So, I’m doing this EMDR thing. Apparently, on the outside, I look like a ubiquitous Oakville mum, but on the inside, I’m more like a traumatized soldier. I suppose Chanel and shearling is my version of camouflage. Once a week, I meet with a lovely therapist who cut her teeth in shelters and crisis centres and is amazing at what she does. For 90 minutes, I hold these little gizmos in my hands that stimulate bilateral thinking and talk about the thing that happened to me. At the end of the session, I pour out all the hurt back into a vessel (thanks to Bruxy’s recent sermon, mine is the ritual stone washing jar that Jesus used to transform the water into wine) and cap it off for another week. It sounds very woo woo magic but so far, it’s amazingly effective.
On EMDR days, I take it easy. I watch Nashville and let God know that in heaven I’ll be expecting Connie Britton’s hair. I watch Crimson Petal and the White, which seems like an odd thing for me to view given the circumstances but I remembered reading the book a dozen years ago and loving it. It’s kind of mind-bending to revisit the material with such a different perspective: It makes feel wise. It also makes me want to soften. I will not become a Mrs. Castaway, the hardened madame who recalls the game she played with her young daughter to condition her for this corporeal life:
On the coldest winter night, I’d creep into your room while you were sleeping, all cuddled up in your blanket, and I’d pull it off. … And I’d say, ‘That’s what God does.’
She’s wrong, of course. It’s not God who’s the thief in the night. It’s God who puts the blanket back on.
I’m also reading The Goldfinch. I adore Donna Tartt. I was a double major in English and Classics when The Secret History was published in 1992 and I was hooked. This is my favourite book of hers so far – Dickensian in theme and tone, with a deftly modern style. It’s gorgeous and bridges the isolation I sometimes feel even though I’m surrounded by lovely people. As the protagonist points out, most people have “zero idea what it was like for a plank to snap so it was all gone in a minute.” It’s nice to have someone else on the voyage, fictional or otherwise.
Such seriousness! I was unsure whether or not to share these less glossy parts of my life. Of course it was the sharing of the less glossy parts that drew me to blogging in the first place, way back in 2003. Has it been a decade? Goodness.
It’s not all dire, of course. I also manage to go to hockey parties and on Niagara wine tours:
I’ve had the chance to celebrate the birthdays of two of my favourite people in the world. I modelled ski wear at the ladies lunch (to which I wore a skirt from the local Melanie Lynne at the mall with my fox collar and Roger Vivier pumps – the hi/lo mix made me feel deliciously subversive.)
I attended a school fundraiser and came home with lots of goodies including the chocolate and Prosecco door prize. Sometimes God knows how to answer your needs in simple ways.
And I went shopping for Italian footwear:
Yes, those are some sexy Dalbellos n’est pas?
Stay warm, lovelies.