Tag Archives: personal

Deconstructed cranberry apple pie

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pie

I had just one job for Thanksgiving, and that was to make the pie, my apple cranberry pie. Coincidentally, we had a white Thanksgiving in the northeastern United States, and the snow along with the baking brought me back to my short time with you. For our first date we met right after a snow storm at the lovely French cafe in town. As I walked into the cafe on that fateful January Sunday nearly 4 years ago, I noticed that you already ordered croissants for us, and I believe you also had my Earl Grey tea ready for me. At first the quick-to-jump-to-conclusions-feminist in me was a teeny bit annoyed, but then I quickly realized it was just your way of being thoughtful.

The night before Thanksgiving I had planned on prepping the pie crust, and making the cranberry jam that makes up the bottom layer of the pie. But the snow outside my window just kept bringing me back to that first walk we took in the park right after we finished breakfast at the French cafe. I wish I could recall the conversation. What I do remember is that this was the first time you took my hand in yours, and my heart just sailed with our gloved hands hanging on to each other as we circled the snowed in park. I could sense you were nervous with the way you would glance at me sideways, which made me like you even more. Usually on a date I’m the one who is the most nervous. It was a nice switch.

I glance at the clock, realize it is nearly midnight, and I’ve not made the cranberry jam, nor have I started the dough for the pie crust. I decide that I need to do something before I go to bed, and the cranberry jam is easy enough to make. How hard can it be? It’s just cranberries, sugar, orange juice, water and salt. But the cranberry jam purplish red hue reminds me of the Valentine’s Day we spent together cooking and baking. We made my favorite red velvet cake recipe. I wish I could ask you if my memory is correct in recalling that we also made a key lime chiffon pie as well. One dessert per person? We were indulgent, weren’t we …

I fall asleep on the couch in this state of remembering that will not quit. I wake up the next day in a pained fog when I realize that the memories are a dream, and the reality of our ending is lived every day in our separate lives.

Eventually I drag myself into the kitchen to mix the pie crust dough. As I separate the dough into two halves with my hands I close my eyes and remember how you would take one hand and rub the back of my head. You would do this to tell me you loved me, and you would also do it as a way to reassure me when I’m feeling anxious. Sometimes when I miss you too much I put my own hand on top of my head the way you used to place yours on mine.

The real slog in making this pie is peeling, coring and slicing all 7 apples. The big heaping glass bowl of apple slices with cinnamon, sugar and cornstarch is stirred over a pot of simmering water. I taste the apples, and realize that they could use more spice, perhaps some cardamom or allspice. If we were making this pie together you would likely advocate for more spice, and the ardent rule follower that I tend to be would argue for leaving the pie as it is since I get nervous veering off a recipe. You would be right, the apples could use more spice, and because of that fact the apples will remain as they are.

At last the pie is ready to go. I get in the car, and look in the rearview mirror as I back out of my parking space. For just a moment I see you in the rearview mirror the way you used to watch me drive off after our weekends together. You would stand there and watch me drive away, and I would see you eventually turn into a mere speck in the rearview mirror. Just for today you will remain a speck in my rearview mirror.

Inside and outside

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Yoga has lost it’s initial allure for me. I was taking all of my yoga classes from the same yoga teacher, Anna, a vivacious thirtysomething gal with long brown hair and a penchant for for eschewing the typical “yoga music” in favor of songs like Van Morrison’s “Moondance” or Kenny Chesney’s “You and Tequila.” Her music choices are odd, but they strangely work. Her goofiness is often displayed during her teaching, such as the moment she asked us to “put our hands together.” Then she thought better of it, and said, “Pancake your hands together. Hmmm … pancakes … I sure could use a stack of them right now.” And the class just giggles with her.

I found Anna after I stopped going to the “Gentle Yoga” class at this same studio that was given on Sunday mornings. It was advertised as “appropriate for all levels,” but, no, it is much preferred that you know what you are doing. For some reason, all the yoga teachers at this yoga studio are infatuated with the flowy vinyasa style, which is fine if you tell us that the class will be taught in this style. This teacher’s favorite thing was to have us flow from plank pose to downward dog. There may have been another pose in between those two. The flow was hard for me, but I was doing it to the best of my ability when all of a sudden I hear the instructor say, “Nope, nope, nope. We need to take a timeout.” There I am unaware and wondering what could possibly be wrong when she comes over to me, and says, “No, that is not what we are doing.” She then demonstrates for me what my flow should look like, but I am unable to do it as I stumble in my efforts with the entire class stopped and mouths a bit agape. She then gives up, and says to me, “It’s a learning thing that you need to work on,” as if stretching the word “learning” will hasten my mastery of what I need to do. Mean Sunday Teacher has since changed the title of this class to “Hot Yoga Flow.” Every time I see her I am tempted to say to her, “You didn’t have to change the name. No chance of me returning after our last interaction.” I’ve refrained because these days I can never tell if I say too much.

