The Queen of Polish OR “I” Statements and Going Easy on the Stork’s Swan Song


I am suave, smooth.  I communicate elegantly.  In other words, our breakup with the Stork couples therapist (ongoing) started last night with a bit of, well, ahimsa.  And panache.  And f*&(ing “I” statements.

We started the conversation like this:

Me:  (To my partner.)  You’re on.

My partner:  Uh.

Me:  Uh?

My partner: Um.

Me:  (Pause, looking at her.)

My partner:  (Pause, looking at me.)

Me:  I guess I’ll go.

Then I proceeded to communicate my experience, including my doubts, questions, mistrust, self-questioning, without once blaming the Stork for being an insane person.  I periodically turned the topic over to my partner:

Me:  So it’s your turn.

My partner:  Uh.

Me:  Are you stuck?

My partner:  (To the Stork.)  I just want to blame it all on you.

Stork:  I can take it.

Me (thinking silently):  That is one big fat lie.

My partner:  Uh.  Um.  (She looks at me.)

Me:  Still stuck?

My partner:  Uh-huh.

Me:  Allow me.

Then I again talked about my own experience in a very moderate and adult way while steering the conversation to solutions without directly suggesting any.  We ended with the Stork encouraging us to interview other therapists while still seeing him, so we weren’t left in the lurch (read:  homicidal and very anti-ahimsa with each other) in the meantime.  Which was pretty much my goal, and I do usually get what I want when I’m all elegant, polished, kind and focused on ahimsa.  (Is it really ahimsa?  If I’m getting what I want?)

Of course, now that I’m back to doing the John Sarno investigation of my unconscious and apparently limitless homicidality, clearly such elegance also results in BACK PAIN, which is not ahimsa at all, since I end up suffering.

And there you have it.  The bind of all existence.

I have said this before:  The shadow must have its day.

I’ve been having epiphany moments about my new life–you know, the one I’m fantasizing about in between doing 7 million hours of yoga and reading the Yoga Sutras of Patajali as well as texts on Buddhism.  And it all comes down to this–yoga, religion, meditation…isn’t it all about turning us into good little boys and girls?  I mean, really, all that higher self and elegance is just so….boring.

Mind you, lock me in a room with someone possessed by criticism and blame and I’ll get on my ahimsa high horse in a flat second.  It’s more the impossibility of eradicating sin, or the animal part of our natures, our primal emotions, that concerns me.

I think of the Meisner technique at its most advanced best, when the humanity of two actors collides without barriers–and there is love, joy, sexuality, rage, pain, hurt, flirting.  People have said things to me in the repetition exercise that brought me to the point of shaking with fear or angry enough to hit, and then afterward I felt so close to them.  If it had been life, I’d probably have made sure I never saw the person again.  It’s the safe container of the creative world and the exercise itself that allows all parts of the self–dark and light–full expression.   That’s where the creative closeness comes from.  Especially if you’re in the service of story, expression, meaning.

We just don’t seem to be able to allow for that full expression anywhere else.  There’s such danger of really damaging each other.  So it’s all about controlling, containing and civilizing.  The problem is that while those things are important–who wants violence or verbal abuse in their life?–there’s a tendency for them to actually feed the rage and pain that lies underneath bad behavior.  The standards expressed by religion, or therapy–speak only in “I” statements (therapy), be only peaceful, follow these rules, calm the mind…can’t undo our inherent messiness, and when these rules are imposed with rigidity, the shadow grows stronger and in need of expression.

I’m mostly messy with my partner.  Sometimes I say, “I just really need to be bad right now.”  Then I jump on her and tickle her and she makes jokes about how long this particular fit will last and will she survive it.

Sometimes I come home from a day of successfully practicing ahimsa and I say, “Oh my God, I’ve been so mature today I think I’m going to die.”  Then I throw myself down on the yoga mat and writhe for a while.

I frequently announce that I need attention or that I’m about to show off or that I’d like to kill x, y, or z.

I do not say these things as examples anyone should follow.  It’s just that balance, moment to moment messiness, is a goal for me.  I’m either a paragon or a very very bad, rebellious teenager trapped in a much older body.  (My partner would say that I am vastly over-estimating my age.  She’d vote for 5 years old trapped in a much larger body.)

Spirituality, calm and beauty are things I love, but I know, truly, madly, deeply, that the shadow, the unhealed, the unexpressed, must rise up, and it’s better if I find a place of welcome for it than if I try to make it go away or pretend it never existed in the first place.

