Back in Sept. 1991 I got a scholarship to go through a program for a week to deal with intense emotional dependency problems.
For years I had been too clingy with some people or fluctuating between wanting my space to demanding their time.
My sister had told me about a codependency residential treatment program in another state, founded by two of her colleagues. I had read the brochure but still had no idea what to expect.
It was a life-changing experience – at the time I went through it. If I kept up with the tools they gave me to continue the spiritual and emotional maintenance daily I probably would’ve been better for it. But, it’s too easy for us to slip back into our old ways because it’s comfortable and some of us, no matter how sick the behavior, keep wearing that same cloak of misery.
However, I don’t regret going through the intense week of group Gestalt therapy (founded in the 1940s), connecting with others who had gone through similar situations. A year later my now ex-husband went through the same program while we were engaged and living together. It changed his life, too, but like me he didn’t apply the tools to his life for very long once he got out and returned home to our tumultuous life.
At the time I entered “co-de treatment” as it was nicknamed, I was living in a halfway house and told them I’d be back in a week and to please take care of my things. I hated leaving my cat behind but the house mother assured me she’d make sure she was fed; etc. Still I worried. At the time I was job hunting so I didn’t have to worry about missing work.
Upon my arrival we were all assembled in the main room after registering and getting our rooms, part of which had been rented out of a hotel that was still in business for the general public. But our area was sectioned off and no one bothered us at all.
The staff had our small group of about ten or so listen to a song and meditate, trying to get in touch with our childhood traumas. At the beginning of the song I was skeptical and was positive I wouldn’t be affected by the lyrics. But most of us cried. This was after dinner and picking out teddy bears at the mall which we would keep with us through group therapies.
The Inner Child movement was pretty popular back then and although it has been poked fun of from bumper stickers reading “My Inner Child is a Juvenile Delinquent” to “Saturday Night Live” parodies, there was some good work that got done while I was in co-de treatment. If anything, I got the support of others and assurance that I was on the right path.
While years later I moved away from The Inner Child craze as it faded into the woodwork and was virtually forgotten by the recovery community, I respect its origins. But a lot of it seemed to conflict with what I’d been taught in my other recovery program and some things I couldn’t reconcile. So to keep it simple I wound up just leaning on my main recovery source because I got too confused trying to work two programs that seemed to often cancel each other out.
The co-de week consisted of us doing anger therapy daily in the form of using a Bataka bat on a bean bag chair (picturing your abuser which I found to be cathartic), conjuring up childhood memories at the cheering on of the group, working out of a workbook, doing homework, visualizations, meditations, nurturing and writing exercises, confessions, affirmations, exercise, and such. There were patients in the group who had been through so much. One woman had been through all kinds of horrible child abuse that I couldn’t even fathom. She had been in and out of institutions, was married, had kids and grandkids and was a “cutter.” She was so innocent-looking but had been dragged through hell and back. We connected at some level and at times I still think about her. Another woman, an older one, had a hearty laugh but had heartwrenching stories. There was a patient who was married whose husband had had an affair. She was able to get in touch with her anger in a great way.
At night some of us would sneak goodies out of the kitchen and hang out at the pool or jacuzzi at the hotel. Every day we got a great breakfast, catered lunch at noon, afternoon expensive snacks, gourmet dinners, delectable desserts, and we all got to decompose and talk about our sessions and what each one of us was battling. There was a wall where we all put our handprints with our names on them and each of us would write messages to the other in support of our cause.
I still have my materials that made it all seem so simple to work with the tools on the outside of those walls. I wonder how different my life might have been if I’d stuck to them.
After I got out and returned to the halfway house I was grilled mercilessly by my suspicious recovery sponsor as to exactly what had transpired during my time away. It was difficult to explain and I was a bit defensive but I realized she wasn’t open to hearing much of it.
Then I saw a bumper sticker that said “It’s Never Too Late to Have a Happy Childhood.” I believed it back then but today I don’t. The fact is you can’t turn back the clock but you can do some things to make your life worthwhile, to try to heal somewhat, get a little beyond the scope of pain that has plagued you all your life. I still have the Polaroid of me holding my teddy bear along with my fellow patients holding theirs, too. The expression on my face is one of joy that I never saw again until the birth of my first child, my daughter.
Now I see the same hopeful promise on her tiny face as she does dance moves at a restaurant.
