Yellow

Another session, another little moment. Humor and compassion are not optional, they are the keys.

Manager being an ass, as per, again, this past week. Connected reactions from me, to her, back to the paternally inflicted damage. Can't change her, so I have to change myself, my own actions and reactions. Suddenly saw her odd, birdlike head motions, and she turned into Big Bird. Could not stop laughing.

An overgrown, childlike bird, confused and knocking things over. Imagined myself treating her with patient curiosity, and myself with kind strength. I was a little old for Sesame Street when it came out, but I remember how much Big Bird loved Mr. Hooper. Maybe I will have to go back and watch some of those interactions. Find my Mr. Hooper inside. Just imagining her in that tiny office, as a huge yellow bird puppet, feathers floating in the air, will help.

It's the damn tears, you see. They just turn on, against my will. As I instantly become that trapped child, with the angry red sweaty face spitting abuse, stinking of sweat and onion and cigar, demanding an answer, and it better be the right one, and keeping every childish word as ammunition to throw back at me forever, demanding I look at him. And I can be silent, ask questions, be curious, pull back. Let him fade to black & white, with a grey cloud between us. And I can withdraw from my manager, ask questions, see her as a demon in my own mind. Demand that my demon sit beside me.

"Hey, you are MY demon, you are on MY side. Sit here."

And the red, scrawny thing clasps my arm, rests it's shiny head on my shoulder, painfully with sharp talons and spiky horns, but gazes up at me, abashed.

"It's ok, demon, you are just afraid, it's ok, shhhh…."

I take the time I need to think, to ask, to be genuinely curious, kind. Reassure her, since her own demon is what she is trying to attack and manipulate. Her own blindness she can't see beyond. Her own fantasy world with it's own rules I can't see. But I could talk with people who'd had strokes, schizophrenia, alzheimer's, and keep them calm. So, surely, I have the tools, the skill, to approach her as a problem, one I can cope with. One I can keep from hurting me. Keep her small, and not nearly so monstrous as I imagine. Not feeding her gossip, which she relishes. Draining off the anger, deflecting blame.


Compassion.

Involves opening myself up completely. Refusing the illusion of the noise on the surface. Gazing beneath, and knowing we are all in this together. Strip off my clothes, let others gaze upon themselves.