The timing of the catalog’s arrival was fascinating, in terms of several of my healing processes. The Springs is fraught with seas of painful memories. The two particular venues of Terror having been 2515 N. Union and the Fine Arts Center.
The past few weeks I have experienced a powerful opening up, a letting go in the realm of piano playing. My level of internal terror is greatly reduced. Sitting at the keyboard is finally (jeez – after decades!) feeling like a process of Creativity, of Voice, rather than an Inquisition where to open myself up to Criticism, Scorn and Abandonment.
Looking at the FAC catalogue Saturday, I remembered not the Fear and Humiliation I experienced in recitals, but, instead, the times of empowerment and joy that did occur. The optimism. The stuff I’ve loved about playing. A connection with clean and clear energies that I’ve not felt for so many years with the piano, neither regarding the past, nor regarding the present.
Hm. It now occurs to me that the main topic of the catalogue is a Peter Max exhibit at the museum. I never particularly connected with his art. However, he was at his height of popularity during my Springs years. He was a visual emblem of those days. The heady optimism, the boldness, the sensuality, the joy of his art was such a stark contrast to life on Union Blvd. and to the world of piano playing with Grāvele. I was aware of this split at the time, and struggled mightily to bridge these worlds with who I was. I didn’t realize that the worlds of Union Blvd. and Grāvele had absolutely no interest whatsoever in such a bridging. The „good old ways“ of Latvia were never to be questioned. Never. Questions were quashed. Both realms were spaces of hollow, dark Silence.
The world of piano – a space of Silence! No wonder I teetered al borde de un crisis de nervios in 12th grade!
God, what a bleak time that was! Life in Bleak House. Black House. The very air of it like an infinity of tiny, cutting razors. Not glitter, not snow, but an interminable sifting of cutting edges to eat Away at my eyes and ears, my tongue and throat, my skin and blood. Not death by a thousand cuts – no! Not Death, just endless suffering. Not a thousand cuts – no! A thousand squared!
Bin Laden has nothing on the adults who populated my home life, as far as terrorism goes. Zaiga was taken over by Rage. Rage and Violence. Auschwitz and the Gulag lived in her. Frau Goebbels‘ evil twin: no sacrifice of others in the name her ideals was too small.
And Vitauts was a hero in the face of it all. Truly, a hero. Thank you, sweet, strong boy, for your battles! I’m learning to wear your scars with deep Pride.
Clients have been seen. Various chores done. My poor neck has developed serious pain in the muscles on both sides, right up to the base of my skull. I woke up with both sets of muscles tight. (It would seem that last night’s interactions with Homeowner of Unit #1111, the residue of his cussing and threatening me, was a tightening in me during my sleep.) I massaged my neck before my shower and it felt better. But by the time I finished with my second client this aftenoon the muscles were greatly constricted again.
I suspect it’s due to various iterations of Zaiga energy in the last 24 hours. Starting with Mr. #1111 last night at the front door to the loft. He reminded me very much of Zaiga in her grinding Rage mode. His / her mouth spewing, and at the same time, I am seeing the Terrified Kid in their eyes, who I want to rescue. But the „adult“ mouth is spitting razor blades and broken glass, fully internding to injure me. Deaf and irrational. And my Kyd so intent on connecting and being heard. Mr. 1111 seemed just as ridiculous and petty as Zaiga did in her multitudinous rages. My tendency is to forget and overlook just how hurtful to me such behavior is, particularly when directed at me.
I set boundaries last night, but did try to converse reasonably. He had not the slightest desire to hear me. All of my words became grist in his rage mill. He was so convinced that he knows how I think, why I do what I do. Whereas, in truth, he knows absolutely nothing about me. Just like Zaiga. The Rage is intended to keep me in check. Quiet.
Mr 1111: „I tried being nice, but it’s clear that doesn’t work, so I have no choice but to get nasty with you!“ Spoken like a true abuser. „You make me behave this way!“
During the night I kept tussling with how to create situations where he might listen to me and come to understand me. „Maybe if I …“ „If only I …“ „What if …“ Dancing around another’s abusive patterns.
I must understand and know that people addicted to abuse, like ALL addicts, have no interest in understanding another, ANY other. None. Zip. Zero. Zilch. I can (and havedone so!) talk until I’m blue in the face, and such folks will understand no more about who I am than when we started.
It is so frigging hard for me to let go. To protect myself and accept that the others will do as they do.
My first client today, J, lives a life married to a Zaiga. He is browbeaten by her. As badly as was Armīns by Zaiga after I went away to college. J spent the first half hour of the session frantically trying to find a bill he was to mail off. He had three phone conversation with wife, until she finally found the bill. Her voice is loud, I could hear her half of the talking. During each conversation, she infantilized and berated J. Meanly. Each time, he crimped.
Working with him and his relationship to his wife, I’ve been aware that I’m facing Zaiga energies. Unrelenting and Nasty. Stopping at nothing. The slime and glue that keeps J helpless and trapped is the belief that he must understand Why she acts as she does. (She, of course, is never concerned to understand his side of anything.) As we tdiscussed today, „Why?“ is not a useful question for him to engage. The only question he needs to work on is „How?“ to stop being abused.
„The way she talks to you is just as bad as if she were hitting you,“ I said today. „It’s abusive!“ „Really? Abusive?“ „Yes. The purpose is to treat you disrespectully.“ „She says that she does that because I bring her to it.“ „Spoken like a true Abuser: ‚I only hit you because you make me do it!‘“ „Yes, that is how men who hit their wives talk…“
And that is exactly how Mr 1111 talked to me last night. „Mīļā miera dēļ,“ the phrase my cowardly father always used to justify not standing up to bullies, Zaiga in particular. No sacrifice of self-respect too small to make, so as not to face a Bully.
I fall into such patterns myself. All to easily. If I just put up enough, the thought is, the wacky situation will correct itself. Ha! If the Abuser has no intention of changing, and I continue staying and adapting, it will always remain an Abusive Situation. I can’t make it Right. All I can do is stop participating in the patterns.