabilities that I had worked hard to make progress to overcome:
By the end of September, almost two months from John's damaging emails and actions, and with John having made no endeavors to amend or reconcile the situation or open up communication, not to mention the other information that came my way, I mailed the complaint.
John sliced me up, then cut me off. Slice and hatchet is what I called it back in August, 2010.
I was left with turmoil, confusion, severed parts of my beliefs again shattered by the very person I was supposed to be able to trust - my mental health therapist who was supposedly a friend.
Another harmful, soul-murdering, cult-like experience from someone proclaiming to help those who have been abused.
No pseudonyms have been used in this penning.
PS: As my son stated on our 15-mile hike the day after Knapp's harmful actions: "Mom, how can you be the one who destroyed the friendship when he's the one that cut off communication?"
************************
____________________________
To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
In my complaint to the New York state Office of Professions, I had to write everything out endeavoring to make what had happened clear. It took me over two weeks to write summaries of the various incidents that happened in my and Knapp's relationships and then to compile the vast amount of emails as evidence.
I state "relationships" instead of "relationship" because of the various dualities in our relationship: counselors, friends, colleagues, and I - the client.
It was a good exercise for me, writing out those summaries. Painstaking and wearisome, yet necessary and in the long run helpful.
I felt horrible filing a complaint. I felt horrible not filing a complaint.
My choice between the two horribles is obvious. I filed.
One of the aspects I summarized were John's accusations toward me which were all exacted in print via emails. I simply summarized John's own words.
According to John:
- I didn't stand up for him in a conflict he had with a third party.
- I name-called.
- I was non-compassionate toward John's plight while showing compassion toward the third party.
- I accused John of "being in it" for the money.
- I suggested that something was wrong with John's irritation and anger regarding his conflict with the third party.
- I "destroyed" my and John's "friendship" if I couldn't see the situation the way that John saw it.
- I was playing a "charade."
- I was "placating" the third party with whom John had the conflict.
- I was making "everything" some sort of "perfectionistic" test for John.
- I was "reading into [John's] words," "much like [the third party] had done."
- I was not respecting John's boundaries
- I had shown "no understanding" for the "toll" the conflict with the third party was having on John.
At the end of the accusatory email(s), John stated he'd find it hard to trust me again on any level. He said he had blocked all my emails, was blocking me on Skype and blocking me from calling his 800 number. He had stated in (what I later learned was) an automated email response to me and the third party that he wanted no contact with either of us.
I was shocked, stunned, cut to my very core. I became numb and was sent whirling into a tunnel of confusion.
I haven't been hostile toward John; have I? I had stated I was confused and a bit angered due to John's previous ultimatum email he had sent to me and the third party. Where is he getting this stuff from? What did I do? I was only trying to help.
I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand.
I destroyed our friendship. I destroyed our friendship. I destroyed our friendship.
I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
John, who had been my mental health counselor; who proclaims healing; who states he "hates' abuse; who exposes alleged abusers; had used my deepest vulnerabilities against me. Vulnerabilities he and I had ferreted through for two years, some that we had just discussed less that a week prior including deep anxieties and doubts I was having regarding my function as "creative director" for John's online discussion board and still-formulating, upcoming non-profit.
Vulnerabilities that I had worked hard to make progress to overcome:
- My fear of authority. To me John was an authority.
- My fear of abandonment. John had stated more than once that he wouldn't abandon me; a promise I know that no one can keep.
- My deep, deep issues of self-blame, self-doubt, and being unintelligent. John was blaming me for things I was totally unaware I had done. When I read his accusations toward me, I thought maybe I had done those things. But the reality was, I hadn't.
- My distrust of myself that runs deep in my psyche. John confirmed to me just how untrustworthy I was. He cut me off; I wasn't worthy enough to even speak with. I became a non-person.
By the end of September, almost two months from John's damaging emails and actions, and with John having made no endeavors to amend or reconcile the situation or open up communication, not to mention the other information that came my way, I mailed the complaint.
John sliced me up, then cut me off. Slice and hatchet is what I called it back in August, 2010.
