“I’d like you to practice being present,” my therapist said.
My internal teenager rolled her eyes and sighed. Even my older inner-self, the one who is the closest to my external-self, had issues with the homework. My enlightened-self, the one who believes she knows everything, simply shrugged and muttered, “I could have told you that.”
“Being Present” is the first thing I teach my clients, so it makes sense that my therapist would also do that, especially since I specifically chose her because she’s not “just” a therapist. She’s also has many metaphysical capacities like me.
Funny… most people look at things the other way around. They’re looking for someone who is a therapist and anyone who is touting their expertise based on metaphysics alone is “just” a WooWoo FrouFrou Sissy LaLa who isn’t to be taken seriously. For me, though, I needed my therapist to be more than a book education, to be more than what you can learn in school, to be more than a degree. My therapist must understand my unique design.
And she does.
Therefore, why was I pissy when she issued this directive?
I have a story it was because I was thinking that I am beyond that level, that I have learned more than that, that “I’ve already done this shit.”
Thing is, I made an agreement with myself that when I started this mental therapy, I would be teachable, I would be willing to throw all I know out the window and start fresh, and I would be open to all the things. I had to decide that I really don’t know it all and that there might be a better way.
Have I done my homework, you ask?
Sorta.
I’m still angry about it, which means I am actually not as willing to let go as I previously thought I would be. It is a homework assignment that does not require me to actually sit down and do it in a sitting. It is literally an assignment that she wants me to do “constantly, every moment of every day, so we can get you back in your body.”
She was the second practitioner in a week to inform me I wasn’t in my body.
I had already surmised this fact, though, which is why I was on a table for a kinesthetics session the week before. I know myself well enough to know when I am present and when I am not.
But, there I sat, on the couch in her office, doing breathing exercises with my right hand on my heart and my left hand on my belly, all while fighting to keep the internal teenage Valley Girl silent so she did not holler, “This is like, so, totally STUPID!”
Since I left her office, facing into the frustration that I felt by the abrupt ending of the session, I have pondered doing my homework more frequently than I have actually done it. Right now, the only time I’m comfortable doing conscious breathing is when I am in the shower. Something about the water cushions me from the world and I feel safe.
For me, the problem is not that I don’t want to do the homework. The problem is WHY I do not want to do the homework.
Right now, being present in my body hurts – physically, emotionally, mentally, energetically. Being present in my body means that I become more aware of the travesty of this planet. Being present in my body means I become aware of the grief that is roiling about inside. Being present in my body means I know just how much I yearn to be held. The sadness within me is overwhelming and sharp and edgy. Being present without a cushion of falling water around me feels like razor blades.
So, my choice has been to tread gingerly in the Being Present arena. I have stretched myself, choosing to breathe consciously at odd times, when I feel the nudge to do so. Each time, I have accomplished three deep breaths with presence, feeling peace during the process, before the world erupts in a cacophony of distracting sensations.
I can hold myself in that space for about 30 seconds, allowing myself to be present for the onslaught, before my brain threatens to shut down.
30 seconds.
That is progress.
