When I look at this picture of me looking so satisfied and pleased with myself in my new room upstairs, I marvel at my Mom’s creativity. The vanity skirt, the chair skirt, the ruffle around the mirror, the curtains, all were created by her from patterned fabric feed sacks.
And then I look again at this photo of me when I was five and see a young girl, cute, curious. The sole recipient of her charismatic mother’s attention and approval. She enjoyed being read aloud to, crazy 8 card games, cooperative not competitive double solitaire, candlelit dinners wearing long black skirts and white silk blouses. There was little to distress her.
She was probably informed the reason for the move upstairs to her new room but I can assure you that she had no clue when she took occupancy of this room, that she would face discombobulating changes, not once, not twice, not three times, but four times before she would depart!
Before these intrusions, she was an innocent. A special only child. Spoiled rotten.
In 2007, I decided, metaphorically speaking, to move upstairs. Believing I was stuck in old patterned ways of thinking about life, I began working with a Freudian psychoanalyst.
I wasn’t aware when I began going to sessions that I was signing up for another round of discombobulation but I was. The work has been transformational, too good not to share with the world.
The envelope above contained a Proof copy of the memoir I have written about discombobulation past and present. I can’t wait for you to read it in October!
Have you ever decided that you needed to move upstairs? Please let me know how you made this happen and the results. You can scroll down and leave a comment!