A scary story, well,....depending on one's imagination

-No, don't! Stay where you are and don't make a sound.
Billy did what his brother said and crawled back under the table.
-Mum and dad will be back soon, all we gotta do is stay out of sight and totally quiet.
Billy could hear a slight wobble in his brother's voice and realized that his brother, though four years older, was probably scared too.
-Andrew, are you scared too?
-Sure I am Billy, but if we stick together we will be alright, don't worry, I will look after you.
Andrew looked at his watch for the umpteenth time as if looking at the watch somehow would make  time go faster. Where were they? They should have been back by now. Suddenly a branch from the maple tree smacked the kitchen window and Andrew wondered how long it would be before the window would shatter into a million pieces.
-Billy, just stay here, I have to go and check the window in the kitchen.
-No Andrew, don't leave me here, let me come with you. Please! I don't want to be alone.
-Okay, just walk behind me, but you gotta be quiet, alright?
Slowly edging their way to the kitchen, Andrew grabbed one of the fire pokers from the fire place poker stand. Not that he was at all sure of whether he would actually have it in him to hit somebody with it, but it made him feel a bit more at ease.  -For Billy I would, I would hit somebody if Billy was in danger. He tightened his grip of the fire poker as he pushed the kitchen door open.
                        There it was again, in the kitchen window, a face, a very scary face.
     Andrew dropped the poker on the floor, grabbed Billy's hand and shouted: -Run Billy, run!
They ran as fast as they could into the office, locked the door behind them and huddled behind the couch. With the wind outside roaring, the rain whipping the windows, and his arms tight around his brother, Andrew said a quiet prayer: -Please let the power come back on, please, please, please.
-Andrew, Billy said with a quivering voice, who was that?
-I don't know Billy, I didn't recognize the face. But, Andrew thought, we took off so quickly that I didn't really have the chance to see who it was. Andrew looked at his watch again. Ten past nine.
-Mum and dad said they would be home by nine at the latest, so don't worry Billy, they'll be here soon. Andrew hoped his words calmed Billy, but he was worried too. Storms and power cuts often interfered with traffic and perhaps they were stuck somewhere? Or worse, had an accident?
                 -How long do we have to stay here for Andrew? Andrew looked at his watch again. Twenty past nine. -Perhaps I need to go check the kitchen, see if that face is still there, Andrew thought to himself. Maybe there was no face at all, maybe we just imagined it? He decided that he had to investigate. -Billy, you need to stay here while I go and investigate. I will lock the door behind me so that no one can come in, you will be safe, okay? -Okay, Andrew, I'll wait here.
                    Andrew locked the office door behind him, then slowly walked towards the kitchen.
He stopped in the doorway to scan the kitchen. Nothing. No face. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Had they both just imagined the face? Nah, that can't be right...how could both of them have imagined the same thing? Suddenly feeling brave, Andrew stepped in to the kitchen, walked up to the window and looked out. Apart from broken branches, twigs, and a general mess of things,...nothing. The rain had almost stopped and the wind barely moved the leaves on the Maple tree. He let out a sigh of relief.
 With a spring in his step, Andrew ran to the office, unlocked the door and shouted: -You can come out now Billy, everything is okay! Billy slowly stood up from behind the couch then ran into the kitchen with Andrew following closely behind. -See, nothing here Billy! Andrew said victoriously.
While the two of them were standing in the middle of the kitchen, suddenly the lights came back on and the TV started up as if nothing had happened.
           Sitting in front of the TV and watching a Batman cartoon, Andrew turned to Billy and asked: --The face that you saw, what did it look like? After thinking for a few minutes Billy answered: -I saw a scary, dark face, with glowing eyes and it looked like he was wearing some kinda weird hat. -What did you see, Andrew? Andrew let out a Huh, then said:- I saw a dark, scary face too, but there were no glowing eyes, only normal looking but very dark eyes, and no hat, only a lot of wild hair.
                  -Do you think it was real, Andrew? Do you think somebody was really here?
-I don't know Billy, but it's over now, let's just watch Batman and forget all about it.
Andrew looked at his watch. 10:15 pm. Something must have happened to his parents. He was old enough to understand that for detectives and forensic investigators, normal work hours does not exist, but sometimes he wished they did.
          -Kids? Are you alright? We're back now. Sorry we are so late, but a psych inmate from the High Sec Prison at Glenfield Park escaped today during the storm.
            Have you had something to eat yet or are you starving?
                               Kids? Billy? Andrew?

Have you found your ''zone'' yet? Thoughts around ''flow''.......

After finishing up a painting, I found that I had a lot of left-over dabs of paint.

