Читать книгу Goodbye, Hurt & Pain - Deborah Sandella - Страница 35

When you name your feelings, it's like pouring water from a pitcher. Feelings are the water, and we are the pitchers. By expressing our deepest emotions verbally, on paper, or through movement, we pour out the feelings, see them as external to us, and regain a sense of internal spaciousness and capacity to welcome new experience. As you are learning in this book, feelings do not have to be shared with the person with whom we are upset. In fact, spilling uncensored feelings in an imagined way is often the most beneficial initial action. Once the intense agitation has been drained off, we can become clear about whether we need to have a real conversation. I've witnessed that most of the time it's unnecessary. Sometimes, the person with whom we are upset is elusive or unavailable. Yet we're not stuck being a victim because they aren't listening. Quite the contrary, the process happens within us, for us.

Ashley, who came in following a double mastectomy, offers a great example of how this process works. She had successfully undergone reconstructive surgery and was returning to her normal life with a supportive husband and grown children, yet she felt extremely anxious. As she closed her eyes and dipped into her body through her imagination, she saw black energy filling both of her arms where the surgery had left numbness. Although this darkness scared her, she bravely moved her attention to it, and the source of her anxiety materialized into an image of a declining self. The image looked small, bent over, weak, pale, and fragile. At the sight, Ashley's anxiety peaked—until she began to speak aloud and freely. By voicing directly to her image, she discerned a discrepancy between the image of a declining self and the truth:

You are not me. I'm not declining. I'm adapting and growing stronger each day. I won't let you scare me because you are just a shadow of a fear—a fear that's ungrounded. Wow! I feel so much better. Now, I see I was letting you haunt me as I went about my daily activities. But you aren't real. You aren't real. Thank God you aren't real.

With eyes still closed, Ashley looks over and senses that the image of the declining self has evaporated along with her anxiety.

A friend who was directly affected by the 2013 Colorado floods was feeling quite upset when tornadoes devastated her neighbors' homes again. Finally, she expressed her angst in a long, booming scream, “No.” Afterwards, she noticed she felt better.

Although I had recommended uncensored writing to my psychotherapy clients, I had never tried it until I found myself in a serious power struggle with my beautiful and spirited daughter Elena when she was seven. Appropriate to her age, she resisted every request, and I felt quite inadequate. Unfortunately, being a psychotherapist did not make me invulnerable to emotional mistakes (as I secretly longed to be).

A poetry class, however, pushed me to discover the healing power of expression through spontaneous writing firsthand. I had the assignment to write about an object. Interestingly, a child's china teacup was my item, and I found myself spontaneously writing to Elena:

A tiny, rounded vessel with a hand-painted blue flower rests on a barn-wood table. The rim where lips have touched and drunk tea narrows into a leprechaun-sized handle made for small digits sticky with marmalade jelly. Fingers that search out every hole and corner hoping to find hidden treasure—old jewelry or forgotten sweets—cherished trinkets as reflected in the gleeful eye of childhood.

If only we could sit together, pouring tea and laughing. Of all that is in my care, you are most precious. Yet I let my vision wander to trivial tasks, domestic chores and half-written books. Meanwhile, my tea party chair remains vacant.

Sometimes I wish I were in someone else's body, escaping these fears. I would play trickster and tickle them from the inside out, making them giggle without knowing why. And when they were busy at work, I would make their feet itch so badly they had to get up and walk away from their obsession.

They'd never have a quiet moment because I would be there to knock at their heart, reminding them of my presence, always ready for a new joke or a reckless game. I would be so close to them that sharing the same skin wouldn't be enough; inhabiting their entire being would be my wish. The chatter and tug-of-war would tell me who I am and that I am.

Ah! Is wanting to get under my skin what your seven-year-old ego seeks? Hitting up against my resistance, you can learn your boundaries, see your ability to spar, to excite, to stir.

Little one, you own my heart, and yet I claim my body. What a mixed message that must seem. You see me as capable, full of confidence, always getting my way, juxtaposed against your childlike lack of knowing.

I, too, have childlike fears and lacks. I, too, am searching out myself amid the experiences of the world. Can you not see me as you pester me from the inside out? Of course you don't, for I don't wish it. The freedom to discover without interference is the gift I hope to offer.

I am you and you are me; how can I wrench myself out of the picture without somehow abandoning you? We come together in total union and complete conflict as you worm your way from inside me out into the light of your own separate life.

We sit together laughing and sipping tea from a small, magic teacup hand-painted with a blue flower.¹⁰

As I wrote, my hidden feelings organically materialized and connected me with Elena's playful and evolving spirit. How freeing it felt to appreciate in me the same childlike desires. My anger and guilt immediately dissolved as I vividly experienced the love-hate relationship inherent in separation. You probably guessed it already—our relationship improved the minute I lightened up.

You may remember times when you were feeling uptight, but didn't really know why until you started expressing. As your mind formulates the words, you hear yourself and gain insight. When you speak, write, or move (e.g., jogging or yoga) relative to an issue, you gain clarity and a feeling of freedom. There is no need to know the answers, to be stoic, or to control yourself—merely translate the inner experience into words as best as you can, letting go of any desire to edit.

On the other hand, the intellectual and constant retelling of a victim story becomes a broken record. Rather than releasing emotions, it deepens the groove of helplessness in the nervous system. It's easy to hear when listening to someone's story. We easily discern the tonal difference between personal release and repeating victimhood.

The good news with the RIM^® process is that emotional release happens organically as long as the person is willing to explore the inner spontaneous experience.