The Sixtieth Year - Day 135 - Music

I know that it's all in my head.

“I know that it’s all in my head.” I told the therapist in passing - as I was having a separate conversation with her.

“Say what?” her question cut into the middle of her thoughts regarding said other conversation. She really needed to hear the answer to this one.

I heard the joke as soon as it came out of my mouth. Yup, heard the joke, too - and the reason for concern - in this room and context anyway.

I smiled at her.

We have found a balance in this dance. The woman I described as ‘a lioness circling me, trying to figure me out’ - has figured me out, as much as anyone can. And she has decided that I am ‘normal in context’ [my words]. I’m not the problem. The context is!

Yes, I understand that I choose the context!

I will do so as soon as I understand a bit more about it. But right now, I’m needed here!

“Say what? What’s in your head?”

“Oh, my feelings about a place. The houses are not smiling at me in Germany and the sky is not brighter. Sure, there are many differences in the people the society and my place in it, but when the sidewalk is looking more dark gray in one place than the other, that’s in my head. That’s not reality. The sun is not brighter in Germany, I’m sure of it.”

I know it’s all in my head.

I know I will be received by my coworkers and neighbors they way I meet and receive them. My coworkers don’t know that I am *justly* angry. My friends are cutting me some slack, because they are my friends, but their time and patience is also limited. Yes, I’m lovable little thing, but nowhere is it written that I have to be their lovable little thing.

The bastard I married did good - he tried blocking all the exits. He held all the cards. He didn’t “know it” know this. But he instinctively knew what the exits where. Other women had found them before me, so he picked his victims differently each time he found another one. We talked about it when we were still married - he'd joke that he f’d up when he picked me. He thought he had made it by picking a PK, a good girl from a good home who was not prepared for what he had to dish out - in a different country and a different language. But this b*tch was tough!

“I should have picked a PK from East Germany!” he would say. But he’s wrong. I think a PK from East Germany would have been better prepared. She would have learned to read between the lines before 60 because she would have know to do so from her upbringing.

I am a little slow on the uptake but “normal” in context.

She asks me “where do we go from here” every time after a session now. When we first met, she made weekly appointments for me, and I needed that. We could stop any day now, but I think I will appreciate her expertise as I try to heal my relationship with my child (and support her relationship with herself). The rest will come.

We did talk about the child and the issues in my house that I need to address a bit.

Life’s a bitch - and then you die.

I rubbed a coworker the wrong way today. I’ll follow up with her on that tomorrow - and I’ll follow up with the person she protected, too. Maybe I was wrong. I joked about “having an expiration date” with a man who is about my age, maybe a bit older. She is quite a bit younger than we are. He didn’t seem concerned about the joke, but she responded harshly when - later in the same circle- I said something about staying healthy. She interrupted me, glared at me and interjected something along the lines of “Why, after all, you have an expiration date.” - I looked at her puzzled and she added “How does it feel? You joked about that earlier.”

It feels just fine, the only thing that didn’t feel fine was the tone in which she said it - and the look she gave me. I’m OK with being mortal. I am aware that I could die at any moment in time. I don’t want to die. I want to wake up tomorrow, but tomorrow is not promised - to nobody. The father of my oldest grandchild died yesterday. His death is throwing the whole extended family into turmoil, because nobody has the time or the funds for this “complication”. His current partner is refusing to identify him. So the oldest kid, who has not seen him in 20 years - and her mother - are the only people who are making the effort. Nobody else, not his mother, not his brother, whom he kept bailing out of jail - nobody. Of course, they’re calling me for gas money.

It is possible that something like that will happen to me. I may die somewhere at some point - and nobody knows who and what I am - so that my body may just be lost in the sands of time somewhere. I have no problem with that. It’s not about my body. My body is the shell - it’s not about the stuff, that’s just stuff. It’s about the legacy. What legacy will I leave?

When they figure out that I am dead, people will not pass the hot potato of “who will clean up the mess she left behind”? When I leave, someone will hopefully sort out the little (!) I left behind, but there will be things left behind that make the digging and caring worth while - and there will be evidence in the stuff I left behind that shows that I had some consideration for other people in my life - that I didn’t just say “after me the great flood!” (Nach mir die Sintflut!) I’m OK with being mortal. But - given the experiences of other people in that same room - maybe I do need to shut my mouth about it anyway.

I’m listening to music - and I am all over the place.

My current playlist is quite an interesting combo that starts with - hang on, can I link these?

How’s that for a nutty playlist combo?

The other day, the exchange student pointed out how unhealthy I live these days. “You don’t eat meals!” she said. “And you don’t seem to have a work or sleep schedule.”

I confirmed that she was correct - and that I was working on it. “Watch me start going to work again.” I said.

And she’s been watching me go to work by and large every day since then.

I’ll figure it out!

I am corrigible! Actually I enjoy being corrigible.

“How are you”, asked the therapist when I walked in the door.

“Just fine - life’s a rollercoaster, but I enjoy that kind of thing.”

“That’s what you said the last time.” she said.

I know - life was a rollercoaster back then, too.

I don’t create the downs, unlike my Ex who used to fabricate them. I have news for you, nobody needs to fabricate bad stuff for you. It does not make you stronger. Bad stuff comes all by itself.

But when the downs come, I feel them - I note them - unlike many years ago, when I made that last phone call to my aunt, and she wanted to say something to me - I told her that she was not going to die and I did not want to talk about it. She died a few days after that. I will forever regret not having listened to what she had to say. Instead I handed the phone to my mother.

I don’t judge others for their failures. I remember my own.

Now I lean into the feelings now. I appreciate feeling safe enough to feel them, safe enough to lean into them.

I remember the first time I truly leaned into the pain - it was August 31, 1997 - Anyone know what happened that day?

Princess Diana died - and it hit me deep, not because of her, but because I suddenly realized what I was doing - in August of 1997, I was about as miserable as I could be in my life. I had reached the “pinnacle” of success that I was going to reach with/despite the predator, and I was waiting for him to die.

When Princess Diana died on 8/31/97 I suddenly realized that there were no guarantees. Life didn’t go “in order”. I could die before him. I could die without ever being free.

Princess Diana was never free, just like I would never be free. But she was as free as she could be - in context - and that was good enough.

As there was no freedom in my context at that time, I changed my context.

When she died, I cried and cried and cried - I watched TV all night and cried. My Ex found me still in front of the TV surrounded by an ocean of Kleenexes. “What is wrong with you? You didn’t even know that woman.” he barked.

And I realized that he didn’t get it at all. I was not crying for her - I was crying for me.

In September/October of 1997 I gathered the professional support I needed - and I fled my tormentor in December. I fled with the children. I would not leave them behind.

When I walked into that therapist’s office in 1997, I told her “In my marriage, one of us is crazy. My hubby claims it’s me, but I am pretty sure that’s not true and I need some help figuring that out.”

My current therapists reminded me that I could trust my judgement as I was leaving - to paraphrase, “I was right more than I was wrong” and I’m going with that one for now.

It’s 7PM - and I feel like (work) working. Oops. Should have gone running today. I forgot that it was Tuesday for a moment! I shall work with calendars again.

I’ve got this!

And I have a job to do before I die - at least one! - maybe I have enough time to do right by the kids before I die.