annanotbob2's Diaryland
Diary
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Bloke and emdr
I wrote a long thing about the history of me and Bloke as a prelude to an account of the EMDR I did this week, but it feels wrong to be telling his story like that, so I’ve cut to this:
But here I am. Determined not to be one of those women moaning about my husband at every opportunity, to my dying day, but I’m not quite able to leave either. If we sold this house we’d have enough to both live in shitty bedsits in shitty locations, or mobile homes (trailers) in shitty locations. And he’d be heartbroken – he’s told me that and I believe him. He’ll do anything for me - so long as I spell it out with clear instructions and don’t expect any emotional support. When Sam died he tried to cheer me up by telling me jokes. I’m lonely. I have friends, good friends, but no one to do things with. I’d like to go to Ireland, but not on my own. That kind of thing.
I’m stuck. So, EMDR. We talked, me and J, about what I wanted to come out of it, and I didn’t know. How would I like to feel about him? Not that delivering this is an aspect of EMDR, just a question. We talked round and round and in the end it came down to I’m stuck and I’d like not to be.
So, in we go. We go in and out, a few minutes each time. When I come out, each time she asks me what I noticed, nothing more. I’ve put the first word in bold to show each time I ‘go in’. First time, nothing. Then there’s Bloke, very young, vulnerable child, I push him away, no, no chance. Next we’re both young, 20s, on either side of a thick glass barrier, he’s pressing up against it, trying to get through. Then we’re walking on paths, parallel, on either side of the remains of the glass barrier, heading down a steep hill, which goes up very steeply in front of us, not as young. Then we’re arguing – I can’t hear what we’re saying but I’m really angry, gesticulating. He towers over me, but I don’t care, I’m not having it. Next I’m walking off alone, he’s sat down. I stop, turn round, tell him to come on. He doesn’t. Then I’m picking him up and putting him across my shoulders, and suddenly I’m a cartoon of an awful stereotypical Chinese character seen from behind with a coolie hat and a yoke across my shoulders made of Bloke, walking off into the distance, carrying him. Next we’re back to being people, sitting in a sunlit glade, with the family, having a picnic. [At this point I was pissed off with how fucking pat this was turning out and said so to J.] But on we go, and it’s the chicken – I may have mentioned this before – my Healthy Adult takes the form of a giant red chicken where all the Little Annas nestle in among the feathers. I climb in with all the little Annas but we’re not sure if we want Bloke in there, so he leans against the chicken and some of the Little Annas lean out and lark about with him. Then his Healthy Adult chicken appears, he gets in and the two chickens settle down next to each other, peaceably.
And what I take from this is that probably, it would all be a lot better if I was a bit more supportive of him and his difficulties, which I haven’t been for ages, since I realized that I was giving out all the support, to him and the three kids (who needed it into adulthood what with having a mental mother through their teenage years and Sam dying), and her son too, no one supporting me and I just was not going to be looking after him like I was his fucking mother as well, but then this is where we ended up. We’re seventy – well, I am, he will be next month – and I know that hoping for someone else to change is foolishness. I’m not after anything extravagant, just a friend.
I’m not rushing into anything, I’m letting it settle, though I did look up how to increase your protein without protein shakes, for him, which I wouldn’t have done last week. Didn’t do last week.
Just saying.
12:28 a.m. - 28.06.24
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