SmArt Therapy

Last night I went to a support group meeting. It's not really much of a group. There was a facilitator, myself and one other woman. The support group has just started again and this one woman is new to the group. Another woman is in southern California taking care of a relative so she'll be back for the next meeting.

I complained like hell when I first made the decision to go to a support group. Support for post-chemo, and I was well past (I thought) post-treatment. I wanted support right after treatment though there was no space in any of the existing groups. In the meantime, I read books and clamored for some sense of stability post cancer treatment. I've since learned that stability is an illusion (as some support groups should be). Stability is fleeting.

I had to wait some nine months for space in a legit post-treatment support group. Then I bitched (to myself) about the meeting because by that time I didn't feel I needed them. Then I thought I could been in some sort of denial (at which point I should have completely ceased all thought). When the group facilitator phoned, I told her that I'd willingly attend two meetings. But after two meetings (and sometimes what felt like 1.5 hours of torture), I kept going but gah... knows why. Again in fairness (why I feel the need to be fair is another therapy session), I like this facilitator. She's a sweetie. I must have been getting something out of it or maybe I need to be away from something else so enduring this 1.5 hours of torture was better than what I was doing elsewhere. I dunno.

Last night's session was the facilitator, another woman and myself talking about whatever for an 1.5 hours which ended up being closer to two hours because the other woman decided she would share some of her insight with me, and dammit -- when people share their insight I want to bap them in the teeth (I learned this last week at buddhist camp). (Kidding!)

She was telling me that I had to let my feelings out. I should cry. I should gnash my teeth and be angry and scream. She was telling me that my experience was "AFGO" (only she called it an AFGE). I wanted to bap her in the teeth so she would experience an AFGE. She was telling me what it's like to have someone die. She was telling me that my experience was similar to a death. She was telling me I had to grieve. And I was really getting angry at her. I was looking at her with (what felt like) my eyes on fire - the same look I'd give my mom as a teenager. I had to take deep breaths and remain conscious. I was wondering why I was having this reaction to this woman...and dammit if it wasn't because I felt like I was looking in a g-damned mirror which is not fair (in all fairness) because I don't want to see myself in this crazy woman's blithering diatribe.

I cried. Mostly I cried out of frustration because I felt like and feel like I have been doing the right things, grieving, moving toward freedom and less suffering. I'm not dwelling. I'm moving on. It's fine to be sad and be in despair (I know what those two feelings are) to a point though I believe that it's okay to get past those things eventually. I still grieve. I know what it's like to have someone die. I am not without grief, sadness and suffering though I don't wallow in it for long periods of time. I allow myself to feel. Because I sure as shit felt defensive when these women claimed that I was not allowing myself to feel my feelings.

The whole scene reminded me of chemotherapy. When I was enduring the chemo, each day was horrid and then coming out of chemo, each day was 100% better than the day before. I remember writing about that, and feeling the newness and promise of following days. It's not that I was without suffering. I did not want to sit in a stew of suffering forever. I spent a lot of time in pity for myself. Anyone who reads these posts knows that I suffer, knows that I write about, and feel my feelings. This woman even suggested I write as a release. I did not give her the url to my blog. I felt exhausted when I left.

On the way home, I stopped at my favorite 'natural foods' restaurant for soup. The time was getting late. They restaurant was making attempts to close though many people were still heading inside.

The young woman behind the cash register asked me for my order. I told her what I wanted. She said, "Can I ask you a question? It's kind of a strange question." I said, "Yes." She went on, "I don't want to offend you." I said, "No problem." (I had just been mortally wounded in a support group - how could she offend me? -- As long as she doesn't question whether I allow myself to feel my feelings or not I probably won't feel offended.)

The young woman smiled and said, "Are you an artist?" And I said, "No. Why? Do I look like an artist that you know?" She said, "No. I really love the way you look, and dress. It's very artist- like. You look like someone who would be an artist. I wanted to know if you were someone I should know?" I thought for a moment about what I was wearing, how I looked, and smiled back at her. Immediately I thought I should have told her, "Yes, I am an artist." Instead I told her, "I am learning to be more creative. I suppose that could mean I am somewhat an artist?" She agreed, and apologized while finishing my order. Then I tipped her so she would know for sure that I am not an artist.

In all fairness, I could have easily claimed to be an artist because of the art I create by giving myself permission to write about my feelings and other things regardless of what others think I'm doing with my feelings. In all fairness, one person's therapy is another person's art.