Getting ready

“Both are true.” When DT (my therapist) said this to me last week I had to stop and write it down. It seems so simple, yet for some reason when she said it at the beginning of our session it packed a punch. We talked about how doing this work of recovery is hard, as is parenting a teenager, as is being in a marriage, as is basically living life right now. I told her I am proud of the work I am doing, showing up to her office every week even though most weeks I dread it. I also look forward to it. Both are true. I am proud of the work and still feel shame and guilt (about lots of things, too numerous to recount) a lot of the time. Both are true.

Sometimes I hate letting my daughter go out and have fun. I hate letting Daniel go to work some mornings; I hate saying goodbye. But I do it. Feeling dependent on others for your sense of well-being and safety is hard. Hard for me as I’ve always been so independent. I’ve done so many interesting and exciting things in my life, many of them alone, and not only survived but thrived, met so many challenges, overcome so many obstacles, worked through so much pain and sadness. And here I am not able to let my husband go to work or plan a weekend trip with his friend. The thought fills me with worry and anxiety: “How can I be left alone? I can’t right now. I just can’t.” Feeling dependent on loved ones for my safety is a common symptom of PTSD.

That is why I show up every week and do the hard work. As DT said, we are building in the resources to allow me to continue living my life and not be paralyzed with fear or anxiety. I went to the Antiques and Garden Show alone last weekend. I almost didn’t go because the friend who I was supposed to go with had to cancel. I thought about it for a week–whether I should still go and try and have fun by myself. When Sunday morning came around, I changed out of my pajamas and put on a cute outfit, drove downtown, paid way too much for parking and went inside the convention hall alone. I talked to vendors, met some interesting people, saw a lot of pretty things, sat and ate a cookie and spent an enjoyable couple of hours by myself. I consider that a win right now.

I am deep in the planning stages of our vacation next month –to Italy! It fills me with so much JOY and anticipation just thinking about it. I’ve also been flooded with memories lately of the first time I went to Italy when I was 20 years old and alone. I did something so big, so adventurous and so incredible and it changed my life. I remember my parents didn’t want me to go on that trip. They were adamant, so much so that they refused to pay for it. Now I know they were consumed with worry. I get it now. But then I was determined and stubborn and I spent the whole summer after my sophomore year working in Boulder and saving money to pay for my EuRail ticket. The plan was to leave in early August and travel around Europe on a budget with three friends for a month before my study abroad plans kicked in.

Those study abroad plans –for Strasbourg, France (I had been studying French for two years)–got derailed when my friends and I arrived at the Santa Maria Novella train station in Florence. I walked down the street, smiling from ear to ear, looking at the architecture, at the Duomo di Firenze, at the colors of the buildings, geraniums in pots cascading down the balconies, the pasticcerie and all the stylish people everywhere and knew that I was home. I changed my plans, got a job as an au pair for a family living 45 miles out of town on a large country estate and started learning Italian. The study abroad plans could wait, I reasoned. I had this Italian life to live. And live it I did. Within a few months I was understanding everything, watching Italian news and “reading” the newspaper every morning, learning the local dialect (which in Tuscany is the origin of modern Italian) and taking lessons at a language school in Florence. That wasn’t enough so I hired a private tutor. I read books, I spoke to everyone everywhere and within six months I was fluent.

As I said, that trip changed my life. Second semester, I moved into the city, enrolled in Syracuse University in Florence and lived with a local family near the Mercato San Lorenzo. I don’t remember the family’s name but I do remember my roommate, a girl from back East who went rowing on the Arno river every morning before school. Remarkable. And I remember the courses I took and some of my professors–their names came flooding back to me in therapy last week as I told DT the story of my fearless, younger self. Antonella Francini who taught me Modern Italian Literature. The statue of Girolamo Savonarola that overlooked the square where our school building was. The Piazza Santa Croce where I hung out with my friends and my best friend Tiffany from Las Vegas who happened to be studying abroad that year on a different program. She lived in an apartment with another girl named Fosca and I spent many afternoons in their smoke-filled pied-a-terre walking distance from my Syracuse classes.

To say I am looking forward to showing June the places and the streets I walked 32 years ago is an understatement. I keep saying that I think my heart may explode. She better get ready for the Italian Joy because once in Italy she is going to emerge and remember literally everything. This is noteworthy because my short-term memory really sucks lately (another common PTSD symptom).

Occasionally, when I think about the upcoming trip, the worry creeps in in the form of questions like “Will I be able to sleep?,” “Will the jet lag be bad?” Will the sights and sounds and emotions be too much for me?” And, as expectations have a way of needling us: “Will I have as much fun in reality as I have when I envision the trip in my dreams?” I can hold the worry and the little bit of anxiousness about traveling along with the excitement and the joy of anticipating this trip with my family. I can hold both. Both are true. A presto Italia!