When my husband John and I decided to live in our RV, we knew we'd be giving up a lot, making changes of heroic proportions.
I was talking with my therapist, Jon Benigas, normally a pretty unflappable guy, while we were trying to extricate ourselves from the construct of home-as-we-knew it. What to keep with us in the motor home? What to put in a storage unit? What to throw in a heap on the front porch for the Craigslist vultures who were circling my neighborhood waiting for my next posting of free stuff? And what about the eight linear feet of winter coats, jackets, vests that we absolutely had to have to get through a Midwest winter? And don't even get me started on gloves, mufflers, mittens, hats, and scarves. Or Christmas china.
I swear, my therapist was about to have a nervous breakdown right along with me, just thinking about his own coat closet. But by the end of the session, he would reel us both back in. I remember him saying, "Bonnie, I don't think you're fully appreciating the enormity of what you are doing. What you are doing is huge."
And another time, "Most people only dream of making a change of this magnitude. You're actually doing it. Remember that."
"Right," I'd say. "It is huge." And thus, propped up by his empathy and that mysterious-whatever-it-is that makes good therapy good, I'd trundle off for a few more days of frantic sorting, choosing, packing, and giving away the one million or so items that had taken over our lives.
One of the things I gave away was a really nice set of three cordless phones. I loved those phones--one in the basement, one on the main floor, one upstairs--but I wouldn't be needing them anymore. No land line...no land line phones...and no land line bills. In the motor home, it'd be cellphones only.
Of all the stuff I shed in those months last year, I believe I miss my phone the most. My real phone--the one where I could hear the breath and words of my caller and not the gale force winds that surround her or the roar of a passing diesel truck.
Of course, I love my cellphone. How did I ever live without it? But it lacks something, something I can't quite put my finger on, something that has to do with timing mostly. Maybe it's the the ability to interject without interrupting that you have on a land line. That you can say something funny and hear your caller chuckling at the same time on a land line. But try to be funny on the cellphone and the conversations usually devolves into "What?" "What??" "Go ahead." "No, you go ahead." "Oh never mind; what were you saying?" Like that.
When we moved into our RV, we had originally planned to stay in the St. Louis area, where I would've continued my long lazy journey toward mental health with my beloved therapist. But then my husband was transferred to Dallas, and our already-topsy-turvy life became both topsier and turvier.
I think my therapist was almost as panicked as I was. Perhaps we had chosen too leisurely a pace toward congruence--I don't know. But I noticed that he tried to pack a lot into those last few sessions, tried hard to tie up as many of my loose strings as he could. He offered to continue my sessions via email or phone.
"Email??" I screeched. "Are you out of your frigging mind? It's taken us five years of talking to get to this point! I'll die of old age before we get anything solved via email." He knows perfectly well that I am a very slow writer.
"Well, what about by phone then?"
"I don't know," I sulked. "Maybe. I'll think about it. I'll have to see if I have any leftover money in my flexible spending account." My insurance company had already told me it would cover only face-to-face sessions.
Well, whatever was left in my flexible spending account got eaten up by my knee surgery. And I tried getting both a new cellphone and a new wireless company, hoping to improve my conversations enough to conduct the serious business of therapy. Neither was especially helpful.
One thing I have not tried is getting a new therapist. The idea of breaking in a new one gives me the hives.
I was talking with my therapist, Jon Benigas, normally a pretty unflappable guy, while we were trying to extricate ourselves from the construct of home-as-we-knew it. What to keep with us in the motor home? What to put in a storage unit? What to throw in a heap on the front porch for the Craigslist vultures who were circling my neighborhood waiting for my next posting of free stuff? And what about the eight linear feet of winter coats, jackets, vests that we absolutely had to have to get through a Midwest winter? And don't even get me started on gloves, mufflers, mittens, hats, and scarves. Or Christmas china.
I swear, my therapist was about to have a nervous breakdown right along with me, just thinking about his own coat closet. But by the end of the session, he would reel us both back in. I remember him saying, "Bonnie, I don't think you're fully appreciating the enormity of what you are doing. What you are doing is huge."
And another time, "Most people only dream of making a change of this magnitude. You're actually doing it. Remember that."
"Right," I'd say. "It is huge." And thus, propped up by his empathy and that mysterious-whatever-it-is that makes good therapy good, I'd trundle off for a few more days of frantic sorting, choosing, packing, and giving away the one million or so items that had taken over our lives.
One of the things I gave away was a really nice set of three cordless phones. I loved those phones--one in the basement, one on the main floor, one upstairs--but I wouldn't be needing them anymore. No land line...no land line phones...and no land line bills. In the motor home, it'd be cellphones only.
Of all the stuff I shed in those months last year, I believe I miss my phone the most. My real phone--the one where I could hear the breath and words of my caller and not the gale force winds that surround her or the roar of a passing diesel truck.
Of course, I love my cellphone. How did I ever live without it? But it lacks something, something I can't quite put my finger on, something that has to do with timing mostly. Maybe it's the the ability to interject without interrupting that you have on a land line. That you can say something funny and hear your caller chuckling at the same time on a land line. But try to be funny on the cellphone and the conversations usually devolves into "What?" "What??" "Go ahead." "No, you go ahead." "Oh never mind; what were you saying?" Like that.
When we moved into our RV, we had originally planned to stay in the St. Louis area, where I would've continued my long lazy journey toward mental health with my beloved therapist. But then my husband was transferred to Dallas, and our already-topsy-turvy life became both topsier and turvier.
I think my therapist was almost as panicked as I was. Perhaps we had chosen too leisurely a pace toward congruence--I don't know. But I noticed that he tried to pack a lot into those last few sessions, tried hard to tie up as many of my loose strings as he could. He offered to continue my sessions via email or phone.
"Email??" I screeched. "Are you out of your frigging mind? It's taken us five years of talking to get to this point! I'll die of old age before we get anything solved via email." He knows perfectly well that I am a very slow writer.
"Well, what about by phone then?"
"I don't know," I sulked. "Maybe. I'll think about it. I'll have to see if I have any leftover money in my flexible spending account." My insurance company had already told me it would cover only face-to-face sessions.
Well, whatever was left in my flexible spending account got eaten up by my knee surgery. And I tried getting both a new cellphone and a new wireless company, hoping to improve my conversations enough to conduct the serious business of therapy. Neither was especially helpful.
One thing I have not tried is getting a new therapist. The idea of breaking in a new one gives me the hives.
1 comment:
Your blog is your new therapist. That is all you need - along with my occasional shout-out, "You Rock!"
I love the new green layout by the way.
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