Therapy was okay. I look forward to it, to be honest. As someone with a painful boil looks forward to going to the doctor to get it lanced...so some of the pain and pressure goes away.
It was weird. I left the appointment and...hmmm, I feel an odd type of warm. It isn't physical warmth, per se (omg, when was the last time I ever said per se?) but a different warm. This is more dramatic than I wish but, it was like I was born, raised and had lived in a cave and I suddenly took one step out in to the sunshine. So much to process.
Basically, I worked on three separate very early memories of when I was under four years of age. Maybe that's the rub, why I'm having trouble identifying and articulating. Ones vocabulary isn't fully developed so young.
The first remembrance was regarding having someone who loved me and being hungry. Didn't really resolve this or either of the other two memories but I brought them out into the light, cerebral and verbal awareness. See, I was loved veryvery deeply and unconditionally by someone when I was 2-4 years old. It surely wasn't my mother. It was almost as if she and I had a solemn, unspoken agreement. She would tolerate me and I would tolerate her. We both knew that there was nothing resembling love between us, as if we had written out a document stating such and each had signed it in blood. It wasn't a secret between her and I. That is just what our "relationship" was, nothing more, nothing less.
My father, kinda sorta loved me. The top layer of him loved me but the second layer underneath was unstable and crazy. He didn't truly or unconditionally love me.
The one person that loved me...the one human who I looked to every morning and throughout the day...the only being that made the pain of my existence tolerable and made me want to not die, was my older brother.
I'll call him Thomas for anonymitys sake. Thomas was 14 months older than me and he adored me. He constantly gave me hugs and kisses. We could look into each other's eyes and know what the other was thinking and wanted. I was a late talker who didn't have much to say, but Thomas understood me. We understood each other.
I would look for him constantly, if he wasn't around I felt lost, alone and would cry. I had heard the story and seen the black and white photo of our cribs being pushed together because I would pitch a fit if he wasn't near me.
When we were together, just he and I next to each other, it's as if a giant bubble formed around us and the rest of the world went away. Together we were pure love, one heart and mind. Two siblings were never closer. We were joined at the hip and happy being together, truly truly happy.
He was the one who would bring me food from the kitchen, sometimes sneaking it if he had to. I remember listening to Thomas and mom in the kitchen on the other side of my bedroom wall. If I laid very still I could hear Thomas's voice. I'd figured out that if his voice went up at the end, that he was asking a question and that he might be asking mom if he could bring me something to eat. He brought me saltines, animal crackers, bread and one time in particular, that is a vivid visual memory, was a spoon with peanut butter on it. I remember how veryvery happy I was because I rarely had such a treat. Thomas held the pb spoon up like he had won a prize. Tears to my eyes. I was so touched that he would do that for me. He went out of his way and did everything he could to try and please me, to make me happy. Someone in the world loved me, cared about me and was always there for me. Thomas and only Thomas. And I loved him more than life itself. He was my world.
So much strife and pain happened in those first few years. Lots to think and write about. More later