The Tale of The One Little Pig

This is The Tale of The One Little Pig. Actually he is one of the original three Littles. This is an addendum tale to follow up on the first little pig after his harrowing escape from the first Big Bad Wolf. (I hate to be the one to break it to you but there is a limitless supply of Big Bad Wolves, Wicked Witches, and Evil Step-Mothers in fairy tale land.) Thus, little pigs are forever destined to be coveted by drooling, fanged, windbags.

The One Little Pig, let's call him Harry (or her Henrietta for that matter), is the fellow who built his hut from straw. Straw is cheap, it's easy to work with, it's light in weight, and readily available; not an altogether bad idea except in a world where Big Bad Wolves cruise in search of accessible pork chops. It  is, however, a quick fix to the need for shelter and circumvents all the tedious, backbreaking effort required to build with brick. Was Harry lazy? Maybe. Maybe he was simply naive. Or perhaps something more insidious was in play.

What you haven't been told about is Harry's ongoing issues around wolves, straw huts, and security. Like me, you probably just assumed that Straw Piggy (Harry) and Stick Piggy holed up with Brick Piggy until they could follow suit and construct similar wolf-resistant domiciles. Not true for Harry! While grateful for escape from Big Bad's dinner table, Harry quickly moved out of the secure safety of the cozy brick house and went off to procure another load of hay. Hard to believe, I know, but true nevertheless. The other sibs tried to point out the obvious risk involved, but Harry was not to be dissuaded from his course; it was as if he were driven by some unseen "destiny" (he called it). Finally the others just had to give in  and let him go.

You see, Harry is suffering from a little psychological phenomenon we call "repetition compulsion,"  also called recapitulation, or re-enactment. This amounts to what looks to outsiders like "doing stupid" in deliberate succession. (You know, like an abusive alcoholic parent just wasn't enough; how about a raging or irresponsible boyfriend or girlfriend and then a spouse or two to boot?) It seems crazy, like Harry making himself wolf bait for a second time, but maybe there are some things we don't understand about Harry's earlier experiences.

Maybe that Papa Pig was not such a great father and living in danger feels normal, even desirable, to Harry. What if this little pig does not believe he deserves safety and security? Whatever it is, for reasons outside of awareness, we, like Harry, may be mysteriously drawn to return and recreate scenarios of abuse and neglect. Perhaps it is because we believe deep down that we deserve this treatment or it is just so familiar we don't see it for what it is. Often it is an unconscious bid to rework the hurtful past hoping to succeed this time in saving the dysfunctional or abusive parent or finally securing their love by succeeding with their current "stand-in" emotional double that we unconsciously chose for this very purpose. We reenact the past. Dangerous stuff when you don't know it is at work in you. 

This is where therapy is often helpful in teasing these unconscious dynamics out into the daylight where you can begin to  challenge them, heal from the past, and make conscious relationship decisions that are healthy. It can change your life. You do not have live like Harry. You have a choice and there is a path to freedom. It won't be easy or painless, but hey, being perpetual wolf bait is worse, don't you think?

Copyright 2011 John D. Deyo, M.A., MFT

The Bus

The Bus

We are born onto a bus. At least that is the picture in my head, my metaphor of how we start the life journey. The bus is already rolling along, en route, coming from somewhere, rolling toward some destination we didn't get to vote on. We have no control. Aboard the bus is a cast of characters, other travelers we didn’t get to choose but will come to know intimately. These are--for better or worse--our families. We may feel blessed with them or cursed with them, or maybe a little of both; but we are destined to ride with them on this, their bus—our bus—for some years. We must adapt to life on the bus. Kind of scary, right?

Well, maybe you got to start your journey on a really nice bus like those private coaches that country stars tour in or one of those comfortable charters that haul bored seniors to casinos. It could be you found yourself relaxing on a smooth Greyhound, or grinding along some coastal road in a VW microbus, or jostling in the hectic chaos of a  city bus. With a little luck you got dropped on a decent bus with some good people. But maybe not. It matters a lot—our lives are essentially shaped on our bus.

My bus image? I opened my eyes to find myself bouncing along some rural Midwest highway in an old school bus that had been converted to a makeshift RV. On the bus were my dad, my mom, her aged parents, my 11-year-older brother, a black and white Border collie mix named Cindy, and me. I had no idea that our bus was old, odd, and hand painted (not hippie style—but more like someone tried to do a nice tri-color job using some spray cans and a brush). I was also blissfully oblivious to the
facts that this bus was in ill-repair and could break down or even crash—I was shielded from all these realities by, initially, my infantile, ignorant, innocence and later by a little psychological protective device called denial . I had no idea that our bus had “mechanical issues,” was just barely limping along, and headed for some really rough roads. Had I been given a choice...well, I wasn't, and neither were you. 

What was your bus like? Was it a stressed out, crazy bus or a pleasant, comfortable ride?

What kind of bus are you on now; now that you've disembarked from that first one and taken on the responsibilities and perils of piloting a bus of your own? Did you learn your bussing lessons early and well, from skilled guides, or do you feel inadequately trained and equipped to bus yourself and your family down the often bumpy and unpredictable roads of life? It matters, you know--lives are essentially shaped on the bus.

Copyright 2011 John D. Deyo M.A., MFT