Full Circle

I remarked to a friend a couple of months ago, that it seems my life has come full circle. In November of 2005, one event caused the stability I'd built for myself to crumble. From that point major changes began to happen and I thought my life would never be the same. I'm realizing now, that it won't be, but there are certainly things happening which cause me to feel that life is reverting back to normal.

Things that changed after November 2005:
1. I lost a couple of my favorite piano students. They left because their own lives were becoming too cluttered and they needed time to regroup and figure things out. This was monumental for me because I have never lost a student before. I've asked some to go because they weren't practicing, or they've moved away, or they've graduated and gone to college, or referred them to a different teacher, but the situation where the student and I both wished for the lessons to continue, but were forced to stop because of extenuating circumstances has never happened to me. It was a little devastating.
2. I started talking. I was a complete listener before. I told just enough about me to keep the other person comfortable, and help them continue talking about themselves. But usually, if I was talking, it was about something I was reading, or a composer, or some trivial nonsense--entertaining but not personal. I was warm, and charming, and completely walled off from anyone who knew me. By November of 2006 I had learned how to talk about me--not just about my past, but about me right now. And I did, to whomever would listen. Years of being silent poured out of me. I used up a few of my friends in the process. One can only spend so much time hearing about another person before it drains the life out of a friendship.
3. I quit one of my jobs, and referred about 15 of my students to other teachers, leaving my studio with eight members. I did this so that I could concentrate on "getting through" with therapy in a short time. I expected it would be about four months...sometimes I am a complete idiot.
4. I told. I told everyone. I spoke with family and friends. I talked from pulpits and referred to it in lessons. I hid no longer from the acts that stole my childhood from me. At first I did so anonymously. Today I no longer worry that someone might find out that I was molested or abused. I feel no shame in that and will discuss it if I feel it's pertinent. I don't talk about it simply because a topic of conversation might be needed, but neither do I run from it.
5. I made friends. I allowed people into my life. I sought them out. I was interested in them--but also allowed them to be interested in me. I wanted them in my life. I allowed myself to feel the joy they brought to me. I played and laughed and talked my head off. I reveled in the fact that Darrin was not my only link to human emotional intimacy, and he encouraged and supported me as I explored previously unknown territory (I think it's very possible that he felt relieved).
6. I worked like crazy on learning about myself. I tried with all my strength to "finish" what I started. I sincerely believed I would succeed.

Things that have come full circle:
1. One student who left me has returned. Her life is more settled. She wants to play once again. At one point we encountered each other when our counseling visits coincided. Our counselor was mortified. We just laughed. I love teaching this student one more time. The other student who left has contacted me about taking lessons in the summer. I don't know if it will happen. It's okay if it doesn't. Just knowing that he wishes to is enough.
2. I'm ready to stop talking so much. I want to listen again. I'm comfortable learning about others and it makes me happy to do so. I'll talk about myself if I feel someone would like to know me better, but I understand that my life really isn't that entertaining. I feel badly about the time I've spent talking, talking, talking when I could have been hearing about real life from the people I love. If my friends come back, I don't want to use them up anymore. I would like to feel that they know they can trust me to hear what they say, and understand how much I care about them.
3. I went back to the job I quit two years ago. They've sent me more work than I expected, and I've been busier than ever, but I'm also having some trouble dealing with changes as my life returns to normal, so the work is welcome. I've allowed my studio to gain just a few more students, but I don't know that I'll ever go back to my previous number of around 30 students. However, everything has a feeling of familiarity which is comforting and disconcerting at the same time.
4. I'm comfortable with what has happened in my life. That doesn't mean I think it was okay, it simply means I will discuss it if necessary. I won't run or hide from it anymore. It says nothing about me--only about what was done to me.
5. Friendship remains a mystery to me. But I've come to the conclusion that most people are a little mystified by it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it leaves and no one seems to notice. Sometimes one friend gets swallowed up in life and leaves the other behind. There seems to be no way to control the phenomenon, nor do I have any way to revitalize friendships that wane. I wish I did, because, unlike those I befriend, I don't go through a "honeymoon" stage where they're delightful and I can't get enough of them, which stage later seems to change to boredom or irritation. I seem to remain in the, "Yay!! You're here! I'm so excited to be with you!" part of friendship indefinitely. I watch people become accustomed to me, notice that they come back less often and seem less than enthusiastic when I appear in their lives, and I wonder why this is so baffling to me. The good thing--I don't have to do anything. Time seems to decide the fate of every friendship.
6. My therapy was not finished in 4 months. I've been told it will continue throughout my life--not weekly or monthly, but with annual checks to be sure I'm managing the PTSD successfully and helping in case of triggers and relapses. Not the happiest prognosis for me, but I'm living and breathing. That's a good thing.

Over all this hangs a feeling that life has returned to the way it was before. I'm calmer. I don't feel the need to search constantly for answers. I simply want to run and work, and play with my kids--and anyone else who wishes to remain in my life. That's the one thing which has changed forever. I welcome people. I'm no longer afraid of men--even the straight ones. I'm not protecting myself against hurt--it will happen simply as a part of life--and I'll be fine when it does. I want to be with others, to feel who they are, to hear their stories, to let myself love them.

Perhaps, even if nothing else changes, this will make it all worth it.