Therapist On Vacation Until January 2021
If It’s An Emergency Call 911
Pamela Alma Weymouth, MFA, MSW
I’ll spare my sons the airing of our dirty Pandemic laundry — but suffice it to say that the cage of my house was rattling this week and I was sure that I just could not survive one more hour trapped in our messy shelter-in-place containment unit with my teenage twin packages-of-delight. I am sure that my sons and our neighbors feel the same way. I’m thinking of installing a padded scream room.
Ten months into the Pandemic, my teenage boys haven’t been in a real school classroom or had many real flesh and blood connections with friends other than a few outdoor masked hikes or trips to the skatepark (me hollering “pull up your mask!”). The restaurants that just were starting to open have now been shut down again and my communication with certain unmentionables has reached an all-time low. I feel like a character in Sarte’s play No Exit.
On an average week (pre-pandemic) my household has never allowed me a dull moment. There is always someone climbing a roof, breaking a new bone, spray painting a tree, skateboarding through stop signs or engaging in some kind of adrenaline surging activity sure to send me into cardiac arrest. Normally the comforting knowledge that my therapist, my yoga teacher and my son’s pediatrician are there is one of those things that keeps me grounded.
Having all of my healers go on break for the most depressing three weeks of the year just seems downright inhumane.
While I’m a great believer in self-care I just wish that my pit crew could engage in self-care in a different month — perhaps in July when the sun is shining or when Covid is over?
This week when things went off the rails I felt sure that I too was about to go off the rails. Despite my morning virtual yoga, my morning journal writing and the best of intentions — I did raise my voice and a curse word accidentally slipped from my mouth. In my self-defense I was nearly as calm as Mother Teresa in the minutes prior to the curse word flying out — but one never gets points for the times one is a good mother — it’s only the Bad Mother moments that get tattled on to my ex and repeated on endless loop for the rest of eternity.
Finally I grabbed the dog leashes and announced, “I’m taking a walk.” If I’ve learned one thing from Covid-19, it’s that if I don’t get outside or break a sweat at least once a day then I turn into Medusa. As I made my way around the neighborhood loop I desperately tried to phone three people. First I tried my therapist’s voicemail (on holiday!), then one very wise friend, and finally a 3rd unavailable wise friend.
I felt sure that if someone did not pick up the phone that my entire world would float away like a hot air balloon.
I had only about thirty minutes to figure out how to handle my teen’s behavior — because that’s how long it would take me to get around the loop — and that’s how long I could leave my sons alone before it would be time to cook dinner and avoid having everyone in the family go into the low-blood-sugar-pit-of-doom. Yet, with each step a tiny bit of my fury melted.
There was the smell of the pine trees. The crunch of Eucalyptus leaves underfoot. The grey blue light of sky. The sound of the creek beginning to flow with the first rains. The dogs’ delight as they sniffed every new scent.
Somewhere around the midpoint the following thought occurred to me, “You’ve got to solve this by yourself.” The radio silence from my pit crew was an unlikely gift. It reminded me of what my favorite therapist used to say to me in her thick Argentinian accent. “It’s not me you need to thank. It’s you.”
It then occurred to me how often I give away my own power.
Maybe it was too may fairy tales imbibed as a child. The savior. The horse. The man. Yes, I’m a feminist — and pathetically I STILL have this rescue fantasy, although in my fantasy the guy is “woke,” handy, and intellectual. More often these days though it’s powerful women who rescue me — and I am deeply grateful. In the absence of family I’ve created a pretty kick ass team — but what I forget is that I still have the voices of these teachers and a bit of my own wisdom inside of me. Just like Dorothy, I forget how to get home sometimes.
By the time I got home I had, boot-step by boot-step, wrapped my mind around what I was going to tell my sons. I would make sure they knew who was boss, what was and what was not going to go down — and then to sweeten the deal we would watch an episode of The Simpsons and eat chocolate frozen Acai bites. It worked. I got a heartfelt apology, two huge hugs, and the only remaining argument was over who was going to get the Chihuahua’s butt on their lap and who would get her head.
In what ways do you give away your own power? How can you reclaim it?
Join me for our Journaling & Resilience workshop every Thursday (except holidays) at 11:00 PST open to all parents/caregivers of children with rare conditions. Our next class in January 7th, 2021. Sign up at: https://us02web.zoom.us/meeting/register/tZMsdeyuqj0rGtz0MowiGsLN77bd0Ij4v3gW
