Dance Jam
S found a letter I wrote to her a few months ago--three single spaced pages about how important it was to be present in the present moment, how that was the only way she would ever be able to heal and fill the hole she kept trying to fill with obsessive behaviors and a desire for more and more things. She asked me, randomly, to read it out loud to her, which I did.
"What's changed, do you think, since I wrote you this?" I asked her, figuring that's where the conversation was going to go whether I asked the question or not.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. We were sitting on the couch, late afternoon, and I was playing hooky from my last couple hours of work after working a near-all-nighter last night. "But I don't think it's possible for humans to stay totally present in the present moment. I mean, it might be possible for little white dogs," she said, pointing to ours, who was spread out across our laps, snoring, "but not for humans."
"Maybe you're right, smarty pants," I said. "But we can try, right?"
"What's the point of trying if we can't achieve our goal?"
"The journey sometimes is the goal, remember?" This wasn't a new concept. We've talked about this over and over since S first came to me.
We sat for awhile longer, lost in our thoughts. And then, out of the blue, I found myself saying, "Let's go to Dairy Queen." It was Greek Independence Day, and S was working a night shift, and I was exhausted and craving something sweet.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
Sugar is a huge trigger for S. She can't eat just a little. She binge eats, then feels bad, then tries halfheartedly to skip meals, then obsesses about eating for a few days, then starts the cycle over--it is exhausting, and something she's actively working on in therapy. But, I suddenly didn't care--didn't want to keep living our lives in avoidance of her obsessions.
"Could you order a mini blizzard?" I asked her. "I'll bet you'll feel OK about going to DQ if you can maintain some control. That way it will be a treat, but you won't be overdoing it."
"Could I talk you up to a medium?" she asked.
"If you think you'll feel OK about it later," I said.
"I will," she responded, not the least bit irritated.
At Dairy Queen, S sat silently, eating her blizzard slowly, very slowly, not talking. It was almost eerie. She usually scarfs down any sugary food placed in front of her, then tries to get more. Also, she's one of those people who never shuts up. She could talk to a wall for four hours and never notice the wall didn't talk back--unless she's brooding, which I was worried she was.
"Why are you so quiet?" I asked her.
"I'm trying to figure out how to be present in the present moment. You know, just take my time, enjoy the ice cream."
No doubt this special needs 20-year-old is sometimes wise beyond her years.
"Let's go to Shopko and get a CD player," I heard myself saying. "I miss having music in the house. And they're on sale this week."
"Really?" she asked, looking at me as if an alien had overtaken her mother's body. "But we don't have any extra money."
"I know," I said, "but our house needs some music."
We walked out of the store with an old fashioned boom box. OK, so if we had a MP3 player, which we don't, we could plug it in, which seemed to make it worth the $28 we spent on it.
As far as problem behavior goes, S's obsession with ballet trumps her eating issues. Although it's waned a little, it still comes back, especially when she's nervous or feeling bad about herself. In the old days, before the obsession turned ugly, we used to have dance jams on a fairly regular basis--turn up the music on the desktop that no longer runs and go crazy. But since the desktop died, I haven't played music very much. It's too complicated. S always wants to put on her pointe shoes, twirl around. Ballet is a trigger for her, connected in some incomprehensible way to her past abuse, to her self-hatred, jealousy, crazy delusions about her abilities, her desire to stay a little girl. She gets mean, violent, crazy.
I wrote up a contract she had to sign before we turned on the music: no ballet music, no ballet moves, take out one CD at a time, put it back when you're done, music can be played in the background, but as soon as it begins to distract you from chores and other things you need to get done, the boom box goes away.
She signed it.
Then, we found a CD my sister had made for her 15th birthday party, and we turned it up, loud, and danced like crazy for about an hour, totally in our bodies, totally inside the music, totally, completely, present in the present moment.
"What's changed, do you think, since I wrote you this?" I asked her, figuring that's where the conversation was going to go whether I asked the question or not.
"I don't know," she said thoughtfully. We were sitting on the couch, late afternoon, and I was playing hooky from my last couple hours of work after working a near-all-nighter last night. "But I don't think it's possible for humans to stay totally present in the present moment. I mean, it might be possible for little white dogs," she said, pointing to ours, who was spread out across our laps, snoring, "but not for humans."
"Maybe you're right, smarty pants," I said. "But we can try, right?"
"What's the point of trying if we can't achieve our goal?"
"The journey sometimes is the goal, remember?" This wasn't a new concept. We've talked about this over and over since S first came to me.
We sat for awhile longer, lost in our thoughts. And then, out of the blue, I found myself saying, "Let's go to Dairy Queen." It was Greek Independence Day, and S was working a night shift, and I was exhausted and craving something sweet.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
Sugar is a huge trigger for S. She can't eat just a little. She binge eats, then feels bad, then tries halfheartedly to skip meals, then obsesses about eating for a few days, then starts the cycle over--it is exhausting, and something she's actively working on in therapy. But, I suddenly didn't care--didn't want to keep living our lives in avoidance of her obsessions.
"Could you order a mini blizzard?" I asked her. "I'll bet you'll feel OK about going to DQ if you can maintain some control. That way it will be a treat, but you won't be overdoing it."
"Could I talk you up to a medium?" she asked.
"If you think you'll feel OK about it later," I said.
"I will," she responded, not the least bit irritated.
At Dairy Queen, S sat silently, eating her blizzard slowly, very slowly, not talking. It was almost eerie. She usually scarfs down any sugary food placed in front of her, then tries to get more. Also, she's one of those people who never shuts up. She could talk to a wall for four hours and never notice the wall didn't talk back--unless she's brooding, which I was worried she was.
"Why are you so quiet?" I asked her.
"I'm trying to figure out how to be present in the present moment. You know, just take my time, enjoy the ice cream."
No doubt this special needs 20-year-old is sometimes wise beyond her years.
"Let's go to Shopko and get a CD player," I heard myself saying. "I miss having music in the house. And they're on sale this week."
"Really?" she asked, looking at me as if an alien had overtaken her mother's body. "But we don't have any extra money."
"I know," I said, "but our house needs some music."
We walked out of the store with an old fashioned boom box. OK, so if we had a MP3 player, which we don't, we could plug it in, which seemed to make it worth the $28 we spent on it.
As far as problem behavior goes, S's obsession with ballet trumps her eating issues. Although it's waned a little, it still comes back, especially when she's nervous or feeling bad about herself. In the old days, before the obsession turned ugly, we used to have dance jams on a fairly regular basis--turn up the music on the desktop that no longer runs and go crazy. But since the desktop died, I haven't played music very much. It's too complicated. S always wants to put on her pointe shoes, twirl around. Ballet is a trigger for her, connected in some incomprehensible way to her past abuse, to her self-hatred, jealousy, crazy delusions about her abilities, her desire to stay a little girl. She gets mean, violent, crazy.
I wrote up a contract she had to sign before we turned on the music: no ballet music, no ballet moves, take out one CD at a time, put it back when you're done, music can be played in the background, but as soon as it begins to distract you from chores and other things you need to get done, the boom box goes away.
She signed it.
Then, we found a CD my sister had made for her 15th birthday party, and we turned it up, loud, and danced like crazy for about an hour, totally in our bodies, totally inside the music, totally, completely, present in the present moment.
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