I was left with turmoil, confusion, severed parts of my beliefs again shattered by the very person I was supposed to be able to trust - my mental health therapist who was supposedly a friend.
Another harmful, soul-murdering, cult-like experience from someone proclaiming to help those who have been abused.
No pseudonyms have been used in this penning.
PS: As my son stated on our 15-mile hike the day after Knapp's harmful actions: "Mom, how can you be the one who destroyed the friendship when he's the one that cut off communication?"
************************
____________________________
To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
May 21, 2011
Miles
aww ~ 5/28/11
non-subject: childhood memories
*************
Where does childhood stop and adulthood begin? I guess there is the in-between stage of adolescence. But adolescence is still childhood.
What are my fondest memories of childhood? I've asked myself that question before, more than once. I've written about fond memories.
What of unfond ones?
Fond. Unfond.
By itself a memory is neutral, at least the facts. It's the emotional memory that makes that which is remembered fond or unfond.
I've often stated I remember emotions more than I remember an exact event. I can remember how I felt at the time certain happenings took place, but I may not recall the fine details. When I do recall fine details, those memories seem strikingly clear.
But only in my memory.
I wonder about some of my recurring sleep dreams - the house dreams and the one dream about a mountain pass. The mountain dream takes place in what feels like the area of Spruce Pine, North Carolina, and at the same time right outside of Cherokee, and not far from Roan Mountain. In non-dream life, these places are at least an hour to three hours drive from each other.
But not in my dreams.
The mountain pass is also accessible by going north on Highway 127 out of Hickory, driving through Bethlehem, and then heading west to take the back country roads toward Granite Falls.
In non-dream life Roan Mountain, Spruce Pine, Cherokee, Granite Falls, Hickory, Bethlehem - all are connected via roads but a person can't see from one side across a pass to the other side...like in my dream.
In non-dream life, all these places are a part of my childhood. That is my childhood that includes my adolescent years.
In my sleep-dream and non-dream life, Ron is a recurring theme in all these places and times.
Ron is the boyfriend with whom I overdosed on Jimson seed. We used to make love in a meadow by a creek off one of the back roads between Bethlehem and Granite Falls.
We did a lot of things on those back roads. Amazing we didn't kill ourselves in the process.
******************
non-subject: childhood memories
*************
Where does childhood stop and adulthood begin? I guess there is the in-between stage of adolescence. But adolescence is still childhood.
What are my fondest memories of childhood? I've asked myself that question before, more than once. I've written about fond memories.
What of unfond ones?
Fond. Unfond.
By itself a memory is neutral, at least the facts. It's the emotional memory that makes that which is remembered fond or unfond.
I've often stated I remember emotions more than I remember an exact event. I can remember how I felt at the time certain happenings took place, but I may not recall the fine details. When I do recall fine details, those memories seem strikingly clear.
But only in my memory.
I wonder about some of my recurring sleep dreams - the house dreams and the one dream about a mountain pass. The mountain dream takes place in what feels like the area of Spruce Pine, North Carolina, and at the same time right outside of Cherokee, and not far from Roan Mountain. In non-dream life, these places are at least an hour to three hours drive from each other.
But not in my dreams.
The mountain pass is also accessible by going north on Highway 127 out of Hickory, driving through Bethlehem, and then heading west to take the back country roads toward Granite Falls.
In non-dream life Roan Mountain, Spruce Pine, Cherokee, Granite Falls, Hickory, Bethlehem - all are connected via roads but a person can't see from one side across a pass to the other side...like in my dream.
In non-dream life, all these places are a part of my childhood. That is my childhood that includes my adolescent years.
In my sleep-dream and non-dream life, Ron is a recurring theme in all these places and times.
Ron is the boyfriend with whom I overdosed on Jimson seed. We used to make love in a meadow by a creek off one of the back roads between Bethlehem and Granite Falls.
We did a lot of things on those back roads. Amazing we didn't kill ourselves in the process.
