Sunday, April 20, 2014

Superglue

   I feel like a gumby doll. Do you remember those?  That little green bendy guy from the 1980’s? I feel twisted around, my limbs bent in awkward unnatural directions. I am bending in every direction trying to find something that works, some intervention, some idea that will help.  Nothing seems to work. Once we have made it through the storm, we wait with baited breath for the next which is right around the corner. It is like being knocked over by a wave and every time you try to come up for air, another wave knocks you over.
   A friend told me once that trauma happens in relationships and the only way to heal is in relationships. What does this mean when you love someone with attachment issues? That means loving someone while they try their hardest to push you away, while they become the monster they think they are, to prove to you they are awful and not worthy of your love.
    It is ugly work to be the superglue to help the broken child put their pieces back together again, especially as you, the adult, are seen as a threat to a child with attachment issues. Adults are the ones who abused, hurt, and traumatized the child. How can they trust that you want to help them and love them with no strings attached and unconditionally?

They can’t trust you. They need to survive and the only way they have survived this far is to take care of themselves.  You have to prove yourself. You cannot allow the child to push you away when they try. The harder they push you away, the stronger you hold on and love them. You have to dig deep for patience and keep your frustrations in check. You cannot take things personally.  You need to be able to look at the child with love while they spew words of hatred in your face and pummel you with punches and once they are calm, hug them and remind them they are worthy of love and you will never stop loving them. 
   And it is fucking hard. It is the hardest things I have ever done. 

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

Black sketch journal

Almost a year ago, I discovered a beautiful black hard covered sketch journal at SCRAP, which is essentially a goodwill of art supplies.  It seemed to emit a soft white glow, whispering my name, telling me of the endless possibilities this sketch journal possessed.  I picked it up and lovingly put it in our basket among the pile of junky art odds and ends needed for the kid’s duct tape art projects. I smiled down at it, excited.
Since it came home with us, I have shuffled it from one shelf to another. Every few months, I pick it up, open its pages, overwhelmed by its blankness. This journal deserves beauty and color. It deserves talent. I am not worthy of what it has to offer. My handwriting is sloppy. My spelling is wrong. My sketches are lacking. I am afraid to disappoint the journal.

So it sits on my shelf. Waiting.