Then there’s that moment 3 Saturdays ago where we were doing the Seated Forward Bend in Anna’s allegedly advertised “Gentle Yoga” class on Saturday morning. There I am seated and bending, though my bend is barely a bend, but trying to bend nonetheless. Anna is going around making adjustments as she always does. I think nothing of it when she comes over, places her hands on my back and asks me to breathe deeply, and when I do she gently pushes me forward. At the time I thought nothing of it, but, for some reason, I am convinced that this is when I hurt my back. There is a chance it could have happened during another part of this class, but it definitely happened in this class. It was likely a bad sign at the start of class when she looked out at us, smiled, and said, “I’m not feeling gentle today.” Apparently, she also was not up to keeping the room at normal temperature because the temperature warmed up considerably, and I was not dressed appropriately for yoga that was warm or hot. Between the heat and the too far Seated Forward Bend it was a recipe for bad news. As I left the class I was incredibly sore, which made me initially unaware of my back injury. My whole body felt like a Mack truck ran over it.

By the next day it was clear that I had a muscle spasm in my upper back. The pain intensified as the days wore on until I finally dragged myself to acupuncture for relief. Four sessions later, I am improved though I still have intermittent twingy pain in my upper left back. It saddens beyond measure that this occurred in Anna’s class.

I miss yoga and hate it all at the same time. Anna has since changed the title of Saturday “Gentle Yoga” class to “Hot Power Yoga.” That’s what it should have been called from the start. I no longer go to this class, and I’m attending only her evening slow flow class because the class is as advertised. Even so, I am not entirely comfortable in her classes. I miss the way the right sad song, such as “You and Tequila,” in one of her classes during shavasana would cause a single tear to fall out of my eye, and right into my mouth. The saltiness of the tear was strangely cathartic.

I’ve started venturing out to other classes. Last Sunday I took a Yoga Nidra restorative class. The room was arctic, and that detracted a bit from the restorative aspect of the class. The instructor was neither friendly nor rude, a strangely indescribable affect that does not entice me to return. It’s unfortunate because I liked all the comfy props that prop you into a blissful state of being. More than that, I liked the practice.

Today I found a Svaroopa yoga class, what a fun name, Svaroopa! I amuse myself just saying the name. You use a lot of props to support your body in the poses, it’s safe for people with back injuries, at least, according to the brochure it is … I am late because I am a ding dong with getting moving on Saturday mornings. I’ve no good reason for my lateness.

Mercifully, I finally find the strip mall that has the Svaroopa yoga class. I walk in, and, literally, walk into the class. You open the door and you immediately are in the midst of the yoga class if one is in session. I was exactly 1 minute late, but they were engaged as if they had been at it for at least 15 minutes. I was mortified. The instructor came over, and kindly whispered to me when I could come over to join them. I then learned I did not need my yoga mat as the practice is done on a thick blanket. One could walk into this class with absolutely no knowledge of yoga, and still fully participate in the entire class without difficulty.

Unfortunately, it was very cold in the class, but I liked her style of teaching. I am catching on that cold yoga studios may be the norm in the colder months in the Northeastern United States. If I return I will have to become accustomed to her propensity to repeatedly say “inside and outside” during body sending meditation. I get so distracted by her intonation that it becomes a song in my head “inside and outside” …

Inside and outside I am lost in my search for a yoga home.

the elusive hunt for a new therapist

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Readers of this blog may not be surprised to learn that I am looking for a new therapist. There was the incident in January, and there have been other incidents since then that I’ve not written about. I am done, beyond fucking done. I know it might be useful to others to share the latest experience with Doc that led me to this decision, but it is too upsetting. To summarize, (my writing teacher would so object, we should never summarize, but I need to in this case) by Doc’s own admission there has been too much countertransference from him in my sessions. He’s apologized profusely, but he does this every single time. He apologizes profusely, and then it happens again! I’ve also noticed it happens on a 1-2 month interval.

It’s practically been a part-time job trying to find a new therapist. I’ve called therapists that I was given as possible leads, and when one particular therapist could not take me on as a client because she did not have room she offered to try to find me some leads. I’ve then been following up with those leads, and I am disheartened that too many of these people are not good about returning phone calls. A note to any therapists out there reading this: Even if you can’t take on a patient, you should return their phone call and tell them you have no room! I would like to know why the hell I have to put such an obvious thing in a blog post. Returning phone calls in a timely manner (1-2 business days) is the appropriate thing to do, and aside from that, it’s the kind thing to do. A person is looking for a therapist for fuck’s sake! It’s not like I called to order a pizza. I imagine in most professions it is inappropriate to not return phone calls. The expectation is not lowered for therapists, just saying in case some therapists out there are not aware.

I was asked by one therapist how complex I am. I did not know how to answer this question, so gave her my take of myself at this point. Then I never heard back from her. All this searching is made more difficult by the fact that I am looking for someone with experience treating dissociative identity disorder as well as PTSD.

I feel like I’m in a lake with no boat.