wanted Hope, given Despair

I became uncharacteristically emotional on twitter yesterday. The pain of the migraine and the concurrent anxiety were just too much. I know most of the migraine and physical pain is conversion disorder, but I don't really know how to convert it back into meaningful psychological pain that can be readily communicated and resolved. Once I become depersonalised (which is way before we get to the 'pain' stage of migraines) it seems impossible to solidify the emotions into something identifiable.

I still have a migraine. But it's worth noting that with each tweet, the pain lessened. I was sitting in my private office, simultaneously restraining myself and letting go. Tears were pouring down my face, and I refused to sob. I wanted to. I didn't. The walls are too thin.

hellojusteliza:
Listened to radio bit on Romanian orphans last night. I, with my middle-class life, should not have so much in common with children in care.

hellojusteliza:
I think perhaps the greatest trauma was not the bullying but everyone acting like it was fine because I could handle it.

hellojusteliza:
I am precisely what they made me: dissociated, perfectionist, self-sufficient. Monsters.

hellojusteliza:
You stupid people. No one is meant to handle abuse on their own, especially not a child. What you gave me wasn't hope; it was despair.

Some people make it look easy. Just throw out a few slurs, raise your voice, wave your fists, hit something, push someone in a corner, snarl at them behind their back, set them up to trip or fail, and kick them when they are down. Blame it all on them.

Do we ever have the right to be angry? My first psychotherapist nearly destroyed me by asking me to admit I was angry at her. And then somewhere in my files went the note that the first emotion I was able to admit to was anger. So my second psychotherapist, despite coyingly explaining how therapists never read files (prefer to get to know you first!), again suggested that anger is easy for me to recognise.

What?

It isn't. Not at all. 'Scared' was the first emotion I named to my psychotherapist. Anger is a word she put in my mouth. It's an important distinction, because anger is the very first emotion to be dissociated. It's too much, too impossible to deal with. And telling my therapist I was angry with her ripped my insides out. It was the beginning of the end of us, as she was more comfortable with pain than me. I boiled in it until the kettle finally tipped.

Can I let myself be angry?

I was never allowed anger. They want me to be a lovely, well-behaved, independent, intelligent, confident woman. Anger wasn't ever a part of that. By disallowing me the experience of being mean, rebellious, needy, stupid and vulnerable, they taught me that the only way I'll be appreciated in life is by:

putting a smile on my face (even when I am in pain)
following the rules (even when they are unfair)
being self-sufficient (even when help would lighten the load)
pretending I understand (even when I don't)
believing I can do it (even when I can't)

The worst part is how their frail, inadequate beliefs have infected me. Inside me is a version of Him (the Bullymonster) and a version of Her (the Control Freak) that keep tightening the noose around me, the more I try to do things differently.

I am angry. Or rather, I could be angry, if someone had ever made room for my anger the way I'm having to carve out room now. I am angry, and I'm angry because you never taught me how to be angry. So instead of being angry, I'm paralysed by a fear of hurting others like you hurt me, wondering if there is ever a right time or way of saying that I'm disappointed. That you disappointed me. That you hurt me. That you failed me. That you, you had responsibility for me, and you weren't enough. I wasn't enough for you, because you weren't enough for me. You weren't enough for yourself. And I will no longer be the container for your anger, your fear, your pain.

I wish it were as easy as believing it.

But I inherited that pain. It's in me whether I like it or not, and pretending otherwise is what got me in this dissociated mess. My parents denied their pain and fear, projected their insecurity and anger on to me, and I, I had no other choice. Be their sponge or... be their sponge. Suicide hasn't ever been on my menu, though I think often of it.

Yesterday, one of the girls I volunteer with climbed into my lap for the first time. I was breathless, and I wondered if this is how my mum felt, with me: overwhelmed by the presence of someone who needs you, someone vulnerable but also incredibly intelligent, someone capable of making their own choices. A Person.

The physical closeness was difficult for me. It reminded me how I would run from hugs as a toddler. How, the longer I went without touch, the harder it became to accept it. As a mature adult, I felt obligated to fulfill people's social expectations, but each time their arms went around me, I went inside myself. Not touched, not touched.

I missed the point completely.

And people look to me as though I am brilliant. How I know so much about being human! And yes, I notice a lot. I know a lot. But what I don't know is how to recognise and fulfil needs that I was never allowed to have, the greatest of these being physical intimacy.

So it happens I am a fully grown adult, and a child climbs into my lap of her own accord, wanting closeness with me, because she trusts me and needs me to help contain the feelings inside that overwhelmed her.

I sat, my face inches away, and watched as she declared "I like to punch the face of my doll". She punched the face of the doll. Then she turned to me and looked at me intently, watching for expression. But I, I am expressionless. "I like to punch my face." She demonstrates.

The conversation continued until it was interrupted by group activities, but the feeling lingers. Two weeks before, I noticed she was showing a False Self, and struggling at that, so I asked her about school and was floored to actually get past the mask. Her vulnerability was right in front of me as she quietly explained how unhappy she was. Again we were interrupted. I talked to the leader, she talked to the girl's parents, who cited an incident at school, but I can't help feeling like there is more going on...

She was poorly last week, so I told her that we missed her. Did she realise then, that she was in my mind, even when she was gone? Is that why she trusted me enough to want to share the feelings inside but not enough to avoid coding them in her play?

I wanted to be there for her. So when she went quiet as I asked how it made her feel, to punch herself in the face, I told her quietly that it made me feel sad to see her hurt herself. Something in me knew, though, that this wasn't enough. That this girl needed acceptance. She needed to know that I was okay with the punching. That I could handle the scary feeling inside her, even when she struggled to.

I won't see her for another two weeks and even then there's no guarantee she'll be there or that I'll have the time to spend with her that she needs. I suppose I need to learn how to let go, and trust that even the little time I have to spend with her is enough to show her that she does matter, that it is okay to share her feelings, and that there are people in the world who can cope. Who can show her how to cope.

Can I be one of those people?