The Gauntlet Continues, Oh My God

Appealing against an excessively harsh decision made by my Narcissistic Bossman and Biased HR-Rep, based on an incomplete investigation by a helpless Kid-Manager?

It's like the chance I never wanted to re-live the traumas of my childhood.

Sigh.

Oh my God, Why are we so afraid?
We make it worse when we don't bleed.
There is no cure for our disease.
- sung by Jars of Clay

My eight auspicious symbols

1. Turtle (a portable bunker)
2. Water (life)
3. Sailboat (to fly through life)
4. Book & pen (to have a story)
5. Bandana (to wipe away the blood, sweat, and tears)
6. Whirlwind (to animate the dead)
7. Needle & thread (in case of emergencies)
8. Window (to see the world)


What are yours?

Lies, lies, lies

I am often crying on my commute to and from work, because I use that time to progress in my self-directed therapy.

I wonder what people think, if they catch a look at me in the mirror: my lips half-open in an aching sigh, my eyes fixed on the brake-lights before me, tears streaming down my face. My eyebrows are relaxed, softened by curiosity, rather than tense in anger, giving my sadness an attractive, childlike innocence.

The song changes. The light changes. I focus on my grumbling hunger and my tightening shoulders, a byproduct of somatisation. Relax. Let go. Be sad.

Today's car-therapy session was simple (and utterly coincidental to the current #ididnotreport trend on twitter). I didn't protest. I didn't disagree. I didn't fight. I didn't complain. The damage was already done. Every moment of rejection, every humiliating act, every last word.. I believed I deserved it all.

And today, I hovered at the brink of Me and the me that believes I deserved it all: the Bullymonster.

I let all of those lies in. And oh, the grief pours out today.

I grieved: my silence, my tacit acceptance of the ugliness they saw in me, my identification with their pain, being unable to contain the grief, projecting it onto my parents, pushing away my friends, punishing myself then. Isolating myself today.

I feel a 'basic shame.' That was my father's gift to me.

My mother's gift was much more complex but no less painful. She taught me how to look at the world through the side of my eyes.

To see things as they were, to look plainly at them, moreover, to see we were being seen: that was far too painful for them. And so I was born to a family blinded by shame. They clothed me in fantasy and fed me unrealistic expectations. I could only be seen if I stepped into that light. I could only be seen in that light. Their light.

It transformed me. It burnt pathways in my brain that doggedly persist today. For example, I am only just learning how to see people when I look at them. See THEM rather than the fantasy of them I've built in my mind. See THEM seeing ME, an unbearable thought. Even today. Especially today.

I am everything my parents wanted me to be. In truth, I outgrew their fantasies the moment I was born. I am more than the girl captured by their tiny light, and I am sad that they may never know. They may never open their eyes. They may never see me.

I will, though. I may not have the plasticity of an infant, but I am not made of stone. I am only one woman, somewhere between childhood and adulthood, and I did the best I could. I am doing the best I can, even if there is no one in my life capable of seeing it. I am capable of seeing it.

I am capable of seeing me.

I leave my car, walk to my door, keys in hand. My confidence falters as my foot hits the concrete. I think of that girl in the home movies, barely seven years old, painting eggs. She is calm, focused on her task, as her brother falls into chaos next to her. She isn't ignoring him, but she isn't responding either, as his frustration escalates to blame. I wonder whether she was dissociated, even then.

In the next scene, she turns towards the camera. It's Easter morning, and they are searching for eggs. She takes two in hand and gives them to her mother. For her brother, she said, because he can't reach the high ones. She isn't smug or attention-seeking. She is cheerful, matter-of-fact, kind. She doesn't wait for her mother's response (a bewildered Thank You). I wonder where she learned this sense of fairness, this unremarkable display of generosity. I wonder when she stopped paying attention to her Mother.

It is the same girl at her eighth birthday party, fixated on constructing her ice cream sundae, as the girls beside her chattered. It was obvious then how different, how delightfully autistic, she was, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling girls. There were shy ones, loud ones, silly ones, serious ones, and they danced a merry dance for her. I wonder whether they were in her mind at all.

This wasn't the girl I remembered being. But I recognise her, nevertheless.

The melody of a Narcissist

I am ashamed of my life.

