Dec 17

 Running on fumes. A few hours of sleep and then I had to stay up. And maintain. Shakily. Slowly. Delicately. Because I had a visitor.

Our all round good sort came up from the office today to drop my laptop off. I always feel bad about someone driving all that way just to do my sorry ass a favour. And whilst here we had a look at the car. He's a former ( and still is ) tip top mechanic. He now does it on the side as his own business. He's one of those guys who knows how to strip a car down to its underpants and put it back together again, and has all the associated skills of welding, electronics and blah. Andy uses him as the company Mr Fixit. The super Mr Practical in an office full of non practical nerds.

As it turns out the car needs a proper garage tear down. A problem with the traction control. Either genuinely. Or. More likely. Fucky electronics.

After disappearing for a day on Monday, the car had the good grace to show the error and sulk whilst he was there. His fancier ODB tool showed the error where mine did not. I was aware of a two tier of ODB tools. The basic ones don't always show everything. The ones that plug into a computer with a software suite do the whole shebang.

Bless his heart he had come with all his stuff to completely service the car.

Needless to say I don't like people going out of their way for me. So. I declined. Multiple times. But. I could tell I was doing a wrong thing. So in the end I said it would be good if he could service the car, if it wasn't too much trouble, and not a hassle and not too much time and I didn't want to put him out and blah.

So, the car was serviced backwards and forwards. At basically a zero cost. With high end stuff.

And in the end the problem with the car went away - he had disconnected the offending bits under the car, checked them out, and put them back together again. Such is the way of such things, sometimes, that makes problems go away. Been there. Done that. You also get this a bit with computers sometimes. Have you tried. Switching it off and on again.

But. It feels like the fault is intermittent. Now you see it. Now you don't. It's potentially an aged bit of wiring somewhere with a joint that has gone dry.

The problem with the fault is not that the car might explode. But if it reoccurs, the car goes into "limp" mode. And if I'm on a motorway between me and the people down south. I'm going to have an ugly slow ass journey ( max speed of 50mph if I am lucky - not a great experice on the motorway ).

I will give it a little test today. In theory I have it booked into the dealership for the 30th. But if there are no errors, what are they going to do with it ( given I have already at this point had it looked at with nothing obvious showing up ).

Anyway.

I was very appreciative of him coming all that way to help my sorry ass out.

When he had left I reflected on it.

And also the more in depth things we have been going over about me and my childhood.

I squirm when I am helped. Proper. Squirm. Uncomfortable. I am not worthy. It's hard to put into words. It's not really a conscious thing per se. It's so ingrained. Nice acts clash head on with my perception that I shouldn't have nice things done for me. It's a real. Assault. On what the natural order of the world is for me.

And. When I sit and think about it a bit. And feel the edges a little bit. I can feel an even stronger reaction lurking beneath the surface. It gets tied down and leashed. But it's there. And. I can feel. It's not always going to be leashed. Push it. And it will free itself. And that is a hard pushback against help. I can feel. In a very fucked up way. That it will cause me to push people away. With some energy. With some heat. No ! Like. I have been offended. And I will not allow you to do this for me. Go away. Shove.

I do get it. I understand what this is. This is a way deeper and way stronger absolute belief that I don't deserve something. And now I am annoyed. Angry. Upset. That you are challenging that. You are not allowed to do that. You are crossing a boundary.

A very, very, fucked up one. One that is a horrible inversion. This is a childhood scar dragged into the light to squirm under observation. It's also one I have not been aware of at that depth. I know I don't do well asking for help. People tell me. Repeatedly. I know I don't like putting people out. I hate it. Even when they are at great pains to tell me it's not a problem.

Step back one step.

And you can smell the humble to the point of trauma thing going on. Someone. Has hurt you. Repeatedly. Over time. Where you now think this is how you have to be. Taking up no space. You cannot be any kind of impact on anyone.