******************
May 12, 2011
Wolves & Cement
non-subject: the only way
AWW ~ may 11, 2011
_____________________
It's time to write. To write. To write.
My sacred space.
Writing changed my life. Well maybe not the writing itself, but where the writing led.
I was so sick when I took pen to paper back in 1998. I poured every emotion I could describe and every thought I could grasp onto paper.
I wrote about how horrible I was - as a mother, a person, a believer.
I felt so trapped in my body ... and in my shame.
My shame stemmed from standards unobtainable to any human - to prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.
I fell incredibly short and did so publicly. I had twice broken my sold-out commitment as Way Corps, as one of God's crack troops. I had AWOLed on my two different interim-year assignments as Corps. I had let down the people to whom and for whom I was responsible. It was a reprehensible act, to turn my back on my vow, to not pay my vows. It was better to never vow, than to vow and commit a lie.
I was a lie.
Within a year after my first AWOL, I developed asthma. It continued to worsen taking me deeper and deeper into the world of lung disease, steroids, and immune disorders. I wish such upon no one. The machines. The needles. The surgeries. The suffocation. The fear. The feeling of the cement in my lungs, a nightmare that was always awaiting. Not to mention my sinuses being totally blocked with the firm gelatinous swollen pearly polyps.
That night back in 1998, 16 years from my first asthma attack, I ended up at the hospital...again. I was trying to write my way into breathing...but it didn't work....on that night.
But that hospital stay and the one a few months later, were my final emergency visits with subsequesnt hospitalizations due to the cement in my lungs.
I eventually did write my way to breath.
So what's wrong with me now? Why am I stifled in my writing? Why do I feel this muzzle on my heart? But it's not a muzzle from which anyone is pulling a leash...like a dog may have on a muzzle.
What is the purpose of a muzzle anyway? To keep the animal from injuring another.
Is that what I fear, that I will injure another? Or perhaps that I will injure myself.
I've read that when certain animals are caught in a trap, they will gnaw off their own foot to gain freedom. I think wolves may do that.
To muzzle a wolf would be its death. For then it could not eat ... nor howl at the moon.
AWW ~ may 11, 2011
_____________________
It's time to write. To write. To write.
My sacred space.
Writing changed my life. Well maybe not the writing itself, but where the writing led.
I was so sick when I took pen to paper back in 1998. I poured every emotion I could describe and every thought I could grasp onto paper.
I wrote about how horrible I was - as a mother, a person, a believer.
I felt so trapped in my body ... and in my shame.
My shame stemmed from standards unobtainable to any human - to prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.
I fell incredibly short and did so publicly. I had twice broken my sold-out commitment as Way Corps, as one of God's crack troops. I had AWOLed on my two different interim-year assignments as Corps. I had let down the people to whom and for whom I was responsible. It was a reprehensible act, to turn my back on my vow, to not pay my vows. It was better to never vow, than to vow and commit a lie.
I was a lie.
Within a year after my first AWOL, I developed asthma. It continued to worsen taking me deeper and deeper into the world of lung disease, steroids, and immune disorders. I wish such upon no one. The machines. The needles. The surgeries. The suffocation. The fear. The feeling of the cement in my lungs, a nightmare that was always awaiting. Not to mention my sinuses being totally blocked with the firm gelatinous swollen pearly polyps.
That night back in 1998, 16 years from my first asthma attack, I ended up at the hospital...again. I was trying to write my way into breathing...but it didn't work....on that night.
But that hospital stay and the one a few months later, were my final emergency visits with subsequesnt hospitalizations due to the cement in my lungs.
I eventually did write my way to breath.
So what's wrong with me now? Why am I stifled in my writing? Why do I feel this muzzle on my heart? But it's not a muzzle from which anyone is pulling a leash...like a dog may have on a muzzle.
What is the purpose of a muzzle anyway? To keep the animal from injuring another.
Is that what I fear, that I will injure another? Or perhaps that I will injure myself.
I've read that when certain animals are caught in a trap, they will gnaw off their own foot to gain freedom. I think wolves may do that.
