Letter to therapist

I wrote this last night. I am not sure if I am going to give it to my therapist yet, but glad that I wrote it. Not much work to do today, but just to finish up the rest of the field notes for LAUSD. Nice.
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Dear Dan,

It�s the second time that I have written letters to my therapists. The first time, I wrote it a couple of years after termination, wanting to tell Jeanie that I was now doing well, and thanked her for her help.
I never sent it.
I kept it in my computer; it�s comforting to know that it�s there.
Tonight, I was smoking outside, and all of sudden it became very clear to me that it is time for us to terminate our work together. I want to phase out of therapy in the next two months. May is a good month to end our work together, I felt. A sense of relief came with the thought, a sense of relief that comes from knowing that this is a decision that somehow aligns with my present state of being, and sits right in my gut.

Life is always a gamble, isn�t it? I have always fared well when I listened to myself.

I also felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. It�s a sadness that wakes up a web of deep grief and loss that I have experienced so far in my life: holding my mother�s dead body, leaving home when I was so young and na鴳e, driving to California alone four years ago, saying goodbye to my grandmother each time I leave Taiwan.

Being born into this world.

But, I also felt an overwhelming sense of love and appreciation. It�s a love that wakes up a deep sense of strength and rebirth at the core of my being: giving my grandmother a bath and watching her smile, petting Monica�s pregnant belly, merging and being at the Goddess circle, looking into Rob�s eyes, the one year I spent at the counseling center, leaving Taiwan ten years ago.

Being born.

You know, I had a dream the morning after our session last Friday.
It was a very distinct dream where I put a finger into my own vagina. I didn�t think much of it after I woke, chalked it up to hormones, and went along with the rest of the day. That night, I found myself having heart palpitations. I felt cold and I couldn�t breathe. I didn�t think much of it, but just thought it was because of the intense Taiwanese presidential election back at home and I was just too into it all.
Yet, I had heart palpitations every night after that, and I started having them during the day this week. Then, I had another dream of putting a finger into my vagina again. In my dream, I enjoyed the sensation, but this time I felt tremendously doomed after I woke up. It felt awful. I felt like a slimy swamp, oozing gunk.

I couldn�t shake that feeling, and I couldn�t breathe.
I managed to be able to go to sleep that night.
The next day, on the way back from work driving in my car, a realization dawned on me.
The feeling from my dream, yeah, that one. It was the same body sensation I had when I was a little girl when it happened.

And so.
With that realization the heart palpitations decreased.

I don�t know how much of this I can work through with you. I don�t know how much of this I can work through in the next ten years. There is managing the crisis, and there is sinking into the layers of myself and trying to decide what was what and what is now and what next.
There is only so much I can do.

I can feel a sense of peace with that, and I feel angry, too.
It was similar to what I felt after I left our session last Friday. What you said to me at the end of the session triggered some things. The gunk changed a little bit. It moved, and I realized that it was a ball, an ancient ball of hatred and rage.
With that I felt relief. A kind of relief that came from having been stuck for so long and then finally was able to see a glimpse of something different. At least something different. It could change. It could morph. I could go a little closer now.
I thought for a while if to tell you these things. The dreams. What if you can�t handle it? Or if you don�t know what to do? Because I can�t bear your not knowing what to do, just like I can�t bear my not knowing what to do. Your being scared means that I am scary. An inch of your edging away seems like a message of how horrible and gross I am. This part of the work is perhaps not to be done with you. I perceive you to be threatening in this part of the process. How you react could hurt me. I don�t want to be hurt anymore.
I am nearing something. I can sense it.

A part of me doesn�t want to feel so intimate with a therapist. I don�t like it. Who are you? Can I trust you? Are you worthy of my trust?
I liked realizing that.
I am afraid to speak of the trauma of the past. Afraid. Afraid and ashamed.

Can you understand the terror of it? This is my dilemma. I long for you to understand, but what if you can�t? You don�t seem to understand a lot of things. I get nervous. I want you to understand and I guard you against coming towards the gunk. For years I have guarded it against myself. Do you understand the heavy price I have paid? Do you understand what is at stake for me?

What if you fail to understand? Is anyone capable of understanding? I am scared. What if you do understand a few parts of it? This is my dilemma. I feel such rage, and underneath the rage is such intense self-hatred.
I hate. I hate. I hate. I hate myself.
Do you understand the terror of it? Can you understand the terror of that?

What do I do when I hate myself so? I don�t want to think about it. I hate you, too, if you come near my secret.

It is human nature to feel conflicted, but how shall I sit with this self-loathing? This, this, this wanting to destroy my own existence? I don�t want to be here. I hate what happened to me. How awful. How could I have done that? Don�t you see the absurdity in all of this? What would you think of me? What would people think of me? What should I think of myself?
Oh I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate. I hate. I hate.

Was I a bad child, Dan?

Have I been ruined?

It hurts to want to ask. It is a split. I feel angry. What have we been doing if there is still such a split? Can you understand that? Are you with me?

Do you remember what you recited to me from you little worn out book a while back when we were talking about faith? How do I not just know to cry out when we have been wounded at the very depth of our soul where despair and shame are what we breathe in, and silence what we breathe out?

God, have mercy on me.

I pray to the invisible angels. Take me home. Take me home. Take me back to my grandmother�s house where I can smell the food on the table, the warmth of the human sounds in the house, and the redeeming power of love and care. Hold me, grandma. Hold me and take me home. Take me home. Take me home.
For once, please, take me home.
Take me out of this horrible place and take me home.

But the conflict is inherent, isn�t it, Dan? I cannot go back in time nor can I change the past. That is impossible, isn�t it? The home where I started out from was too small and no longer existing. Time went by, we all grew up. Dad grew old. Grandma did, too. We all changed.
It just seems that I am late. Too late to be able to protect myself. Too late to be able to turn back the clock, save my mother, and save myself.

I thought to end this letter with this; it�s from Sarah:

"Heaven bent to take my hand
And lead me through the fire
Be the long awaited answer
To a long and painful fight

Truth be told I've tried my best
But somewhere along the way
I got caught up in all there was to offer
And the cost was so much more than I could bear

We all begin with good intent
Love was raw and young
We believed that we could change ourselves
The past could be undone
But we carry on our backs the burden
Time always reveals
The lonely light of morning
The wound that would not heal
It's the bitter taste of losing everything
That I have held so dear.

Heaven bent to take my hand
Nowhere left to turn
I'm lost to those I thought were friends
To everyone I know
Oh they turned their heads embarrassed
Pretend that they don't see
But it's one missed step
You'll slip before you know it
And there doesn't seem a way to be redeemed."

I am tired now. See you tomorrow.