Think of Right Wing Christians, so invested in their own goodness that hatred and intolerance dominate their lives.

Being human is tricky.

This morning I helped my partner write an email about a conflict she’d had with some people.  Her first draft was stilted–non-blaming, but disorganized and hard to understand.  We had this conversation about how when she doesn’t criticize other people, she gets blocked on what to say.  So I helped her with the email (a little overbearingly…and yes, that is an invented word) and we looked at it.  The paragraph I’d written as an example was very polished.  You’d never know how devastated and triggered she was.  And indeed, polish is a mask for hurt feelings, for feeling less than, a way to hide when you’re afraid other people will use your own vulnerability against you.  We were like, “Wow, we are such opposites!”  (We realize this about every other hour or so.)  I keep people at a distance when I’m all elegant and “I” statements or when I’m too reactive/rebellious for life.  My partner keeps people at a distance by being too messy  or being silent because she’s afraid of being messy.

And so I wonder–what is the true path to awakening?  It cannot only be meditating and being oh-so-perfect.  And then I remember my Western meditation teachers warning that meditating your feelings away is called repression, not awakening.  Meditation is about knowing, investigating and holding all the feelings while recognizing that they are not you.  It’s a way to get bigger than your own experience, and so to have more choices.

In Internal Family Systems (my partner’s obsession) this would be about being able to tell the difference between an internal Manager (like the Queen of Polish) and Self (the true compassionate center that can communicate honestly about all other parts and all feelings).

I can deconstruct anything, so let me say that trying to be in Self all the time then becomes the perfection to avoid.*

But.  But.  The Queen of Polish manages the world of communication with skill and panache.  Self, the true heart, the bigger, meditated Lyralen is actually more vulnerable.  And much more accessible to other people and the world.

And therefore to be avoided at all costs.

Just kidding.

I think.

*To give Dick Schwartz his due, he does say that healthy couples live in a state of play in which different parts of who they are come and go without fear.

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The Sad News Is…Grief.


Okay, so, the back pain started to return.

Now, I’ve been having major resistance to reading Sarno’s book, then writing about rage, and writing about rage and writing about rage.  I mean, it’s not exactly a happiness-inducing activity.  Sarno also suggests that when the pain twinges, you can yell at it and tell it you’re not fooled; you know it’s really emotion being covered up.  But that just made me feel like I was verbally abusing myself.

Frankly, I’ve been a bit grateful to my mind for protecting me from all this information.  I mean, it keeps coming.  Yesterday I realized that while there are solid intellectual reasons for not believing in God, my intense rage at the Catholic Church for its anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-body, original-sin-born-bad, shaming, guilt-inducing dogma probably had a role.

This is not rocket science.  But, since a nun saved my life, it does create internal conflict, and according to Sarno, that creates back pain.

But, but, but.  I don’t want the back pain to return!  And I do know that I always, always, always need to find my own way, even when a theory is fundamentally sound.

So, last night and this morning, I picked up When Children Grieve.  And immediately started to cry.  Both times.

I’ve written a lot about being reactive, but the most embarrassing fact is that therapy or no therapy (and there has been therapy, however unhelpful or mostly unhelpful), I have trouble moving on emotionally from the losses in my life.  Or maybe I just can’t keep up with them.  I’ve said that I’ve entered the unknown, and it was grief that always propelled me into that darkness.  But there are these sorrows, these losses, that, ten and twenty years later, still lance me when I talk about them, still make me cry.

I quoted When Children Grieve before, about the myths of healing from loss.  But this morning I read the chapters on grieving alone, being told not to feel bad, and having to be strong for others.  I read this:  “In all our years of working with grieving people, one of the most common and difficult-to-overcome problems is the child who was cast in or adopted the role of taking care of everyone else.”

I am the oldest of six children.  Case in point.

Oldest children are pains in the ass.  We think we’re right, we try to do everything ourselves, we are perfectionists, we take responsibility for things that we shouldn’t, we enable, we undermine, we try to control.  We want to be one-up, because our real needs have always been the least important, including to ourselves, and feeling more important in our opinions or in having control, will, we think, help compensate for the loneliness.  We have no idea how to grieve–not that many people do–how to stop, how to listen to our vulnerable, troubled hearts.