To muzzle a wolf would be its death. For then it could not eat ... nor howl at the moon.
May 9, 2011
Pass the Beans
I sat in Dr. McColloch's office, trying to explain what it was I felt.
"I don't want to write anymore - my story. I thought I wanted to write it and I think I still want to write it, but when I start to write, it's distasteful to me. But how can I just throw away my past, like it never happened?"
We sat for a few moments in quiet while I searched for words.
"Maybe it's distasteful to me because it reminds me of John Knapp. He was instrumental in my beginning to go public with my story, in me being able to speak up. So now when I write, maybe it's distasteful because it reminds me of what happened with him."
I sighed, feeling a consternation at not being able to express or grasp what it was I'd been struggling with - this inability, non-desire to continue writing my story. It bothered me.
My creativity feels stifled, muted, like something that gurgles words in water that are incomprehensible.
"I can't explain what I feel. Maybe I'm in kind of a limbo...or neutral."
But it's not limbo or neutral. Distaste is not neutral.
Dr. McColloch replied with something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was still searching my head, searching my heart, grasping for something substantial.
"I think I need to categorize what happened with Knapp as separate from my past that was prior to Knapp. The stuff with him is miniscule in comparison to the rest of my life."
As I spoke I made a fist with my right hand, uncurling my knuckles enough to leave an opening as I put it up to my right eye like I was looking through a tiny telescope, a short fisted telescope with no lenses.
I lowered my arm and opened my hand.
"I mean time wise, it was only a couple years," I continued. "And it wasn't like I was married to the man or something."
My face contorted as my stomach felt knotted. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Yuck. Sigh.
"I think of Mia and her ex-husband. She told me that when she watches youtube videos of him, she just shakes her head in disbelief. Her ex is a self-help guru and best selling author. Apparently her ex is different behind closed doors from what he expounds in the spotlight.
I shake my head when I read Knapp's online activity and articles, or see the names coming onto the advisory board."
It's like Mom. I was in my mid-thirties before I realized how she would twist situations.
Like when my siblings and I were children she'd ask if we wanted more green beans and we would answer no; she'd then get offended because we didn't pass the green bean bowl to her. What she really wanted was a serving of green beans; we were supposed to figure that out by her asking us if we wanted more green beans.
In my past counseling sessions when I shared that example with Knapp, he had called it 'crazy making.'
The poor, scapegoated apple is the forbidden fruit in the traditional story of the Garden of Eden. I guess green beans are my forbidden vegetable. Yet Mom cooked the best green beans I've ever eaten. She could have gotten wealthy off those green beans.
In my forties I finally realized that Mom believed her lies. She didn't think of them as lies; in her mind she was telling the truth. It was twisted only slightly, but there was something artful about it. Like an MC Escher painting. A distortion of reality. Yet within that distortion was her reality.
Once I saw Mom's distortions for what they were, it took me a couple years to feel compassion toward her, to put myself in her shoes and try to grasp her logic.
In the 1960s when Mom was in her late thirties and early forties, she underwent multiple shock treatments while she was institutionalized in a mental hospital. God only knows how many times she endured the induced seizures. She received shock treatments again in the 2000s, but by then the procedure was monitored better.
I wonder what kind of drug cocktail she got in the 1960s. I guess I'll never know.
*********************
________________________
Note: In June/July, 2011, I changed John Knapp's pseudonym in this piece to his real name. To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
"I don't want to write anymore - my story. I thought I wanted to write it and I think I still want to write it, but when I start to write, it's distasteful to me. But how can I just throw away my past, like it never happened?"
We sat for a few moments in quiet while I searched for words.
"Maybe it's distasteful to me because it reminds me of John Knapp. He was instrumental in my beginning to go public with my story, in me being able to speak up. So now when I write, maybe it's distasteful because it reminds me of what happened with him."
I sighed, feeling a consternation at not being able to express or grasp what it was I'd been struggling with - this inability, non-desire to continue writing my story. It bothered me.
My creativity feels stifled, muted, like something that gurgles words in water that are incomprehensible.
