Hard Day

I had a vivid dream last night that G and I were at my mother's, in her kitchen without her, and that G had decided, without getting permission, to help by turning all the gases up full and preparing two huge roasting joints that belonged to mum - bigger than I'd ever seen her bring to table.

He was busy and jolly and relishing the idea of a table laden with food - he was excited like a man who'd excelled himself and was certain of applause. I shot him down in flames for:
wasting mum's gas
running up her bills
cooking all her food
assuming we would ever be allowed to tuck in to such giant portions.

I started frantically calculating how to bump things up with vegetables and lots of mash until there were modest meals to last a month of Sundays that might still make him feel like he'd eaten more than a scrap, because we would never be allowed simply to have such a huge (immoral?) blow-out.

Seems I have plenty of childhood-related abundance issues, but as G pointed out in real life, once I'd woken and told him of the dream, the seventies were hard years - the three day week and the electricity cuts and every household was counting eggs, bread slices and the rest of it, all eking things out. Its just that I wasn't taught that these were hard times which would pass in the end, I absorbed the earnest notion that permanently hungry, permanently without for the good of the many, was the moral way to be.  And if two years later, my brothers broke all the rules of self denial, and helped themselves? The sky didn't fall in, although I expected it to. Behaviours that were threatened out of me before I even tried them, were explained away in my brothers as 'boys being boys', 'boys having hollow legs', them being 'growing boys' or 'only boys'.

Like I said; issues.

This is the Easter half term, the kids are home for the next two weeks and so there won't be many opportunities to use EFT on myself - tuning into a memory can be so vivid and whilst I'd cheerfully cry it out in order to transform this one; perhaps not with an audience of blithely opinionated teenagers. Better to ask a friend for Matrix Reimprinting, which adds a second layer of disassociation as I get to work on my younger self like a separate person, instead of stepping in to the feelings.

~~~~~

Last night the police called. Its about a report I made recently, about an incident many years ago. I'd swept it under the carpet, or more likely buried it under a life of other things to worry about, but this energy psychology/energy therapy/whatever you want to call it has worked its magic and dealt with those issues and burdens and inner conflicts which used to demand the most attention, so that slowly, gently, the memories and learned reactions which were not such a priority have gradually found space to come to the fore. This event was one of those, and looked at in a new light, it worried me that others could have come off badly/worse and that therefore I was duty bound to say something.

So the nice policewoman asked me to go to google maps street view and see if I could add a few more specific details. They said they would have just given me a lift around the area if only I still lived anywhere near there.

So I went online, cheerful as you please, while the kids watched a movie in the next room.

I went
I looked
I found
and I then I froze, staring at 'that doorway', 'that window', 'that corner'.
I discovered that whilst I may have come to a peace about the main event, seeing the streets, calling up the peripheral memories and the rest of the story, these brought their own quite unexpected emotional charge, and then suddenly I feel like a teenager again, helpless, inadequate, so isolated. So angry.

It must have taken a good hour or more to relive the whole scene, moment by moment, relate it to places looking back at me from the Google photos, and put it all in a semi coherent email. I managed without being noticed.

I kind of spoiled Easter Sunday after that; not really grounded or present; not really hearing people, although I tried to be pleasant. I even cajoled the kids into going to their rooms at 9 and then, finally, the pent up frustration surfaced as hot, angry tears. And now, even though I know one or two people will come along and read this, I have no option but to journal it. I am committed to recording my growth and healing and change. I am heading for wonderful things and need to understand the journey, even if only in retrospect.

But boy, am I glad for that vision yesterday. I only have to think of it, to re-visit. What a blessing.