Ellen
Beloved Grand Eagle
A week or so ago, Forest posted a video of his interview with Andrew Miller, MFTI, in which he discussed giving his clients the assignment of writing a letter to their TMS. It sounded interesting to me so I thought I'd give it a try.
Dear TMS,
I know we’ve been together a very long time. We’ve met a lot of people (doctors, alternative healers, therapists); tried a lot of gadgets, potions, and pills; and blown through a whole lot of money along the way. But mostly we’ve spent a great deal of time alone together—home sick from work; sometimes shut in on beautiful days; and all those sleepless nights just lying awake in bed. I know, I know, there have been some good times, too, however short-lived—those times we thought we’d found “the cure” and those brief, heady, hopeful days when it really did seem to help. Oh, and those first few weeks after being prescribed pain medication—quite nice, actually—like living on a cloud. And that time I was able to use you as an excuse to not attend my family reunion—well, I will always be thankful to you for that.
But, my dear TMS, I feel it’s time for us to go our separate ways and move on with our lives. It’s not you—it’s me. I know you have tried really hard to be a great defense mechanism and distract me from all those painful repressed emotions and childhood traumas. I know you have always been there for me and have only been doing it to protect me from myself (or selves). And you have done a wonderful job, dear. You’ve been so great at coming up with new and novel methods to distract me when the old ones seemed to be losing their impact. I am in awe of your creativity, tenacity, and genius. Like that time we spent a week in Paris, but never made it out at night to see the City of Lights due to pain and fatigue—impressive, really. Who else could pull that off but you?
But, the problem is, my dear, I’m on to you. I have seen behind the curtain and am no longer dazzled by your wizardry. Your tricks and sleight of hand—how you can move symptoms around and even completely change diagnoses and disease classifications in a few days—well, it just doesn’t do anything for me anymore.
Yes, I’m the one who has changed. I know you think it’s because of all those new books I’ve been reading and those new friends I’ve been hanging out with on the TMS Forum. And I know you blame them and that new therapist I’ve been seeing for tearing us apart. But no, TMS, you mustn’t blame them. I take full responsibility for this decision to break up with you. It’s because I’ve grown in a new direction and I’m ready for a change. I truly think I can live my life without you now. And, really, it will be best for both of us—you’ll see. Just give it time.
Now I know we’ll likely run into each other from time to time. Old habits are hard to break and we both hang out in the same places. But please understand if I don’t stick around and talk when I see you. It’s not that I’m angry or resentful. I appreciate everything you have taught me—really I do. But I need to move on now. There is an entire unchartered, wild and wonderful world out there, and I’m intent on exploring it.
Au revoir,
Dear TMS,
I know we’ve been together a very long time. We’ve met a lot of people (doctors, alternative healers, therapists); tried a lot of gadgets, potions, and pills; and blown through a whole lot of money along the way. But mostly we’ve spent a great deal of time alone together—home sick from work; sometimes shut in on beautiful days; and all those sleepless nights just lying awake in bed. I know, I know, there have been some good times, too, however short-lived—those times we thought we’d found “the cure” and those brief, heady, hopeful days when it really did seem to help. Oh, and those first few weeks after being prescribed pain medication—quite nice, actually—like living on a cloud. And that time I was able to use you as an excuse to not attend my family reunion—well, I will always be thankful to you for that.
But, my dear TMS, I feel it’s time for us to go our separate ways and move on with our lives. It’s not you—it’s me. I know you have tried really hard to be a great defense mechanism and distract me from all those painful repressed emotions and childhood traumas. I know you have always been there for me and have only been doing it to protect me from myself (or selves). And you have done a wonderful job, dear. You’ve been so great at coming up with new and novel methods to distract me when the old ones seemed to be losing their impact. I am in awe of your creativity, tenacity, and genius. Like that time we spent a week in Paris, but never made it out at night to see the City of Lights due to pain and fatigue—impressive, really. Who else could pull that off but you?
But, the problem is, my dear, I’m on to you. I have seen behind the curtain and am no longer dazzled by your wizardry. Your tricks and sleight of hand—how you can move symptoms around and even completely change diagnoses and disease classifications in a few days—well, it just doesn’t do anything for me anymore.
Yes, I’m the one who has changed. I know you think it’s because of all those new books I’ve been reading and those new friends I’ve been hanging out with on the TMS Forum. And I know you blame them and that new therapist I’ve been seeing for tearing us apart. But no, TMS, you mustn’t blame them. I take full responsibility for this decision to break up with you. It’s because I’ve grown in a new direction and I’m ready for a change. I truly think I can live my life without you now. And, really, it will be best for both of us—you’ll see. Just give it time.
Now I know we’ll likely run into each other from time to time. Old habits are hard to break and we both hang out in the same places. But please understand if I don’t stick around and talk when I see you. It’s not that I’m angry or resentful. I appreciate everything you have taught me—really I do. But I need to move on now. There is an entire unchartered, wild and wonderful world out there, and I’m intent on exploring it.
Au revoir,