It is a virus that infects everything I do. How precisely does one heal that? It's been years, and I've only gotten so far as facing it. The way forward is riskier. How do I handle this self-directed exposure therapy without burning myself? It is an intricate dance, but the only way to get rid of this inherited, unwanted Narcissistic defense is to be as ashamed as I feel.

Authentically ashamed.

Friday, September 12, 2003 4:49 AM
The World Over Tells Me: I shouldn't be this happy.

I'm alone, broke, and fat. I don't even have good skin.

So, what sort of twisted biology prevails, that I've managed to sneak into the world of self-satisfaction, just like that?

My choice.

I joked with a friend of mine a night ago that despite all of the above negative traits, I still manage to collect guys. That's not good for my ego, and it's certainly not good to reinforce aspects of myself that need to be changed -- muchless reinforce my social laziness.

Back when I was younger, and I first let people get to know me..... I had guys falling in love with me all the time. Doesn't that sound absurdly egotistical? Well, it's not to me. I'm quite detached from the whole proceedings, and I know exactly why they did. Well, I think I do.

I was a counselor. I was both a counselor and a friend. A friend and a mentor. A mentor and a superstar with words and emotions. So humble, so humble. ;-)

These were all young guys. Young in heart, young in experience. The poetic youth. And my body was good enough, apparently, to satisfy the rest of what my brilliant heart seemed to promise them.

The trouble is -- I was all of those things. A counselor, a mentor, a friend. Detached. And just as young. Just as poetic. Just as innocent.

It does amuse me that I have friends who long for companionship, and I'm the one that meets people. It bothers me, and maybe sometimes them, that nothing really has ever caught my eye long enough to poke me out of my predetermined social reclusion. What a waste of attention, no?

It's like I don't even know the rules, muchless respect them.
The more ugly I get, the more beautiful I apparently am.

I have been desperate to make my outside match my inside -- neglected, masculine, lonely -- and terrified that if I did not have this ugliness to cling to, the world would seal me in this narcissistic tomb built by my Parents. I was right. I am always more right than I am willing to accept.

Psychotherapist Number 1 chose to focus on the Narcissistic Defense. Psychotherapist Number 2 on the Vulnerability beneath it. But neither came anywhere near the shame. I had no words for it then: that paralysing pain.

I was, and still am, afraid others would reject me as much as I do.

Head up, eyes open

I sat there without expression. Me and my sad eyes. I stared at them with sad eyes, straight at them. They smiled at me, and I lost their faces in the crowd as the flashbacks flooded my brain.

The afternoon sun lit her hair on fire, blinding me. I looked from smile to smile. She shuffled her papers. "Do you have anything else to say?"

Stand up for myself? Not exactly a strongpoint for the chronically victimised, even with training by a Narcissistic Father. Surely the evidence is clear? I was genuinely ill. It didn't affect my job. So why am I now being so thoughtlessly punished?

Thoughtless. That hardly seems strong enough to describe Bossman's decision to issue me a written warning for my sick leave. My contract ends with my project this summer.. many months before my written warning expires. Didn't he realise that? Didn't he know what he was doing when he signed that letter? Signing away my job opportunities all because I was sick "too much" this year.

You know what else was "too much" in 2011?

Being so terrified that I would have yet another early miscarriage, I stopped having sex.
Coming too close to a psychotic breakdown due to unsafe therapy.
Having both of my managers fight over my time.
Resigning from a job I loved in order to have time to see my new therapist.
Damaging my neck from the tension, causing severe and chronic migraines.
Welcoming a colleague back from maternity leave.
Hearing two more colleagues announce their pregnancies. Did I mention there are only 10 of us?
Working obscenely hard at the hardest thing I've done. Therapy.
Facing the Nameless Dread that is my lack of Real Parents.
Separating from my husband.
Separating from my friends.
Starting a masters in psychoanalysis.
Asking for help from the mental health service and being rejected.
Facing the very real prospect of divorcing the only person in the world completely committed to me, with all of the despair that comes with abandonment depression: unbearable psychological pain and intense suicidal thoughts.
Facing my Family and their same old drama of abuse and neglect, not two weeks later, alone.
Falling seriously ill and unable to access treatment of any kind: physical or mental health.

