Detox

(My internal family system)

7/29/18

The girl under the piano is me. At least she is one of my internal family members. She is smiling, incongruously curled up in a fetal position. Doesn’t she know that staying near the foot pedals invites being kicked? She is 12 years old, prepubescent, a late bloomer. She is bright, slender, pretty, has long dark hair. Her intelligence is partially masked. She is totally un-self-aware of her smile being an invitation to abuse.

From a safe distance I offer the gesture of my hand. She has grown in awareness. She mindfully gets out from under the walnut, parlor grand piano. It is a sunny day. Sunlight fills the large living room. She goes to sit in the purple velvet chair with the gold Moroccan sash and pillows.

Until now we had not noticed the gorilla sitting in front of her to the left on the edge of the three-piece couch. He is silent.  For some reason he does not seem threatening. He is observant. What is more surprising- and threatening- is the knight in shining armor who was also not previously noticed. He stands with chain links and a spiked ball. He is very stiff. A hint of life seems to exist within his defenses. There is for an instant, the barest hint of movement of his dark eyes.

Two policemen in black shirt sleeve shirts stand silently near the Knight, first on one side, then flanking him, then on the other side. Their positions keep shifting. They are highly decorated. Their colorful honors stand out against the blackness of their shirts. They are Caucasian, mid-thirties. They hold Billy clubs. These men turn to silver but are not motionless. Next to them is a firefighter in full gear. His face is covered by his mask, though I can still see his eyes, checks and dark wavy hair. He is Superman in disguise.

The Manager talks with Mike on his cell. He has worked as a conductor, has an MBA and makes a decent living day trading. He organized this party/event. He is extremely serious but smiles appropriately and warmly at his guests. He is a composer of symphonies, operas and musicals. Developing, coordinating thoroughly implementing and tracking plans with countless details is more than second nature.  It is his nature. Interestingly his control is not rigid. It adapts to the needs of the moment. He is the master of his own fate. The Manager is the Buddha child, matured.

Jack Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson are discussing the effects of civil rights legislation. They purposefully seek an array of possible better future courses. They hold martinis but do not drink.

Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and W. say there has to be a better way. They drink beer. Obama hasn’t tasted it yet. His is Stella. Clinton drinks from a large glass mug, more than 16 ounces. W can’t make up his mind what he wants. He is nervous, feeling he is out of his element. He would rather be alone painting.

An ancient Mahatma Gandhi arrives. He is gently supported at the elbow by Abe Lincoln.

Moses, Jesus and Mohamed slowly pass back and forth the original tablets of the Ten Commandments. Their feet are in a ritual bath within a rectangular prism of clear blue water. The gentlest of waves bath them. There are no sides containing the water; it knows instinctively it’s proper boundaries.

My infant self, the Buddha Child sits in the middle of the room. He is curious, simply happy- not overly so, not giddy or childish, just comfortable in who he is without need for others to tell him he is ok. He knows this on an elemental level. He has not yet threatened his father. He is drawing on a textured sheet of off-white, almost cream-colored paper.  When he has drawn enough, he hands it to my seven-year-old self who makes it into an airplane which he flies out of the building through the safely and very slightly ajar window. 

Selma, my first therapist turns up.  As she morphs into my father she says, “awfully inflated, aren’t you?” It is not a question.

*******

I sit here in a small outdoor cafe. All the other customers are inside hiding from the heat. I am in the shade, while drinking a “detox” juice of vegetables and ginger. I think of The Alchemist.

There was an excitement writing this piece. I had retired a few weeks earlier. I felt I was starting a new life. As I collect and edit my work, now two years out, I see abundant creativity returning, yet I still suffer from violint (sic sick- ha) intrusive thoughts. Maybe it takes more than two years to recover, to detox.