Since the possibility of getting the paint back into the tubes was nil, I decided 

to use the left-over paint to paint another painting.

Ever since I first picked up a paint brush, what I have found to be so enticing about painting,
is the sense of freedom I have experienced when I have
 put thinking to one side, and just

allowed my self to get lost in the process of pushing pigments around on a canvas.

Apparently, there is a word for that experience of getting ''lost'' whilst doing something

one enjoys so much that one loses all sense of time and place: ''Flow''.

(Although, some also term it: ''Being in the Zone''. I have a penchant towards calling it

''The dullification of the Brain'' chatter.)

Being able to take a break from the incessant chatter of the brain, if even for a few

minutes here and there, can be wonderfully refreshing and re-energizing in my view.

(According to some studies, on an average, a human being thinks around 70.000 thoughts each day.

Not that we are aware of them all, but that's a lot of activity '

for something that is basically done by a mass of fat and water methinks. 

Some liken the brain to a ''machine'' or a computer, and perhaps thinking of the brain that way may makes it easier for us to better understand what it is and what it does, but, even with all the new and exciting information and knowledge that we have these days with the help of ''the sciences of the brain'', we still don't seem to be able to answer the simple question why it works in the first place.)

                            The brain, even when we are asleep keeps chattering on, and although

we are not consciously aware of the chattering, it can still ''colour''  what our emotional state will be when we wake up. Ever gone to bed in a great mood and then woke up the next morning

feeling grumpy, anxious, irritated and on edge? Ever wondered why?

Some say that while we are busy sleeping, the subconscious is busy ''working'' on untangling our ''knots''. Ever gone to bed with your mind busy with trying to solve a problem, fallen asleep, and then when you woke up the next morning you suddenly knew the answer?

Ever wondered how that came about?

Ever found yourself so engrossed in doing something that it seemed to make time ''fly''?

In most human cultures, time (whether we view it as ''real'' or as a human construct) plays a pivotal role as far as human behaviour is concerned; we have schedules, routines, habits, calendars,

etc.etc. in short, we organise how we will use time.

Although we have quantified time as years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds, the way we experience the passing of those quantities, can vary greatly.

The way we experience an hour if we are in pain, if we are afraid, if we feel lonely, if we are lost, anxious, worried, nervous, stressed, angry, etc.etc. is very different to how we experience an hour when we are having fun, when we are absorbed in doing something we enjoy, when we are spending time with someone we love, when we are relaxing,  etc.etc. 

Though I do not know this for sure, I have a sneaky suspicion that when are having a ''bad'' time, the 

''negative and critical'' brain chatter seems to become louder

and more difficult to ignore, but when we are having a ''good'' time,

the opposite seem to be the case.

When we are in a state of flow/in the zone, the brain chatter seems

to become muted and relegated to the subconscious.

Michaly Cziksentmilhalyi, a Positive Psychologist and the man

 behind the term ''Flow" defines it this way: ''Being completely involved in an activity for 

its own sake. The Ego falls away. Time flies. Every action, movement

and thought follows inevitable from the previous one, like Jazz*. 

Your whole being is involved, and you are using your skills to the utmost.''

That's all fine, but how does one achieve it? you may ask.

Some suggestions:

Find out what you are passionate about, passionate enough

to be willing to invest time and effort into it.

It needs to have an element of challenge in it so that

you can see your improvements. As in, every time you

engage in the activity, your knowledge and skill level improves.

Setting goals can also be very helpful in ascertaining our progress.

Flow, as I see it, has a quality of mindfulness to it.

Allowing oneself to be totally absorbed and focused on doing the one activity (life-affirming)

holds the mind steady and firmly centered on the now.

ps. about the painting....

It is merely the outcome of painting whilst being in a state of flow, but, I did name it.....''Hope''

* why Jazz? Perhaps because to play Jazz a person needs to be able to compose on the spot, and in order to be able to do so, there is a requirement of a technical, theoretical, and improvisational skill level that can only be gained through years of dedication and hard work.

The Broken Doll Syndrome......

Last week somebody used a term that I had never come across before: ''The Broken Doll Syndrome''.

I decided to Google it, but it proved rather elusive. Trying a number of different word combinations, I eventually found the term ''White Knight Syndrome''. But, and I have a but, my life experiences have shown me that though the term is gender specific, the ''syndrome'' is not, so I will stick with the term ''broken doll syndrome'' for the purpose of this blog as that term applies to both women and men in my view.

''The Broken Doll Syndrome'' as I see it, is a term for a conscious or subconscious (or both) predilection towards seeking relationships with partners we feel we need to rescue, fix, or help become ''better'' people.