And isn't dissociation wonderful? Through my custom filter, all Bossman sees is: two severe migraines, 1 ENT infection, 1 severe depression, and 1 flu. That's all he sees, and that is "too much" for him. I try to make it simpler: "Infertility," I say, "Marriage breaking down." His broke down recently, surely he of all people would understand?

Apparently, familiarity breeds contempt. My high level of absences has put pressure on the department. Unlike my three colleagues who went on maternity leave after accruing more sick leave than me during their pregnancies. My pregnant colleagues have these magic 'Get Out of Disciplinary Hearings Free' cards, thanks to the Equality Act. And I, I don't even get infertility leave, because there is no such thing. The line separating my unacceptable absences from their acceptable absences is a blue one. On a stick. Validated by blood tests, 9 months of waiting, and 1 screaming, hungry baby.

My work in therapy paid off. I sat there calmly, taking this rejection in stride. I've been here before, in the principal's office. 11 years old, quiet and calm, as they looked down on me.

"I expect more from you, Eliza." The words slap my face. It stings the same as it stung back then: being punished by the people who were supposed to protect me. People who were supposed to provide me a safe place to work. I was punished for taking time to recover.

I was being punished for taking time to recover.
I was being punished for taking time to recover.
I was being punished for taking time to recover. As a child. And today, an adult.

I sat there, trusting them. Trusting them despite having been there before. Despite having been let down before by the Adults In Charge. I trusted them. And I still want to trust someone, trust anyone to know what they did was wrong. What the principal did was wrong. What Bossman decided was wrong.

I did everything I could do. I did enough.

Here is 2011 from a different perspective. My own.

I left my unsafe therapy.
I compromised my work arrangements to make time for therapy.
I sought medical help for my neck injury and migraines which are now well-managed.
I became my colleague's little boy's new best friend at a work party.
I cried at the news of my second colleague's pregnancy, and we became closer.
I made an authentic connection with my mom and learned to accept the limitations of our relationship.
I took some time out from my relationship to figure out what I wanted.
I discovered what I wanted.
I stood up for myself by stepping back from an unhealthy situation.
I learned how much I love psychoanalysis.
I made new friends.
I faced my fears of abandonment and let go of my relationship completely.
I put everything I learned in 2011 to practice when I visited my Parents for christmas: successfully maintaining my boundaries and preventing the normally unavoidable dissociative response.

I did it. I did it all, still delivered my work objectives and then some.

I did it.
I did it.
I did it.
I did it. Without your knowledge. Without your help.
I did it.

And 2012 begins with more discouragement. But still, I stretch. I stretch and I bend and it burns, but I am still here. Undervalued. Underestimated. But learning now what it feels like to still value yourself, even when others don't. This feels a lot like being a Real Adult. The kind of Real Adult that stands up to bullies, says what needs to be said, even if people don't want to hear it. Someone with boundaries, healthy ones. The kind of boundaries that keep me safe, even others hurt me.

And yes, I was more than a little shocked to receive a written warning. I was hurt. I am hurt, and I did precisely the right thing about it. I said so. I said, "It hurts," and I hurt.

I am disappointed in Bossman. I am disappointed in HR Representative. I may very well be disappointed in Bossman's manager, Directorman.

It's unfair. It hurts. But the more I fight to be me, the less alone I feel.

There is a kindness growing in me that is shaping up to be a Person. I see her sometimes as my Therapist, cheering me on with a chuckle and a smile. If she could have helped, she would have -- if only to sit there, the way I learned to sit there for others. The way I now sit there for myself.

I helped myself.

Therapist's gift, reprised:

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,

And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...

With every goodbye you learn.

Thank you again for these immeasurable gifts. My losses add up to my lifetime, and I came to you know nothing of Trust. But now I see that Trust isn't a thing, it's a process that emerges between two people over time, making room for each other. Trust is space between two people, and to Trust someone, you must give them room.

You said you were proud of me that day.

I'm proud of me, too.

