Deep Lucy

I can’t remember what book it was I read, in which someone said I’m caught between the Devil and the Deep Lucy. But I like it.

Anyway… having spent the last few blog-things here outing myself as a mystic weirdo (good grief), I thought I’d try for something a bit more prosaic, or something. Pff.

What am I warbling about tonight? Extremes and middles. This could all get terribly Buddhist, if we’re unlucky, but I’ll do my best to steer around the clichés.

Specifically: as I mentioned recently, a consequence of me beginning my EMDR therapy has been a shift away from helpless fear towards intense outrage instead, outrage at the abuse that was foisted on me as a child. What I’ve noticed in talking to people about this (chiefly online, facebook, blah blah) is that I get one of two extremes from people in response – it’s either You Go Girl Feel Your Anger™ or it’s Rise Above It And Forgive Your Perpetrators™.

I’m actually really uninterested in buying either of these products. If I’ve learned one thing lately (oh please, let me have learned one thing lately…) it’s that grabbing stuff or shoving it away, neither of these helps anything. So I have this outrage, and (yes, I have learned to do this over the last few months, and I’m a bit proud of me for this) I know that the best thing I can do is simply to keep it company. Don’t celebrate it, don’t try to “transform” it, just allow, allow.

Alongside of this outrage, when I allow it instead of investing in its shares, is a great lake of sadness. That’s strangely even harder to allow, but I’m letting myself keep company with that too, because nothing else works. Today, I tried to shove it away for the evening, and all that happened was I got pseudo-perky and brittle, and ended up hurting a couple of people’s feelings a bit, by being rigidly opinionated about things online.

I caught myself doing this, and I’ve made amends, and I’ve not punished myself (that’s something else I’m learning, apparently – proud again). And now I’m back with the sadness, for all the unnecessary grief that my abusers have caused me and those around me to experience, for the present me who can’t empathise when she sees people in films and tv shows getting hugged by their parents, who wonders what it would be like to find physical intimacy joyful with no shark of terror beneath. And maybe I’m going to get to find out, one day.

I almost hit the organic gin this evening, but just because Misery Loves Cliché is no excuse to capitulate. I’d rather be sad than drunk. I’d much rather be sad than drunk and sad. I like myself better for keeping myself company through all this meandering painfulness. I like that I get to tell you about this stuff, because it’s something I learned.

Anyway, sorry to make you sit through all this (well, you could have changed channels if you weren’t into it). I’ve lately been revisiting old poems that I wrote, that have been especially true for me and stayed true over time. Here’s one I made earlier, as they say – about fear and love.

Mirror

So there’s the great ocean there
And one day, you glance out
Out beyond the land
And you know something bad is coming

Gulls start from the waters, yarring
Bubbles and things rise, float
Stillish seas no longer still
Disturbed sun shatters in sparkles

Something huge
Something terrible
Long ago foretold, long feared
Rising from the very roots

Finally you glimpse it
Dark vast shape surging
Inescapable through the depths
The ocean dances and bows to it

And it breaks through the surface
Looming, menacing
Dripping, encrusted
And it looks at you

And looking into its eyes
You see your scared reflection
And then with fine cloth, and your warm breath
You gently begin to polish it

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