A few weeks ago I started seeing a therapist to work some things out – a few of which, I soon discovered, went back decades into the past. I should have done this a long time ago, but I simply wasn’t ready. For the last year or two, however, I felt myself stumbling along this path, toward a place of greater understanding and peace, even if the ways I was going about getting there were wayward and, let me finally say it, wrong. It took a few instances of lashing out to realize that I had masked some foundational fissures from childhood up to now with various substitutes for love. Sometimes it was easier to wear those masks, and in certain situations and areas, those masks were so convincing I managed to build up some authentic courage and self-confidence in the process of all the pretending. That can only get one so far, however, and when some of those masks crumbled, I was left vulnerable and afraid. It’s a feeling that has haunted me since I was very young. Perhaps that’s why I’ve tried so desperately to escape – in words, in wardrobe, in whimsy and wanton abandon. In the guise of what you see and read here. In this very post, at this very moment you are reading it. I’ve just begun to look back in a meaningful manner. There are many memories I’ve conjured here, many posts which revisit eventful days of the past, but I never delve too deeply because on some level I knew how dangerous that could be. That said, sometimes in order to get over something you must go through it – the pain, the fear, and the muck of one’s history, one’s life. I’ve started that dive into the treacherous pond of therapy, and though it’s taking an emotional toll, it feels very much worth it. I just need to make it through these next few weeks.
When I was a little boy I loved water lilies. I’m not sure why – we didn’t have them anywhere near our yard, and the only ones I saw flew by at 65 miles an hour as our car passed some tantalizing water feature while heading across the country on a family vacation. My mother had grown up with access to ponds that had water lilies, and she told me about lily pads and their flowers, so they ended up feeling magical, like something out of a myth or fable, and ever out of reach. Their homes – those glorious ponds teeming with life seen and unseen – embodied summer and, in a larger context, childhood. Drawn to water, probably because we were too often landlocked, my brother and I were fascinated by seas and oceans and rivers and lakes and ponds. Even the smallest stream or brook held enchanting allure – the gentle gurgling of the water cast like some irresistible spell. A pond dispersed a different sort of charm.
Ponds could be placid and tranquil, smooth and clear as glass when the atmosphere was still, barely a ripple on those sultry, tranquil days. But dive deep and suddenly all sorts of murky possibility could be turned up. It was possible to make a pond in your own backyard if you wished, provided you had enough space and power. You could fill it with water and let nature take hold. You can plant water lilies (water gardens are gaining in popularity with each passing year) and soon those lilies will take hold, sending down roots into the dark pond bottom, before sending shoots back up to the surface. Soon you’ll have water lily flowers in the heat and sun of summer, and the lily pads will expand outwardly, providing a perch for frogs and toads and turtles. A couple of cattails might take hold at the water’s edge, or perhaps a stand of pesky loosestrife that you’ll have to watch or eradicate. All in all, it could be a very pretty scene, but if you hadn’t been careful in the beginning, if you hadn’t made sure that there was an adequate basin with adequate nourishment, and no cracks or holes, then you would have to revisit it later on. Could you leave well enough alone and hope that enough layers of detriment had landed over the years to bury whatever mistakes lurked in the deep? Could you let it all go, allow it to remain buried and hidden, and go on with blooming on the surface? Yes. You could. And you might get away with it. You might escape the scary stuff of the depths, dark as night. Your pond might survive and thrive, and no dragonflies would ever sense your secret sorrow. But there is danger in that. You run the risk of having one of those beautiful water lily roots reaching into a poisonous patch of what you thought was in the past, and once it taps into such darkness it will send it up to its flower buds, stalling them in their growth, stunting their bloom, aborting their promise of beauty. There’s nothing sadder than a bud that is stillborn, especially when it comes from the root.
My therapy has begun in similar form, as if I have just taken a drill to the bottom of my life pond and begun dredging up all the things that looked and felt so perfect a few scant months ago, only to discover the mess and the flaws that went unaddressed and unadorned. It’s not pretty, and I tried for so long to make everything beautiful that at first it’s a bit overwhelming. But I need to get through it. I need to make it through the muck and make sure I can live with what’s at the bottom of my pond.
