The Whole is Other than the Sum of the Parts

-Kurt Koffka

gestalt

I can recognize what my pac-man sides are, but I don’t know who I am entirely, the triangle. http://www.intropsych.com/ch04_senses/whole_is_other_than_the_sum_of_the_parts.html

I don’t know where to start. I’m queer, I’m trans, I love cooking, I knit, I play guitar, I garden, I love the ocean, and iceskating, and contra dancing.. But those are some my pac-mans. I don’t know what the whole of it is, what I wear on my sleeve, to hopefully find a tribe with other sleeves like mine.

I have been trying to fit in with the queers here. But being queer is for me an ‘Oh P.S, I’m queer’ thing, not an ‘I’m queer!’ thing, if that makes sense. It’s part of my make up, but I’m not front and center about it, nor am I about anything else up there, so I have to figure out what my front and center things are.

I can obviously go into the ‘”I am thoroughly used to being different shades of shadow and not being allowed to be otherwise so that’s the only thing I know how to do’ pity party, but fuck that.

…okay, I am really tempted to do that, actually =D

Obviously I’ve got to allow myself.

I want to figure this shit out. I want to find a tribe, instead of bursting out everything that’s happened during the week to my shrink, because she’s basically the only person I talk to. (I can’t help but see it as some kind of horrifying Wilson, Tom Hanks thing). That doesn’t seem useful shrinkage, at all. A tea party, instead of actually getting down to business. So, I don’t know how, but let’s do this.

air staffs mulan

Can I at least get a good ball to bounce around in here?

mcqueen cooler

I can’t… do anything. My neurons won’t let me. I know what I should be doing for my bad shoulder, for example, my physical therapy exercises, which I’ve been slacking on, but I don’t know what to do about a broken brain. Depression, PTSD, anxiety, I know these things, and I know when they come up, they pass in time. I’ve got a few tricks here and there to cope with them, and sometimes they even work =)

But I don’t know what to do about a broken brain. I don’t mean it in a mood like way. I mean that, for example, I can’t read anything for more than ten minutes, for the most part, and that’s generally if I know it well and I read it many times before my neurons were shot to pieces. If that’s not the case, I’m lucky if I can absorb a few pages. It takes me a full day to watch a movie. I just rediscovered subtitles, and now I can understand what they’re saying, mostly, even if I can’t connect the pieces of what’s happening sometimes. (As I said, it takes me all day to get through it. My queue on netflix is becoming more and more of a wreck. I hope the rest of my family doesn’t look on my page).

I went to see the new Marvel movie in theaters when it came out. I love superhero movies. I barely understood any of it. I wanted to cry.

I can’t hold a conversation with people either, really. I don’t sound very intelligent, in speaking. I repeat myself, I can’t hold a debate, and I can’t hold one thought through to the end. Most people I know have run out of patience and stopped listening. I’ve fallen back on my old habit, of middle school, of trying to be as invisible as possible.

The therapist says to take a nonjudgmental stance, but it’s hard to do when in a mental sense of it, I can’t even hold a stupid spoon.

I’ve been slacking on everything else, like the physical therapy and whatnot, because I want to hold that spoon. But as I said, I don’t know how to fix it.

And of course, I have to be very careful not to mention anything of this to family. Not only is appearing weak a bad idea in front of my aunt, who is the mother of my cousins, (they’re the only people who look at me with anything resembling unconditional love, though I have to censor myself because of that aunt. The only time I didn’t, in trying to explain to the younger one why I changed my name, the oldest said ‘can we not talk about it anymore?’) That aunt will cut me off (again) if I am slightly left of normal. Showing any of them, aunt, immediate family, in general anything other than their dancing monkey, their eyes. go. dark.

The Tea Party Has Been Cancelled

Therapy has a new face, these days.

My therapist is going off of sensorimotor psychotherapy, by Pat Ogden. She’ll let me talk briefly what’s going on in life and then we get into it. it’s motion based. Today it was simple movement of her going back and forth towards me, what felt safe and what was not, as I tried to ward off attack. Boundaries.

It was terrible, readers. And I had to notice what I was doing, and what was going on with me as I did it, on top of all that, to tell her those things, and I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth. Used to be that it was more of a tea party, where I’d just chat about my woes.

I felt sick. i still feel sick.

I know I want to talk to someone, to hear a voice to just drone on, but I also know that the only option, and I mean the only option, is my mother.

And that’s a phenomenally horrible idea.

Talk about boundaries. That was the point of the session today, really, was that I had no boundaries and why. I mean, I know enough when I’m being attacked, or even just a gentle version of people just talking to me (my ears still roar at that point) but not enough to know that I’m allowed to say my piece, either to be present or to repel them entirely. My mother violates these senses at every turn. I don’t know if I can say that I can call these senses boundaries though. I can’t. I have no defenses. Everything, even people being friendly, is just too much. Like, if they are being friendly, it’s as if they are saying I exist, I deserve it. It just narrows down to a car’s headlights for me and I just wait to get hit as they pass me by.

I don’t have many people left, that are wholly within my heart and I am wholly within theirs, with which I can be a whole and unguarded being, chosen family. My two young cousins up the road, my cat. The rest of everybody I regard with some darkness in my heart, for one reason or another. My mother, for instance, suffocates my soul, wants to know it all. She broke my trust badly over time. Now she pries constantly. Even physically, when she’s in my space, at my apartment, she’ll arrange it just so. I reluctantly give her pieces, which she gobbles up, wanting more, and I am left feeling robbed. She only hears what she wants to too. Neither her or my dad wants to hear anything whatsoever about manliness or transliness (I still don’t know what men wear for shoes, is a light example. I have old somewhat unisex girl shoes for the most part, and this makes me self conscious. But that is another story). This is not healthy listening, but she’s the only one in my entire existence who will listen at all.

 

Let’s Get Down to Business

I’m being a pansy.

I’m not facing my own truth. I’m just wallowing in pain without sifting through it and past it. I’m bored, I chafe. I want something to happen in my life.

Fuck that.

You do you. You change you. It’s not up to my doctors and support network to handle me like a fucking egg until I hatch. Who the hell wants that? Fly, birdie, fly. Find what keeps you alive, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else, I think is what Kate Bornstein said. I’ve never been good at healing my pain with words, personally. I do it, every week, but I’ve got to stretch it, like a muscle, with action. It’s been cramped up small. When I do talk I feel like I’m making excuses. So what works for me is probably rugby and singing, so I’ve got to get on that.. I don’t want to die right now, but I do feel like I’m wasting time.

Plant a tree, you know what I mean? Leave your mark well, don’t just pass through here like a dismal ghost.

Be your own anchor, your own wind.

Most of all? Get. UP.