A Broken Doll, is often a person who has a history of physical or psychological abuse, trauma, addiction, turbulent and volatile relationships, and or deep-seated emotional issues.

The tortured and or misunderstood artist, the prostitute, the brilliant but shy genius, the ''hard-done-by'' man/woman, the ''diamond in the rough'' person, often attract the attention of someone who ''suffer'' with The Broken Doll Syndrome. Whether consciously or subconsciously, such a person often feels that they can help mend the broken doll, ''save'' him/her and make him/her whole.

The ultimate fantasy being that the broken doll will change and become the person that the person with The Broken Doll Syndrome envisages him/her to become once he/she is broken no more.

However, helping someone with a history of serious emotional or physical abuse, addiction and or trauma issues, is never easy and never a quick-fix. Broken Dolls can often be master manipulators, skillful deceptors, wizards at hiding their true feelings, thoughts, and intentions.

They will often use subtle methods of emotional blackmail to get what they want and need, but if subtlety does not work, they will often resort to ''full court press'', as in crying, yelling, threatening to xyz, invade every space with their presence (non-stop calling on the phone, showing up at the door, showing up at work, post stuff on the net), until finally, if they still don't get what they want, ...threatening to kill themselves.

Some years ago, I had a friend go through this and he nearly had a nervous breakdown in the process.

His broken doll used all the above methods (and then some).  My friend was torn between devastating guilt, a sense of utter failure, and self-deprecation. In the end, he decided to cut off all contact (including going places where she might show up) and no matter how guilty he felt, he would resist any notions of ''staying friends''. 

So, how does one know if one is a person with The Broken Doll Syndrome?

Some say that the The Broken Doll Syndrome is not really about the doll, rather it is about the emotional pay-off that comes with being the ''good guy/woman''.

''He/she is a hero putting up with him/her and all his/her issues. No matter what he/she does, he/she still keeps forgiving him/her.''

When I asked my friend why he had stayed with his ''doll'' for so long when she so often had hurt and upset him, he answered: ''Because I loved her''.

(How we define love, in my view has a lot to do with what kind of relationships we enter into.)

''How, or, in what way did you love her?'' I asked.

''What do you mean?'' he answered.

''I mean, what about her did you love that had nothing to do with you?''

He looked at me quizzically then answered: ''I loved how she made me feel wanted, how she made me feel as if I was a good protector and provider, and how she made me feel needed.''

''I see, but that doesn't really answer my question. What I am asking, is what about her you loved regardless of whether you were in a relationship with her or not.''

My friend remained quiet for a long time before he responded.

''To be honest, thinking back on it, I think I was so caught up in my own feelings that rather than dealing with the reality of how dysfunctional our relationship was, I made up excuses for why she treated me the way she did. She would do some crazy hurtful thing, but then she would tell me how much she needed me and didn't want me to leave her, which I guess I would chose to believe, ...because I wanted to.

I would catch her lying to me, press her on it, only for her to turn everything around and accuse me of not trusting her. If I asked her if she had paid the bills, she would accuse me of being a penny-pincher and that I was a lousy provider. Huh. Maybe I didn't love her? Maybe I was in-love with who I wanted her to be, not who she really was.....''

Sorry to repeat myself here, but for expediency's sake: ''The Broken Doll Syndrome'' as I see it, is a term for a conscious or subconscious (or both) predilection towards seeking relationships with partners we feel we need to rescue, fix, or help become ''better'' people.

Commonly relationships founded on one of us wanting to ''fix/rescue/save'' or change the other end up in a mess, ....often a very painful mess. So, I offer here my own definition of love in the hope that it may be useful:

''It seems to me that we love someone when we care more about the other as he or she is, rather than who we think they should become; when we reveal ourselves honestly and vulnerably, just as we offer the same for the other. We love someone when we act with patience, resilience, compassion, forgiveness, attention and a wholehearted commitment to their well-being.'' (Citizen Z)

Perhaps we may fall in love, but we choose to stay with love.

ps: If you find yourself choosing partners that tend to be Broken Dolls, perhaps asking yourself why you do so may be helpful.

The problem with saying: ''I know just how you feel.''..........

(My son has always been fascinated by sound; any kind of sound.)

There is a light, cool, breeze sweeping through the hospital food court every time the sliding doors open. I'm sitting at a functional-attached-to-the floor plastic table, I'm there and aware, yet not present.

A variety of smells waft through the air; curry, hot chips, coffee, stir-fry; with the occasional tinge of some kind of disinfectant.