I wonder if we go to therapy to learn how to grieve.  I’m reading this book, about how children are told “don’t feel bad” or “it will get better” or even “if you have to cry, go to your room.”  I’m reading about hiding when we are sad, because being sad has been seen as embarrassing.  I’m reading that we isolate when we’re upset because we’re terrified of being judged or criticized for our feelings, for how things get to us.

It sort of brings everything together.  We go to therapy because it’s supposed to be a place where people are allowed to be upset.  We want to be rid of our painful feelings so we can be happy again, but we also want someone, anyone, to take us in when we’re not strong, or happy, or responsible.  We want a place in which to be fully human.  Only of course, paying an individual for permission to be human isn’t the same as allowing yourself to be human, all the time, and having people love you for it.

In the Meisner acting technique I teach, actors are taught to respond spontaneously to each other.  They give up the control of their emotions and let the other actor affect them as deeply as possible.  They drop the socially acceptable; they drop the mask of “I’m okay.”  And the connective energy grows so intense–the kind of intensity you can’t look away from on stage or screen.  But for the actor–and I know since I trained in this technique before I started to teach it–it is an education in opening to everything you didn’t know you felt, or exposing what you knew you might feel but would never show.  And most people LOVE it.  The only way to make a mistake is to hide who you are or to pretend you feel something you don’t.  So suddenly, in an acting class, it’s okay to be who you are and to create from that.  I fell in love with Fred Kareman the first time I understood that this was what he was teaching me.

How we need a place of freedom.  Meisner actors say terrible things to each other, things that in life would be a reason to end a relationship, but since the words don’t matter, since only the co-creative sharing of energy, of relating physically, emotionally, spiritually is the focus, since everyone agrees ahead of time not to take things personally, it becomes…the most connected experience some of us ever have.  We stop pretending that we don’t get angry, that we don’t hurt, that we aren’t attracted to each other (even though we’re married to other people)…and we can be this honest because we agree not to act out our feelings, only to use them in the creation of art, and as a secondary consequence of commitment to story.

I have never been taught how to grieve.  I stumbled into it and found my way out, but since I can’t quite articulate what happened both the times I went to that place, I struggle to say why I let go.  Was it because I was loved?  Was it because I faced everything about the relationship?  Was it because I found people who could listen?  Was it because I didn’t stop the emotions as they came?  Because I stopped pretending?

My partner read one of last week’s blogs and said to me, “It’s so sad.  That you must have wanted therapy to work so badly, and it just didn’t.”

So, yes, when I was in my early twenties, confused about why I felt the way I felt about…my family, certainly, but also pretty much everything except travel and writing, I had a deep hope that there was an easy way to get clear.  And I still grieve for who I was, and how hard the road became as the therapists…well, you know.  Fell asleep, fired me for being too healthy, or told me I was so attractive.

I still grieve for moves my family made when I was in grade school, one school to the other, leaving behind the school where I’d been able to overcome being bullied to one where I might face those same issues again.

I grieve for Rick, who wanted one more summer, who wanted to be loved by a man who would see his gentleness and longing, his appreciation of beauty, and who died, as so many men in the 80’s and 90’s did, worn down to bones covered by skin and not much else.

I grieve for the funerals I was not allowed to attend, for the explanations I wasn’t given when my grandfather had a heart attack at our house, for the cousin I loved who disappeared.  And all the others.  I grieve.  I am not, at this moment, trying to be strong for anyone.

And so there is hope.

Because I know, absolutely, that each person I meet has his or her own list. That underneath whatever is being shown, is hurt, pain, hope, courage, truth.

I hope because as I write this the twinges of back pain start to disappear.

It’s not just rage that morphs into physical pain.  It is the emotional reality of my life.  And while just naming it, writing about it, helps but leaves me too raw, there are steps to grieving.  Learnable, requiring nothing but courage and honesty to attempt, these steps create the possibility of not just a pain free back, but of emotional resolution where it is most needed.

I must review what is unfinished.  I must look.  That is my first step.

I believe in healing.  I believe I must find my own way.  I believe I must not do it alone.

I believe this goes for all of us.

So.  Metta for all sentient beings, that we may be free from suffering, that we may find peace with what is, including all the losses we have known.

PS–Of course I’ll include quotes on the other steps to grief resolution once I review them all and decide I agree!  Once I try them and see if they all work as well as I think.  I’m just at the beginning!