(continued)

The work at the bank was bad for me, I requested to be employed in contact with the public, but instead I was transferred to the most prestigious but confined offices. The level of psychological mistreatment was also escalating, with my last boss often calling us 'incompetent worms'. I was struggling to understand how to do the job, as if my brain was somewhere else.

My mother used to phone me very often, always always complaining that I had gone away but that "it was right because I was with my father". I used to go to Modena almost every weekend. Being so often away from Milan affected our social life, but I wanted to do it, if I could reassure my mother and myself that she was safe and sound and let her nurture her relationship with her grandaughter. My sister was always at work and always in a hurry when she came for lunch, but I was so glad to see her, even if it meant listening to her outbursts. Unfortunately, I also heard unpleasant comments behind the back of dear A., with whom my mother had established a deep relationship for years and who was like a father to me. I always accompanied my mother to visit Aunt T., my father's sister, at the mental health hospital where she lived.

Since I was a little girl, I had devastating migraines. This had now become a problem for me to deal with. My father helped me a lot, by chance, telling me that he had heard of an "oriental" therapist who had successfully treated an acquaintance.

A.P. was indeed a therapist at the ShatSu-Do academy in Milan. With her care, my life ended, started again. Transformed, beginning my awakening, I welcomed the first seeds of self-determination; even if proceeding a little too instinctively, I reversed the habit of letting others decide for me, even if they meant well, making me live according to their schemes.

Thanks to therapy, ShatSu, art therapy and being a mother to a fantastic child, my creativity opened up and I could perceive a way to be useful according to my own talents, which my family and friends subliminally acknowledged anyway.

I was 36 years old when I decided to resign from the bank and establish my own art workshop. I had found a nice place in the historical centre and I could finally spread my wings. My husband and I were divorced, yet he supported and encouraged me.

I was naively confident in people, yes, of course it was not a always good in business. Indeed, I did not react to the low blows from my shop neighbour, which undermined my self-confidence.

Maybe it was because my Amalek, the deterrent force, was inside me. I guess I took it for granted that, after all the history and 17 years in the bank, I could have an adult dialogue with my father. It was 26 December 2000, my daughter and I had invited him to dinner, and I told him about my workshop project. Those flashes of anger and terror returned in his eyes, he shouted at me that it was madness and I would fail. I told him that I had been cultivating this dream for years, but he screamed at us that he too, when he was young, had a dream, the university of economics and commerce, but he had to give it up to go work in the bank. Strange, because when he convinced me to follow in his footsteps, he said that since he was a child he had had a passion for observing the employees of the local bank from the window on the street.

Since that evening, he waged war on me, his sycophantic friends calling to dissuade me with more dire predictions about my activity.

A few years ago, my father apologised to me, not specifying what for, but what a good thing! He inspired me. My mother admired my creative flair, she helped by advertising my products among her acquaintances, often coming to Milan to visit us. I was pleased, but it became more and more clear that for her I was a mirror in which she reflected her instinctive side, while the 'adult' relationship was with my siblings.

I proudly asked my sister to be my accountant - perhaps trying to show everyone, especially to my father, that I believed in myself and that I was in good hands. She generously accepted, refusing to charge me: then this became a problem, which I managed badly. She used to give me periodic instructions at the last moment or after, telling me that she was keeping me for last "as she did for herself": I didn't get the hint and remained silent, instead of saying thank you and changing accountant.

My sister always involved me in her lamentations about the madness that pervaded the relationships between all the subjects of the 'family', about her yoke of bearing and supporting everyone, but with words of hopeless hatred, calling everything 'hell'. But as soon as I would even begin to suggest an idea, an alternative possibility, it was as if she quickly moved onto another train on a parallel track, with different origin, load and destination, excluding me. It was confusing and disarming. And humiliating, since everybody considered her the "responsible" one.

I had used my savings in opening the new activity without a business plan. It was a big mistake. I guess I wanted to have so much confidence in my life and work project, I was afraid of facing yet another "no", that a "reason" might stop me. My creations were selling like hot cakes, even more than the objects of art that I used to resell. I was vulnerable but joyful.

Now I recall two really dramatic events, I don't remember which one came first.

– Since my mother was very "present" in my life, in one of the frequent phone calls she made to me, I naively told her that the bank had asked me to gradually pay off the debt. I remember that, at least consciously, I had no intention of asking her for help, but she immediately said she would send me the necessary money. Once again,I was speechless, I felt a sense of shame, like in a situation that had to be closed as soon as possible without telling anyone about it. I tacitly accepted without inquiring about the terms and the consequences this loan could have on my mother's finances. No one else spoke about it ever.

– One day, my father, mother and sister came into the shop. Surprised but delighted by the visit, I stood at my place at the sales counter; they arranged chairs in front of me, but far away, in the middle of the shop, and my father - visibly trying to suppress anger but also the desire to look around and observe the beautiful things I was making - told me that I had to "stop", that I would not be able to run the business any more, that "I even had done too much". I took the blow, in silence, as my mother and sister stood with their eyes down.

As I said, I don't remember which event was first, but then I was increasingly failing to create. I had flashes of those burning blue eyes of reproach. I soon closed down my shop.

My next path to healing and growth was the discovery of the world of Ayurvedic massage, thanks to my ShatSu therapist who, like A. when I was sixteen, strongly encouraged me to explore. It became my future.

LiOr (continued)

This is the fourth week of the Omer, dedicated to Netzach: endurance, perseverance, victory, determination. The 26th of the Omer is Hod she'be Netzach, glory within endurance: the chosen woman is Nechushta, mother of the last king of Judah, along with whom she was exiled to Babylon. "We don't know anything about Nechushta but her name. Nechushta, “the bronze one,” reminds us of the bronze serpents Moses uses to heal the Israelites in the wilderness (Num. 21:4–9). Nechushta’s name is a reminder of the healing that the Shekhinah can bring. A midrash about Nechushta claims that her doors were always open. Perhaps her doors remained open in exile so that, like the bronze serpent, she could nourish and heal the other exiles. Nechushta is hod shebe'netzach, the humility, glory and grace we exhibit when we endure. We are most like Nechushta when we find ways of nurturing trust and healing in a broken world." (https://www.ritualwell.org/ritual/omer-26)