Tempting as the aroma of coffee is, I am not yet ready for another coffee as I am still buzzing from the two I consumed earlier, so, luke warm water it is. Although I am surrounded by people coming and going, I barely notice them because my mind is elsewhere. My mind is busy hammering away at my little ''grey's'', my soul is groaning, and my heart is trying its best to stay intact. 

(Truth be told, lately I have had to pull out a fair few meters of ''gaffa tape'' to prevent my heart from breaking apart.)

Hospitals, whether I am sitting in a food court or a waiting room, make me feel uncomfortable, which I tend to put down to the fact that the last time I saw my beloved brother alive, was through a hospital window. And now, this very moment, here I am, in a hospital food court, waiting for my son to have yet another MRI done.

A few years ago my son was diagnosed with an incurable disease, a nasty one which involves tumors growing on nerve endings all through his body. Although the tumors are classified as benign and not malignant, when they grow inside the skull and along the spine, believe me, they are still able to cause a lot of pain and suffering. The experts are bewildered, one minute there's talk about surgery, and a date for the surgery is set only for it to be cancelled a few days before the due date. 

More MRI's and scans are done. Meanwhile - the tumors are growing and new ones show up with each MRI. As the tumors grow, so does my son's frustrations, fears, pain, and suffering.

They can't operate because the side effects would have terrible consequences; his face would droop, he would lose the use of his arms, he would lose his sense of taste, his hearing would be affected, and here is the kicker: the tumors would grow back. What is the name of this horrid disease? Schwannomatosis, and because it is such a rare disease, expert or no expert, nobody seems to know what to do, or how to effectively treat the pain my son is experiencing. 

Almost two hours have passed since my son went to have his MRI done, and I am starting to feel anxious. Writing this has helped me to stay somewhat calm, but I am finding it harder and harder to keep my little ''grey's'' from hijacking my emotions. 

What will the experts have found this time? What fresh new ''hell'' awaits us this time?

I feel tempted to phone somebody, to tell that somebody of my woes, but experience has taught me that doing so usually proves to be upsetting rather than comforting.

A common sentence that many of us often use when someone tells us of their troubles is: ''I know just how you feel'' and before we know it we are talking about our own woes rather than theirs. 

(Mea culpa= me too)

Mostly I think we use that sentence as a way for us to show support, understanding and camaraderie,

but I am just not so sure how helpful that sentence really is. I mean, can we really ''know'' what someone else may be feeling?

I don't know what my son is feeling as he deals with his illness, I only know what I feel watching him suffering with it. So I resist the urge to want to ''fix'' it, or to tell him that I know what he is feeling, instead I ask: ''Is there something I can do to help, would you like to tell me about how you are feeling right now?''

Three hours.

I put down my pen and walk over to the coffee shop and buy a coffee for me and my son.

Back at the plastic table I sit down then take a careful sip of coffee.

There. There he is. We make eye contact and he comes to my table.

He sits down on one of the plastic chairs, I hand him his coffee and ask: ''How did it go?"

''It was terrible!! The purple dye they injected in me made me feel like I was going to go crazy, it was that uncomfortable. At one stage I felt like I was just going to pull everything out and just walk out of there.''

''How do you feel now?' I ask.

''Oh, I am okay now, so let's just go,'' he says as he starts to walk toward the car park.

I want to ask him if he has been told what the result of the MRI was, or if there are any good news, or if they have found a medication that could ease his pain, but I say nothing.

I say nothing because my son has taught me that when he wants to talk about something, he will do so in his own time, and I respect that.

His own time comes in the car ride home from the hospital, and as he tells me of how he felt going through yet another uncomfortable and painful procedure, I marvel at his courage and bravery.

You see, my son has been prodded, hooked up on machines, had umpteen cannulas and other sharp objects stuck in to him, worn oxygen masks to help him breathe, swallowed handfuls of pills at the time, etc.etc. ever since he was barely a year old. He has dealt with health issues all his life, at times issues serious enough to bring him to the brink of death, but he has always dealt with those issues courageously and bravely.

And that's the thing about the line ''I know just how you feel'',  even if our intent when we use it is to show support, I am not so sure it's always interpreted that way. 

What we actually know and are truly capable of knowing, in my view is limited to our own feelings and emotions, but such being the case, that in no way prevents us from being compassionate and attentive listeners if or when someone shares their feelings with us.

Instead of saying ''I know just how you feel'', perhaps we can use the phrase ''It sounds like you are going through a really difficult time right now, can I help in any way?''

That way we will not assume to know something, rather, we will let others tell us with their own words what they are feeling and or going through.

(The above written in italics comes from a notebook that I write in while I wait for my son having tests done in the hospitals.)