When I was in school I always hated homework (let’s face it – I hated school too). I thought the concept of learning all day long only to go home at night and do MORE learning was just over the top. In my opinion, teachers were all a bunch of educational zealots taking out their own frustrations on their students. I vowed that when I became a teacher, I would not give homework…EVER.
Well life got in the way and I never became a teacher in the traditional sense (I wanted to teach high school Literature) but I have been a corporate trainer for the last 15 years. As such, I have to admit that I’ve given homework from time to time due to time and budget constraints. Having helped all six kids with homework over the years, I know that’s the same reason our schools give it to our kids.
No matter, I still hate homework.
When I first began seeing my therapist, I told him that it was good to give me assignments because, once provided a task, I would most certainly see it through to completion.
Then I looked around to see who in the hell just said that.
I was so anxious to get to the root of my issues and finally deal with them that I’d do anything, including homework, if it meant that I would come out on the other side better for the experience. After all, that’s the approach I took in college and it worked just fine. It worked just fine in this case also…in the beginning anyway. He gave me assignments – I did them – we discussed them – I felt better. Simple stupid right?
That was then. This is now.
Now I’m supposed to do homework that will, essentially, pick a fight with a demon I didn’t even realize was a demon until fairly recently. My sexual abuse has been tossed aside in my brain for 40+ years as I continually told myself that it was “no big deal – quit whining and get over it already”. Now I’m supposed to poke a big ugly “thing” that has the very real potential to break down the door to my psyche and I’m on the other side of that door with my fingers in my ears singing, “la la la la I can’t hear you”.
Well now…that’s helpful.
I haven’t even attempted it. I’ve been too “busy”. It’s just not the right time. I need to tread lightly. Blah, blah, blah, blah…
I’m supposed to find a quiet place and think about that time in my life and that little girl who was violated. Then I’m supposed to DO something – write a letter to my mom (who did nothing) or my grandmother (who may have betrayed me) or my abuser; sketch some pictures of my feelings; let my little girl write to me about the experience. Anything. Anything that will get this party started.
But have I done anything beyond think about doing something? Nope. Nada. Zilch.
Maybe it’s because every time I think about getting started my heart starts beating faster and I get all jittery. My thoughts start coming at me 100 miles an hour and my mouth gets dry and my palms sweat. Maybe it’s because every time I look at my journal my brain says, “Run away! NOW!” Or maybe I’m just chickenshit and need to put my big girl panties on and DEAL.
Maybe I need to just do something.
Well…I did write this post. That’s something. Right?