She likes me for me

The things that we're afraid of
are gonna show us what we're made of
in the end

The words they didn't say

I had a disciplinary hearing this week because my sick leave surpassed trigger levels set by my employer. We talked about how my sick leave the year before was exemplary and how they expect next year to be the same. We talked around and around 2011 but no matter how much I 'owned' my shameful struggles, they refused to say the words. I mentioned my infertility, the marital difficulties, the separation, the miscarriages. They said if I got the flu jab I would not have been so poorly. Have I thought about pressuring my GP to investigate my migraines more? There are other medications. There are more tests.

I sat there in obedient silence, half-smile on my face. They smiled back. Aren't we all nice?

They were still smiling when they informed me about my written warning. Still smiling as they said any further sick leave would result in a second disciplinary hearing. Still smiling as they referred me to occupational health to discuss the merits of getting a flu jab. Still smiling as they said Kid-manager would need to refer me to occupational health following each sick leave, to ensure I'm safe to return to work.

I asked two very good questions:

- What could I have done differently (besides not get sick) to prevent a written warning?
Answer: Errm, [waffle, waffle] nothing? Only mitigating circumstances.

- What would fit the criteria of a 'mitigating circumstance'?
Answer: workplace injury, bereavement, long-term/palliative illness

I nodded solemnly. The door slammed on me as I left the meeting room alone. The tears trickled. True to my word, I let myself be sad. Sad because, as Drew says "We just can't catch a break, can we?" The weights have been piling on me since I was born, but most especially this year, and seriously what else can go wrong? We lose the house? Everyone is abducted by aliens and tortured?

They made the wrong decision. And I'm sad because they don't have the emotional intelligence to realise it. I'm sad because the world doesn't make it easy, colluding so much with our dissociative ways. My silence was handed to me on a platter with every word they didn't say.

It's easier to say Flu than Infertility.
It's easier to say Migraine than Mental Health.

Well, guess what, I want to say infertility. I want to grieve openly. I want to be sad. I want people to see my sadness, because it's a part of me. It's part of me. And I want this part of me connected to the other parts of me. The part, for example, that reduced her hours, increased her work responsibilities, started a new course, worked on herself and her relationship through therapy, and STILL MET HER WORK OBJECTIVES. YES, ME. Even the part of me that is binging to cope with the stress of it all. The part of me that longs for her family. The part that gets so easily lost in her fantasies. The part that sees you too clearly. The part that doesn't see you at all. All of these parts, mine. Me.

Lips quivering, I held my head so high the sun blinded me. When I got to my office, I locked the door, took the scarf in my hands and muffled my cry.

I immediately wrote my appeal, on the basis that grief due to infertility is functionally equivalent to grief due to death (if not worse) and should therefore be considered a mitigating circumstance.

Office-manager cried reading it. "I had no idea, Eliza. I didn't know. You've managed so well."

Kid-manager came to my office and apologised. "Are you okay? I didn't expect that decision at all." He looked genuinely sad. "I didn't know, you know, with the letter... the extent of it."

I felt sad. But I also felt good. I felt good about being treated with respect. I felt good about treating others with respect. I felt good about bearing bad news with such grace. I felt good about my sensible, well-written appeal. I felt good about remaining grounded the entire time. I felt good about containing my sadness.

"I'm impressed by the letter. Given how quickly you wrote it, I would've expected it to be less calm." Kid-manager looked at me in wonder, as I sat there, hands folded in my lap, listening patiently. Not dissociated. Not depressed. Just sad. Sad and still hopeful. Sad and still able to feel other things.

I sighed. "It doesn't feel good. It feels like a kick while I'm down, to be honest." I looked away. "But when you compare it to the other losses I've had this year, there is.. well." My mind flashed with grief, and the pain leaked through my lips. "There is no comparison."

I breathed the memories out. I breathed today in.

"Mostly, I'm worried about Colleague. It was hard for me and it will be 100x harder for her. She'll need support." I gazed at Kid-manager intently. He was always looking somewhere else. We talked some more. He left.

At the end of the day, I went to his office and said "Thank you." I paused, looking at his face transform. "For the help today." I meant it. I was never afraid of a written warning; I was afraid of my own shame. But I found none. Only compassion.

I expected worse from a Narcissistic Boss-man and an HR Professional. Kid-manager expected better. It was written all over him, that sadness turning inwards. Not enough. His eyes said he wasn't enough. "I don't think I was much help."

And my sadness grew to include his.