Blame it on Fidel

This French film came out in 2006. It is a very personal story. No one could know the soul of a child in that amount of detail, without having lived that particular childhood. There is no research that can make up for truth. And this film is truthful.
It is a story of a highly intelligent little girl, who's parents decide to become left wing political activists in Paris, during the '70s. Among very bourgeois ideas, there are a few very idealistic points of view. All in all, this little girl struggles to understand the changes her parents produce in her life and she also struggles with understanding grown up world. She makes up the parts she can't grasp and she asks very profound questions. In the process she's growing up. She learns about the making of the world from refugee nannies and in the same train of thought she is very secure in her knowledge about where babies come from. Nannies tell her stories from Greek and Chinese mythology, caressing her childish face. Next minute, she ponders things like: "How do you know the difference between solidarity and sheep that fall of the cliff?"
She struggles to fit in at school, she's an overachiever limited in her thirst for knowledge, by her parents' activities.
The imdb profile is here.

Crying in Dreams

I have very realistic dreams in regards to my family. I also cry in my sleep. I cry from the heart, with passion, my sadness fueling the tears. Breathing tightens and my crying is like the universal flood.
I dreamt my father, who was still fat and harassing me and I was immensely sad. I have a problem expressing sadness. I can only cry in quiet, alone moments, when I feel safe and away from everybody.-the mere fact that I need to feel safe in order to cry shows my inability to ask people for help-. For once I'd like to be encouraged to cry by someone I trust. Of course I could only trust an evolved human being, deeply connected to her own nature by instinct: a mother figure. The universal mother. The mother I never had.
I learned that difficulty in identifying one's emotions is called alexithymia. It has a name! Knowing that enough people have this problem, in order for science to come up with a name for it doesn't bring me any solace. There are 7 billion of us on this Earth. Numbers are bound to be great.
Will I ever feel protected? Will I ever feel important and safe outside of my own input? Will I ever feel safe enough to cry in front of someone and express my ocean of sadness left into my soul by my family's actions? Will this ocean of sadness, ever go dry? What should my healing process be motivated by? What's the ultimate goal, the ultimate image I must aspire to in order to feel healed? Is there a goal, or is this an ever growing ordeal, as long as life itself?

Bollywood Dance

One evening, after eating too much sugar during the day, I've decided it would be wise to go to the gym, before going to sleep. I made a "to do" list in my head, with everything I needed to accomplish on that particular work out session, in order to burn the sugar rush and get some sleep: some upper body weight lifting, followed by half hour intense cardio, etc, etc.
I drove to the gym, found parking immediately (this never happens!). I walked in and showed my gym Id to the front desk, then rushed up the stairs to the weights room. As I walked by the dance room, I peeked through the glass door. My eyes lingered on an incredible spectacle: a group of people jumping around in monkey poses to some exotic rhythm that I couldn't fully hear. Fascinated, I stopped and stared. It must have been 5 minutes of good staring, during which I noticed that every member of that particular group had a smile on their bright, blood engorged, sweaty faces. I couldn't resist and opened the glass doors. It was like walking on the sun. The room was vibrating. The music was Bollywood dance music. I joined in and danced the rest of the class.
I can't remember the last time I've been so happy. I did series of jumps, in which one uses the entire body, just like when you're a kid, and you run everywhere, cause your energy is limitless and a summer day lasts forever. I ran in place, just like I did as a kid as a warm up for ballet classes. My arms flew around me, dragging my back, sides, chest and abs after them. The music sounded cartoonish, fast drums and squeaky voices, singing incomprehensible words.
At the end of the class, we did some yoga moves and the teacher said something like "imagine what would make you happy, imagine what you'd feel like if you had right now, grab it with your hands and hang on to it" (while twisting your body in impossible poses). I know it sounds corny, but I envisioned happiness. I had a little glimpse of that first something, when your heart races and you can't stop smiling and you're giggly and stop wishing for things because you feel like you've got it all. I saw happiness.
Needless to say, after the class, I've abandoned all of my workout plans, went home and showered.

Authority and Respect

I treat authority one of two ways: complete submission, or hateful envy. There is no middle ground. It's either: "I succumb to you, oh powerful one; do what you wish with me!" or "You've got to be evil to be this successful, I hate you and I really want to be you!". Neither of these situations brings any solace to my already very conflicted soul.
My treating authority in these extreme perspectives comes from the abuse, of course.
My father started abusing me when I was 3 years old. He got me out of kindergarden early one day. He took me home and with a fake sweet voice that I had never heard before, asked me about my day and more specifically: what games did I play in class. I was so excited that, finally, this all mighty man was giving me some attention, that I involved every mental muscle I possessed at the time, to explain a game we played, called: Guess the taste. The game involved a blindfold, and guessing a few distinct foods: an apple, salt, sugar and bread. My father blindfolded me and made me taste something completely new and different, that I couldn't guess what it was, but it smelled bad. I started crying. I was scared. I sensed that the game my father was playing was a lot more dangerous than I had expected. My father told me I was dumb, cause I couldn't guess what he had put in my mouth. And I felt dumb: I felt dumb for not foreseeing that he was going to humiliate me. I felt dumb and upset at myself, for not standing up to him. That was the very first time I knew I couldn't trust my Father. That was the very first time my soul was overwhelmed by sadness.
My father was the supreme authority in our household. He made sure we knew this while he was drunk and violent. He taught me fear. He taught me doubt. I felt completely helpless. As an adult, I am duplicating that experience in the way I treat authority at work and elsewhere.
There were times when I got angry at my father. I rebelled. I hated him and wished him dead. That translates in the other way I perceive authority: hate and anger.
I wish I had the experience where I could learn to respect authority, without feeling threatened, without sexualizing the whole thing. I wish I was more secure, and grounded, have one center that I know is truthful and it's me at the same time. I wish I could have this center as a point of reference when I judge authority and evaluate it, without diminishing myself, or without snapping with anger.

