Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) Support Group
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Early into my therapy, I was introduced to the principal of, "Detachment." As I attempt to sort through my decades of psychotherapy, I find myself looking for the threads of consistency within the rapid cycling theories and name changes of the field. Tying my therapy of the 70s to what is currently discussed is no small feat, especially when you factor in the damage to my memory. It is often feels like professional grade "Gaslighting."
"Detachment" is one of those consistent threads. At the first intro, I heard it as a full justification for my over-developed flight instincts. "I'm not running away. I am detaching and I have, at last, found something I am good at."
In the late 80's when I was struggling to hold steady for my young sons while dealing with the epic gush of flashbacks, et al, of the amnesia therapy, one of my Alanon sponsors invited me to ponder the difference "Detachment" and "Abandonment." I didn't have to ponder long before her point was made.
No new developments on the home front. My son's family is still staying with his in-laws in a cramped duplex with I don't know how many other unemployed adult siblings. I am still persona non grata. My husband has been invited to go to a Round Rock Express game with the happy family. He feels like it is his bottomless wallet which has been invited and is less than enthusiastic about the honor. It is always easy to believe the other guy's wallet is fuller than Uncle Sam's deficit. Given the data we have to work with -remember the DIL's closed door policy- I have to agree. At least for now. . .
I will be moving my base camp to a spot on the Ohio River side of the confluence in a few hours. Just waiting on sunrise while I ponder the mysteries of family.
Not at all sure where I am going with all this. Just sorting. . .
Early into my therapy, I was introduced to the principal of, "Detachment." As I attempt to sort through my decades of psychotherapy, I find myself looking for the threads of consistency within the rapid cycling theories and name changes of the field. Tying my therapy of the 70s to what is currently discussed is no small feat, especially when you factor in the damage to my memory. It is often feels like professional grade "Gaslighting."
"Detachment" is one of those consistent threads. At the first intro, I heard it as a full justification for my over-developed flight instincts. "I'm not running away. I am detaching and I have, at last, found something I am good at."
In the late 80's when I was struggling to hold steady for my young sons while dealing with the epic gush of flashbacks, et al, of the amnesia therapy, one of my Alanon sponsors invited me to ponder the difference "Detachment" and "Abandonment." I didn't have to ponder long before her point was made.
No new developments on the home front. My son's family is still staying with his in-laws in a cramped duplex with I don't know how many other unemployed adult siblings. I am still persona non grata. My husband has been invited to go to a Round Rock Express game with the happy family. He feels like it is his bottomless wallet which has been invited and is less than enthusiastic about the honor. It is always easy to believe the other guy's wallet is fuller than Uncle Sam's deficit. Given the data we have to work with -remember the DIL's closed door policy- I have to agree. At least for now. . .
I will be moving my base camp to a spot on the Ohio River side of the confluence in a few hours. Just waiting on sunrise while I ponder the mysteries of family.
Not at all sure where I am going with all this. Just sorting. . .
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I did the dumbest thing today. I charged my earbuds, unplugged the block and put the block in my little bag instead of the earbuds. I wasn't happy about that when I got to the gym. What a dummy!
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Ever since I stopped doing therapy because of insurance, I've been feeling that old tense and irritable sense of anxiety and stress. I hate that. I was making so many strides and changes during therapy, my therapist would acknowledge all of my progress and accomplishments, and I miss that reassurance. Today I thought about it, and I made those changes! She would always tell me that I chose to...
There is nothing I can do about the collateral damage from MIL/DIL blowout. Door still closed. Information unavailable, except for the lived in storage facility smells leaking out. Detach with love.
I have dreams of my own that have been put on hold for too long and/or been routinely battered by domestic yaddahs. I am here now, in pursuit of one of those dreams, but still feeling far from blessed. My beloved sits alone (not counting the bees and laying hens. He tells me the cantaloupes are thriving. He still doesn't know which herb is which.) in the Austin rendition of another one of those dreams. So far our Urban Agriculture dreams have spent more time drowning in domestic runoff than active development. Kinda like the Hutto bee yard. . . If the pattern holds, returning to the Austin homestead would only invite another rush from the adult offspring. Believe it or not, it is cheaper to have the MATM (Mommy ATM) on the road playing geophysicist than in the homestead handing out nickles and dimes. Well. . . developing river barges into bee barges doesn't look like a Walmart clearance sale budget, either. . .
Still don't know, but the wildlife refuge across the highway from the potential base camp seems like a good place to ponder the quandary. I LOVE wildlife refuges!!!
Sun's up. Time to pack. Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.
Arfity arf and a woofie woof, too.