The first thing I said her was that I am tired of thinking about my story. I am tired of analyzing. I think it is important but understanding doesn't change my reaction. Understanding makes me do better because I know better but it doesn't make my feel better in an old conflict. I told her "I want to access joy." I thought she would say I was in denial and needed to continue a contemplative look at the past and all it implies. Instead she said, "I agree, you should enjoy your life and have joy. You need tools."
And there I was nearly 17 years later sitting on her couch, that same couch where so many tears and revelations, tools and wisdom came, there I was once again in Jo's office, coming home to mama to help me through the struggle with my mother's chronic illness and my reluctant, guilt-filled, anger-fueled care-giving. It occurred to me that I have always wanted joy and have gotten so much better at having it, really having it. But the vine of guilt grows faster and chokes out beautiful blooms, some buds to appear then never open.
I had been thinking about my disabled brother Kerry. I had not even realized the impact living with him had because it was too deep and too dark to see. I was realizing the guilt I had that he wasn't "okay." I started reading about siblings of autistic, mentally ill, and addicted children (having had all three) and came to recognize the words to describe them in myself, responsible, sensitive and guilty. Not all bad to be sure. I remembered mother would shame me from bad behavior pointing out that my pitiful brother was in the shape he was and how could I "act like that?" She did it the wrong way from the right place of reminding me to be empathetic but because she was so hurt and sorrowful it came out as a guilty dart, stabbing my value, deflating it.
It occurred to me I believe fully that I cannot have joy while there is suffering. How could I enjoy my life while my poor mother was suffering so? And I told Jo. It hit me in a childlike revelation that someone will always be suffering. Mother would die and I would feel bad about living without her, laughing and enjoying my life while her little body lies in a dark box, hot, cold, indifferent to storms. Then there would be Kerry. So simple. I would recognize the behavior in anyone else but couldn't see my own truth shrouding and informing my choices and feelings. You know what? I am not responsible for mother's illness. I am not responsible for Kerry's severe dysfunction. I am only responsible to celebrate my blessed life because what good does more suffering do? Why do I have to be punished?
And then more teachers came to me...