"I can't explain what I feel. Maybe I'm in kind of a limbo...or neutral."
But it's not limbo or neutral. Distaste is not neutral.
Dr. McColloch replied with something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was still searching my head, searching my heart, grasping for something substantial.
"I think I need to categorize what happened with Knapp as separate from my past that was prior to Knapp. The stuff with him is miniscule in comparison to the rest of my life."
As I spoke I made a fist with my right hand, uncurling my knuckles enough to leave an opening as I put it up to my right eye like I was looking through a tiny telescope, a short fisted telescope with no lenses.
I lowered my arm and opened my hand.
"I mean time wise, it was only a couple years," I continued. "And it wasn't like I was married to the man or something."
My face contorted as my stomach felt knotted. I swallowed, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Yuck. Sigh.
"I think of Mia and her ex-husband. She told me that when she watches youtube videos of him, she just shakes her head in disbelief. Her ex is a self-help guru and best selling author. Apparently her ex is different behind closed doors from what he expounds in the spotlight.
I shake my head when I read Knapp's online activity and articles, or see the names coming onto the advisory board."
It's like Mom. I was in my mid-thirties before I realized how she would twist situations.
Like when my siblings and I were children she'd ask if we wanted more green beans and we would answer no; she'd then get offended because we didn't pass the green bean bowl to her. What she really wanted was a serving of green beans; we were supposed to figure that out by her asking us if we wanted more green beans.
In my past counseling sessions when I shared that example with Knapp, he had called it 'crazy making.'
The poor, scapegoated apple is the forbidden fruit in the traditional story of the Garden of Eden. I guess green beans are my forbidden vegetable. Yet Mom cooked the best green beans I've ever eaten. She could have gotten wealthy off those green beans.
In my forties I finally realized that Mom believed her lies. She didn't think of them as lies; in her mind she was telling the truth. It was twisted only slightly, but there was something artful about it. Like an MC Escher painting. A distortion of reality. Yet within that distortion was her reality.
Once I saw Mom's distortions for what they were, it took me a couple years to feel compassion toward her, to put myself in her shoes and try to grasp her logic.
In the 1960s when Mom was in her late thirties and early forties, she underwent multiple shock treatments while she was institutionalized in a mental hospital. God only knows how many times she endured the induced seizures. She received shock treatments again in the 2000s, but by then the procedure was monitored better.
I wonder what kind of drug cocktail she got in the 1960s. I guess I'll never know.
*********************
________________________
Note: In June/July, 2011, I changed John Knapp's pseudonym in this piece to his real name. To access an ongoing index regarding my experiences with Knapp, click here and scroll down to the section entitled June 26, 2011.
____________________________
May 6, 2011
Ordinary
Another journal-type entry. Not sure what will come off the keyboard at this wee morning hour.
Today as I was driving between appointments for work, I spied an elderly man standing on the side of the road observing a puddle of water. He was standing in the shade under some tall trees. I didn't notice what kind of trees they were. I did notice tiny splashes bouncing from the big puddle.
Are those splashes coming from the tree leaves, from the leftover water from last night's rain? Or are their tiny tadpoles and water spiders and such in the puddle somehow making ripples and splashes?
As I was wondering in my quick 20-second drive-by, the man picked up a long stick positioning it like he was going to poke the water - research a bit.
It reminded me of the saying about stopping to smell the roses. To not allow life to get so busy that we miss it altogether. Things like noticing the magnitude of teeming life in a puddle. The scene reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting....and of a poem written by an online friend, Preston.
