Yelling At Myself

Sometimes I get so angry at myself. Disappointed that in the ten years I’ve been out of my marriage it still affects me, that the old Complex PTSD can be awakened.

Yesterday was a tough day–reorganizing my crafts brought up the old body memories of slowly being shoved into smaller and smaller spaces and roles in my marriage.

I’ve always held onto my Crafty Goodness as an identity of sorts. Whatever other chaos and catastrophe was happening around me, I had my craft supplies and my sewing machine, and seeing them made me happy. I think they stood for Possibilities, happy time to be spent. Whether my yarn for knitting or all the tools for papercrafting, seeing them spoke of Future, of Peace.

But I didn’t understand what was happening in my marital home. I kept feeling pushed to get rid of my books, my things, my craft supplies. I didn’t realize how much I needed those to feel a lifeline of sorts to who I was. First I would have this big space. Then there would be a reason I “needed” to give up that space, and move my things into a smaller space. I’d spend hours organizing that space, only to be told that space was now needed for a computer so he could play games and relax after work. And of course I could use it for my writing!–until that was a bother to him. And of course by this time, my Crafty Goodness had been shoved into a different, less accessible space–a small finished attic behind our closet.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized what was happening. I had just reacted, reacted, reacted to each event. But I was being minimized to make more room for him. Our unfinished living room was taken over to hold his tools and the thousands of dollars of remote control helicopters he bought instead of us having a family vacation that year.

He was looking for happiness. Always trying to find the next thing that would surely finally make him happy, give him the contentment he couldn’t seem to find. I had been that for him at one point–“the answer to his prayers”–but all toys wear out, right? So onto the next one.

I felt responsible for his happiness. Only nothing I could do was going to make that happen, was it? He had to do it himself. But I allowed his needs to overshadow mine. I became an accessory to his life, my things were in the way. I needed to get rid of books, I needed to move my craft supplies, my fabric, my sewing. I needed to make room.

So I let him talk me into slowly giving up me to make more room for him–emotionally, physically, mentally.

I did that.

I allowed it to happen.

People pleasing puts us in a Less-Than position. Others become more important, and we make ourselves less.

Yesterday I was angry at my years of weakness. My fear of his consequences was stronger than my will to protect myself, to stand up for myself.

“Stupid!” I yelled at myself. “Weak!” I yelled at myself. I cried. Got mad. (I’m way more mean to myself than I would ever be to another person.)

But this morning, how a night’s sleep can make all the difference. This morning I realized that it was the compost of that fear and weakness my strength had sprung from.

My current strength grew from the exceedingly fertile soil of that fear, of that weakness, those thousands of little reactions rather than a chosen response. All the small choices to not stand up for myself, ground down and watered. One day strength sprouted as I recognized the truth of my situation–that if I did not leave right then, I might face physical obliteration rather than just emotional.

He was escalating. Getting more comfortable with glaringly shoving his 6 foot frame into a doorway, making me at 5 foot 4 and much less strong feel trapped inside that room, wondering how to flee, scoping out exit routes. Getting more comfortable at grabbing what I held in my arms, trying to wrest it away from me. Comfortable being physical.

I know there are likely some great metaphors for my strength out of weakness situation: the wildflower springing from a crack in the concrete. The towering oak tree springing from an insignificantly sized acorn. The peach tree that grew from the pit I’d buried in the dirt as a five-year-old child.

And I realized that the strength I found grew out of all those years of reacting and becoming Less Than.

And I got the hell out.

Unfortunately, I realized the truth of the situation after our children had already been fully marinated in the old dynamic. (Yes, there are regrets for my slow learning.)

I think basically what I’m trying to say is this:

One–Pay attention to your body because it’s trying to tell you something. Pay attention as soon as you hear it speaking.

We are made with intelligent bodies. That trembling, that fear, that fight or flight response is there for a reason. We need to listen and choose: am I or am I not in danger? When we carry trauma, we have to choose to respond, not just react.

Two–our strength can grow out of our weakness. When we listen to our body and we choose to respond (not just react) based on the truth of that moment, we’ve just sprung from fear to strength.

So go be a wildflower, or a tree. Let the soil of your weakness be the fertile ground for your strength.

This slow learner believes you can.