I’ve been feeling a uncanny sense of peace this past week. I don’t know if its because I’ve been practicing some hippie stress relief tips (and no, its not weed smoking), or if its the comforting repetition of last year’s egg donation process.
Once again I will be lining up vials of medicine, attaching needles, drawing up solutions, numbing my rear end with frozen green chilies. Last year, I was filled with apprehension; wondering if I were administering the very expensive drugs (without any assistance other than phone instructions) correctly. Hundreds of miles away, another woman was doing the same thing, praying nightly for the careful preparation of her body and the financial investment to result in the much-desired pregnancy.
I have no fear this time.
The counselor who conducted the Parenting Class got to watch me wig out and completely lose my s***. The kind-hearted old hippie immediately told me to drop everything and follow his “Woo woo” instructions (yeah, he actually said that). I was to take two fingers and tap firmly on 11 different “meridian” points located on different parts of my body. Standard Traditional Chinese Medicine, the same idea behind acupuncture.
I’m about as jaded as any other kid raised on hippie voodoo. I’ve watched my mom throw the I Ching . I’ve helped my dad make Macramé owls. I’ve listened to Living with Joymeditation tapes my mom gave my 7-year-old sister to help her fall asleep. I learned how to read Tarot cards at age 12. In other words, I’ve be exposed to a lot of Artsy-fartsy, “alternative lifestyle” mumbo jumbo, which has helped mold the fabulous person I am today.
When counselor man told me to start tapping, I was thinking, my issues are more than just skin deep, this is ridiculous. But with my court date approaching, my mind was orchestrating a custodial Greek Tragedy there in front of the judge, and the anxiety surrounding that image could not be vanquished. It had been a constant presence in my life for the previous 10 months. So I started tapping.
I’ve tapped on my skin every night since October 8th. Then I say my prayers and ask for courage, strength, confidence, peace and justice. And guess what? I’ve managed to keep my blood pressure at a normal rate when I’m calling the Sheriff’s Office, or the Courts. I don’t get sweaty when I’m going over my statements, or typing up my legal journal, and I no longer feel like puking when I think about standing in front of a judge.
And Rooferman? Well, I think about it like this: He’s in his own little bubble, where he makes his own rules, acts the way he wants and talks in a language only he understands. As long as I picture being him enclosed by that bubble, where his words and actions never leave the atmosphere of his world, it can’t affect me. When he talks in a language I can understand, ei: with respect, the ability to negotiate, openness, and without anger and immaturity, then his words mean something to me. Everything else that happens in his bubble has no affect on my life whatsoever.
Rooferman will still be talking from that bubble when he’s in front of the judge next Thursday. He will probably live in that bubble for the rest of his life. Hopefully he will be able to communicate with the outside world, and have a relationship with his daughter. Until now, I thought it was ME who needed a protective bubble in order to be strong, but really its the opposite. He’s the one who doesn’t feel safe in the real world. As for me? I’m thriving.
I don’t know if I can credit “tapping”, blogging, reading other blogs, reading Anne Lamott, the moon, or what, but this week has been good. I hope I’m not jinxing myself.