The Dallas Public Library
by Preston
“poetry is for sissies”
or so says the chubby little boy with the red face
his sister sticks her tongue out at him
and looks at me inquiringly
inquiring children make me nervous
“your brother is a jerk” i whisper
as i place my copy of “a collection of american erotic verse”
on the very top shelf
sliding it back out of sight
she asks me if i like emily dickinson
i tell her i prefer robert frost
the not quite homeless man
stares intently at his magazine
the smell of stale cigarette smoke permeates the air around him
he sees me looking at him, and nervously drops his gaze
i’m curious about his taste in periodicals
amatuer sleuth that i am
casually making my way down the aisle of newspapers on sticks
and coming up silenty behind him
he’s staring at a lingerie ad in a cosmopolitan
a young girl in a high cut purple thong
barechested, with her arm across her breasts
when i was a boy, i had to sneak a look at my father's playboys
to see pictues like that
the little girl in the rangers cap
wants to know why they’re lying about hitler
her mother is ignoring her
i wonder what her interest is in world war two history
for some reason, it makes me uncomfortable
she seems out of place here
she’d look much better in the romance novels section
two college girls have made themselves at home
sitting on the floor in the middle of the natural history section
one of them has a book on whales open on her lap
they’re discussing the japanese’s bad habit of killing minke whales
in the name of scientific research
i think about flashing them my greenpeace member card
but i don’t want to intrude
the elderly man in the brown fedora and blue windbreaker
is trying to decide if he’s really interested in quantum physics
he looks like someone i’d enjoy talking with
we could sit and ponder the mysteries of the universe over coffee
the lady in front of me at the checkout is being a real pain in the ass
she’s arguing with the oriental girl behind the desk over her late charges
“you have a balance of $1.25 on your account”
they don’t call them fines anymore
i’m tempted to offer to pay her charges myself just to shut her up
she wants to recheck 5 books
what the hell, if you can’t finish them in 3 weeks ...
the girls name is asuka
she has an east coast accent
i’m careful not to comment on the japanese whaling industry’s bad habits
she scans my card and smiles at me
“no fines ?” i ask
we both crack up
“reading material for the holiday ?” she asks
we exchage pleasantries
discussing the change in the weather and our respective holiday plans
she puts the books in a nice neat little pile and slides them across the counter
i wish her a happy thanksgiving
and she tells me i should have a nice day
on the way out to the car i pass by the newspaper stands
a headline catches my eye
“is hip hop dead ?”
who cares
i’ve got plenty of reading material
and a whole lot of free time
**********************************
Today as I was driving between appointments for work, I spied an elderly man standing on the side of the road observing a puddle of water. He was standing in the shade under some tall trees. I didn't notice what kind of trees they were. I did notice tiny splashes bouncing from the big puddle.
Are those splashes coming from the tree leaves, from the leftover water from last night's rain? Or are their tiny tadpoles and water spiders and such in the puddle somehow making ripples and splashes?
As I was wondering in my quick 20-second drive-by, the man picked up a long stick positioning it like he was going to poke the water - research a bit.
It reminded me of the saying about stopping to smell the roses. To not allow life to get so busy that we miss it altogether. Things like noticing the magnitude of teeming life in a puddle. The scene reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting....and of a poem written by an online friend, Preston.
The Dallas Public Library
by Preston
“poetry is for sissies”
or so says the chubby little boy with the red face
his sister sticks her tongue out at him
and looks at me inquiringly
inquiring children make me nervous
“your brother is a jerk” i whisper
as i place my copy of “a collection of american erotic verse”
on the very top shelf
sliding it back out of sight
she asks me if i like emily dickinson
i tell her i prefer robert frost
the not quite homeless man
stares intently at his magazine
the smell of stale cigarette smoke permeates the air around him
he sees me looking at him, and nervously drops his gaze
i’m curious about his taste in periodicals
amatuer sleuth that i am
casually making my way down the aisle of newspapers on sticks
and coming up silenty behind him
he’s staring at a lingerie ad in a cosmopolitan
a young girl in a high cut purple thong
barechested, with her arm across her breasts
when i was a boy, i had to sneak a look at my father's playboys
to see pictues like that
the little girl in the rangers cap
wants to know why they’re lying about hitler
her mother is ignoring her
i wonder what her interest is in world war two history
for some reason, it makes me uncomfortable
she seems out of place here
she’d look much better in the romance novels section
two college girls have made themselves at home
sitting on the floor in the middle of the natural history section
one of them has a book on whales open on her lap
they’re discussing the japanese’s bad habit of killing minke whales
in the name of scientific research
i think about flashing them my greenpeace member card
but i don’t want to intrude
the elderly man in the brown fedora and blue windbreaker
is trying to decide if he’s really interested in quantum physics
he looks like someone i’d enjoy talking with
we could sit and ponder the mysteries of the universe over coffee
the lady in front of me at the checkout is being a real pain in the ass
she’s arguing with the oriental girl behind the desk over her late charges
“you have a balance of $1.25 on your account”
they don’t call them fines anymore
i’m tempted to offer to pay her charges myself just to shut her up
she wants to recheck 5 books
what the hell, if you can’t finish them in 3 weeks ...