The Road

Just finished watching this film, with Viggo Mortensen. It came out in 2009, great reviews and critically acclaimed.
It's a film about human nature. In fact, the characters have no name, they are just "Boy", "Man". etc. It is a story of survival of one Man and his young child during post apocalyptic times, when some humans turned to cannibalism. It is a perfectly crafted story, with perfect highs and lows, but most of all it really pin points some basic human needs and fears : love, fear of abandonment, hunger, all to the end of survival.
I found myself thinking about it, and replaying a few scenes in my mind. It strikes a chord with me. It makes sense.
The imdb profile is here

Dear Mother,

I wish you would have loved me. Not a lot, just a little bit. Make me feel wanted in your life and all.
I remember how you played with me as a baby. My whole world lit up at your smile. Then, I stopped being interesting for you. Was it because I looked too much like my father? Was it because I reminded you of him? Was that why you were beating me for no reason, with a belt, leaving welts into my skin? You took one look at me, you saw him, the abuser, the man who raped you repeatedly every night, out of every week, out of every month for 30 years of marriage, drunk and smelly (FYI: you could have left him!). Or was it because you were too busy to keep him interested, you figured you could abandon me.
Now you come to me and you ask for things. Mostly, you want me to be closer to you. Ironic request! For so many years you rejected me, after calling me names and a lier, when you were the one lying to yourself and the world. You always complained you didn't have access to my life. It's because you weren't interested. I was always honest with you, only you couldn't notice the honesty. You couldn't accept the honesty. You always thought I was hiding something, until I started believing that myself. Eventually, I realized all that I was hiding was the abuse. Father abused me at night. You abused me during the day. You never accepted me for who I was. You never gave me a chance. Why this sudden interest in me being closer to you? It's kind of shocking, after all these years when you couldn't care less.
The relationship I had with you translates into every relationship I ever had with female friends. Since you only taught me mistrust, that's the best I can do. I now need to move forward. Let me go! I need to have sane, routine, steady friendships. I can't keep begging for your love. I can't keep clinging on every female friend I got: "will you be my mommy?" I need to be functional, and for that, I accept the fact that you never loved me, you never will. I'm an orphan. I was not blessed with a mother and I'll do my best to have functional friendships with people, without trying to fulfill old needs. Those needs were not fulfilled at their time, now it's too late and I got new needs to think of. Sometimes you're lucky and get what you want. Sometimes you got to cut your losses to move on.
This is what I'm doing, mother: I'm cutting my losses. I'm cutting you out of my life. For good!

therapists

Many people go through school and become therapists without having a real understanding of what they're doing. I've looked at the GRE test: doesn't teach you any empathy!
There should be some emotional tests for those who want to become emotional healers. Besides the medical expertise, there should be some sort of evaluation that goes beyond the intellectual capacity and could only be handled by emotionally evolved people.
Working with emotionally scarred people may be heavy on the soul. If you have any feelings at all, it'll mark you. I think it's the same as working with lepers, back in the day, when medicine was just another version of witch craft: if you don't know what you're doing, you'll become a leper yourself.
I tried therapy myself and didn't get much out of it. I felt that 45 minutes per session were not enough for me to express myself in depth. Also, I could not reach my emotional self to be able to tell the therapist exactly what I felt and since I was paying for all this out of my own pocket, it became a rather expensive approach to healing.
Also, I am part of some self help groups, where a bunch of victims of abuse try to make light on what happened to them. These women are ready to regurgitate slogans learned from self help books, at a moment's notice. I am sure that what they read in those books resonated with them, but they just can't put their finger on it and can't name the emotion the reading stirred up. They rush to preaching and what they say sounds more like a mesh of generalities and platitudes, than really personal stuff. Same goes for those women still in therapy: I'm sure it helps them in some way, but they can't really tell how. It is difficult for them to express what they have learned about themselves and their wound during a therapy session. This lack of clarity should be blamed on the therapist. If things were clear for the therapist, things should be clear to the patient. But things can't be clear for the therapist, since the therapist is thinking about dinner while the client spills his guts while sitting on a couch with ugly patterns.
My point is: each client is unique. Each abuse experience has a devastatingly isolating effect. From this perspective of isolation, an abuse victim can heal in her/his own time. No therapy session can measure up this timing. Healing is as personal as inspiration: it comes in waves, it can only be felt by one individual at a time and it is not repeatable. Memories come out of the subconscious when the conscious mind is ready and not a moment earlier. The subconscious doesn't respect a schedule, let alone the therapist's schedule. Healing can only happen in the privacy of one's loneliness. A therapist, at the most, can only soothe some of the effects.
To be Ariadne, one must first know the labyrinth.