Who is the Wolf?

My son has this book by Eric Carle, Hear Bear Roar.  It's a typical Carle book with his stylized illustrations and press-to-hear-buttons attached to a tablet beside the pages.  Anyway- there's a button to press to hear a wolf.  This morning we had deep discussions (and belly giggles) about the accuracy of the various animal sounds.  When E pressed the wolf, and I happened to glance at the corresponding photo, well... 

Talk about a trigger. 

During my last- and to date most physically devastating- relapse I finally, angrily, acquiesced to seeing a therapist.  I struggled with relinquishing the punishing self-loathing that kept me from healing but did realize that at some point I would have to heal.  Or I would not make it.  

You see- my disease is as strong as me, stronger during those times when grief or fear or loss of control allows her prison walls to weaken.  In my late twenties (well documented earlier in this blog) those walls crumbled and she came out swinging and I was defenseless against the assault.  

Many moons and so many fewer pounds later at a tall 89 pounds- I was dying and she would not let go.  

So week after week I dragged my sickened, weakened carcass to an unobtrusive brick building, climbed one flight of stairs to an unobtrusive second-floor doorway, and knocked.  

In the middle of one of our sessions my therapist had me sit with my self.  She had me sit there, in her quietly cream-colored office, and close my eyes.  She had me think, or not think.  She let me let my mind wander for a while.  

And then she asked me to describe what I had seen, felt, smelt, visualized, experienced- whatever.  

So I did *shrugs*. 

I had witnessed a wolf.  A she wolf.  A rangy, wild, angry thing- hungry for something I could not feed her.  Lonely, cruel, hurt... I had sat with my self and instantly conjured this beast into being.  I saw her so clearly caged in a dense forest, pacing a clearing.  I heard her as she growled and whined.  I stepped back as she charged some imaginary threat, relaxed back into voyeurism as she paced some more, alone with herself.  And me.  Still it was that anger that drew me in.  Hypnotic in its intensity, her anger was like her- trapped and desperate to escape.  All that anger was pain and her pain was palpable.  

I could feel it and she could feel me and- 

"Who is the wolf?" my therapist asked.  

"What?" I blinked.

"Who is the wolf?" 

She didn't lead me, would never have said "you or the anorexia?"  But I didn't know how to answer her.  I didn't know who the wolf was- me? my disease? the part of me that was dying? the part of me struggling to just get over it all?  To be perfectly honest, to this day I still don't know the answer to that question.  I don't know who the wolf is- but I do know that she is still with me.  

What I have come to understand and accept is that the wolf has become mine and I am hers.  What we are to each other beyond that is something mysterious and often frustrating.  In my bones, in the essential parts of myself, I don't believe she is bad.  

But I do believe that we are sharing space meant for one.  Which sometimes feels like it is occupied by three.  

On Motherhood- and Some Other Things.

My son still wants me to hold his hand as he falls asleep.  

He will be three in a week.  

I know what people think about that- so many have offered their opinion.  But at the end of the day- at the end of every long day- there is going to be a time in the not too distant future when he doesn't care if I'm in there, out here, inside-outside-upsidedown. 

So for now, for as long as he wants and lets, I will hold his hand.  

I came out swinging last week, reentering the blogosphere with a lot of information without a lot of context. Go ahead, read that sentence again, I don't blame you.  The fact is, I am in the mood to write tonight and while there is an obvious choice of topic, I am making the easier choice.  

Because it has been a hell of a week and I need a break.

So- let's start with the whole 'had a baby' thing. 

I didn't know, I still don't know to be honest, what kind of mother I would be.  I didn't spend the duration of my pregnancy starry-eyed, holding my belly with mother-earthen anticipation and dreaming of my future child.  We elected to wait to find out the gender until the creature's illustrious arrival so I had no way of knowing who to talk to, or how to talk to it.  (Last night he and I talked at length about the airline seating arrangement of a Heffalump, the Gruffalo, a baby shark (actual - not PinkFong), and a dragon.  How things have changed).  Instead I spent it committing every cardinal sin- eating sushi, doing inversions until my MFM Doc told me to stop, adopting a puppy.  

You know. 

Like you do. 

I don't remember them handing him to me in the hospital, but I will never forget the first time I held my son.  I can't fathom what inspired it, but the first time he smiled is imprinted on my soul- he was only hours old. 

I don't ever recall reading about how the amount of laundry in a postpartum household increases exponentially.  

I have no idea the moment it happened, whether it was in that critical moment of reality, or later- maybe after my first uncontrollable weeping when I could not comfort him and he and I finally came to a sort of understanding- but I love being a mom.  His mom specifically, but a mom.  

Don't get me wrong I have my moments, and he has his.  I don't want to feel shame, but I do, in admitting that they happen more often than I like.  But that is honesty and transparency for you.  Oh- and I have tantrums to rival his own.  Even his own terrible twos.  But he is the brightest star in my universe- as warm as flame and as wild.  He's my feral boy and my cuddle buddy and honestly there are some mornings when he is the only reason I get out of bed.  

He is the reason that food goes in my system every day.  

He keeps me.  

The thing that no one prepares you for- not one book, not one blog, not one class or course or comment, is the depth of feeling that you drown in every day.  As a mama, mommy, mom.  The way it feels when they call for you in happiness, or in sadness, or in pain.  The way they make you.  

How their innate goodness, openness, indiscriminate interest in everything- how their joy makes you want to be so much more than you have ever been.  

How when they open their hand to yours, it is an endless gift.  

An endless, tremendous gift.