the girls name is asuka
she has an east coast accent
i’m careful not to comment on the japanese whaling industry’s bad habits
she scans my card and smiles at me
“no fines ?” i ask
we both crack up
“reading material for the holiday ?” she asks
we exchage pleasantries
discussing the change in the weather and our respective holiday plans
she puts the books in a nice neat little pile and slides them across the counter
i wish her a happy thanksgiving
and she tells me i should have a nice day
on the way out to the car i pass by the newspaper stands
a headline catches my eye
“is hip hop dead ?”
who cares
i’ve got plenty of reading material
and a whole lot of free time
**********************************
May 1, 2011
A thought away...
I sit down to write, but not sure what I will write or if I will click "publish post" - as is often the case when I put fingers to the keyboard.
Perhaps this will be like a journal entry. Yah...me thinks so.
I read poetry last night. It's been awhile since I've indulged in poetry. I was again drawn into that magical place of thoughts without borders. A place where imagination and interpretation can roam.
Some might say that is evil. What if the person reading interprets text as literal? Such as in the Bible where Matthew 5:30 states, "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off..."
I learned recently about a young man who did just that; he cut off his hand. My heart drops (an understatement) even as I write those words.
I don't know for sure yet why the man performed such an act. Yet when I brought up the cut-off-thy-hand scripture in the conversation about the tragedy, the young man's acquaintances responded that he was religious - often in an extreme manner.
That is a risk we take with the freedom of thought - the risk of evil or harmful intentions, motives, actions.
Is there more evil in the world or more good? If we had a balance scale and could compare the two, which side would weigh heavier?
I tend to think there is more good but that the evil gets more attention because it is more sensational. It saturates and satiates the senses causing our biology to emit hormones of intensity.
Well, can't good do that too - emit hormones of intensity yet with a different outcome? It can.
Too much of either will take its toll on our bodies and souls.
The young man will have to learn to function without his hand. He'll have to learn how to deal with the question folks will ask, "How did you injure your arm, if you don't mind me asking?"
********************
Well, I never imagined that would come off my keyboard today.
Perhaps this will be like a journal entry. Yah...me thinks so.
I read poetry last night. It's been awhile since I've indulged in poetry. I was again drawn into that magical place of thoughts without borders. A place where imagination and interpretation can roam.
Some might say that is evil. What if the person reading interprets text as literal? Such as in the Bible where Matthew 5:30 states, "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off..."
I learned recently about a young man who did just that; he cut off his hand. My heart drops (an understatement) even as I write those words.
I don't know for sure yet why the man performed such an act. Yet when I brought up the cut-off-thy-hand scripture in the conversation about the tragedy, the young man's acquaintances responded that he was religious - often in an extreme manner.
That is a risk we take with the freedom of thought - the risk of evil or harmful intentions, motives, actions.
Is there more evil in the world or more good? If we had a balance scale and could compare the two, which side would weigh heavier?
I tend to think there is more good but that the evil gets more attention because it is more sensational. It saturates and satiates the senses causing our biology to emit hormones of intensity.
Well, can't good do that too - emit hormones of intensity yet with a different outcome? It can.
Too much of either will take its toll on our bodies and souls.
The young man will have to learn to function without his hand. He'll have to learn how to deal with the question folks will ask, "How did you injure your arm, if you don't mind me asking?"
********************
Well, I never imagined that would come off my keyboard today.