Straight up. Childhood. Where to be anything like that as a kid. Leads you into bad places. Consequences. Pain. Torture. A physical punishment. Shut up. Be quiet. You don't count. And also. I'm going to pick on you. Because I don't feel good. And you are my outlet for all my hurt. Resentment. And cruelty. And neglect. Evil.

I. Do. Understand. Even if I backtrack from using the "proper" labels.

But again. I'm not stupid. The intellectual bit of me understands all the folds. That the whole squirm when accepting help. Is just another supporting strut and scar tissue to the overall thing.

I haven't talked to anyone about any of this stuff really.

Not me. Initiating conversations. It goes. Silent. At most. I have talked a tiny bit about it with my sister only. And then. Barely scratching the surface. A hint than anything.

I can identify there is that previously noted reticence in me to reveal it. Very out of character for me. Where everything is an open book. This. Wants to hide in the shadows instead.

Last weekend when I was gaming with my friends. I told them I had been in therapy most of the year. But. I stopped short. Of revealing anything about my childhood. It was there. But. It didn't come out. And these friends are the kind of people I am free and easy with. We have talked about all sorts. Back and forth.

And I was aware of it. Part of me wanted to say something. And part of me did not.

Again. I get it. Textbook. Not rocket science.

But the split between my intellectual knowledge and the.. living it. Is very wide here. There are definitely two different realities in me. I am not ignorant to any of what's going on. I understand what the technical manual says. I can tell you what all the buttons do. And how to program the timer.

But living it. I am very much feeling it out. This is the gap between understanding a thing. And grokking a thing. And weirdly, in this instance, this isn't an external thing. This is very much an internal intrinsic me thing. I am not sure of how to be. It is. Perhaps. Akin to standing in front of a mirror. And trying to understand how to smile. What is a smile. What is that thing. That's weird.

Again. I get it. This is me trying to process something I have had little to zero handling of. It has always been there. And I know it. From a textbook point of view. But I absolutely don't know it at all from a living with it point of view.

And. More.

I am not sure about this. At all. Not sure. Not sure. There is. A tentative suggestion there. A feeling. A trend. That some of this. Is starting to erode a fundamental mental bit of torture for me that I was unaware was torturing me that hard. In my busy always engaged capability to cope. I was unaware that the oil was dry, and the engine was grinding metal, and that was one reason that my mental health stuff was hurting. It was. Unresolved trauma. In that classical textbook way.

But. I don't know. It is a glimmer at the moment. It could be a thing that is small. I could just be imagining it at the moment - seeing patterns where they dont exist, a shifting of faces in clouds because it is currently so subtle. But it does feel like something is there. Something. I can't immediately dismiss. It is also slightly disconcerting. Oh. You didn't know that. You know this is how this shit works. This is what therapy and shrinkery tell you over and over again. But you didn't think that bit applied to you. You were ok like that. But. Perhaps you were not. And what it was. Was that you couldn't see it. Because it was buried. Or. Not buried. But wallpapered up. Accepted as part of the furniture. Oh. Those screaming tormented souls next to the floor standing lamp ? Don't worry about those. That's my room decoration. All normal. See. I walk past them everyday. You get used to the screaming. It's normal.

In any case.

True or not.

I also perceive that it is just one thread. Or. Perhaps. Deeper. And more worrying yet. It is the same thread, I am just a long way from pulling it all up yet. Like the scene in the Bridge over the River Kwai. Where Alec Guiness sees the exposed wire in the sand. And pulls on it. And pulls. And pulls. Each bit revealing more of it. Until you get to the explosives. And a revelation. It could. Be that. And at this point. I've just dug a little bit of wire out of the sand. I knew this wire was always here. But. Now I've dug it up and pulled on it a little. And oh.

Perhaps. All my struggles with everything. With loss. With that feeling of losing everything I love. Of the world being how it is. People how they are. That huge burden I have feeling like I always have to be the parent in the room. The rock. The support. The solver of problems. Perhaps all of it. Springs from that same well. All that unhappiness. Depression. Is just the flower with its roots in my childhood.

Maybe.

The shrinks would be delighted, in terms of theory, if that was true.

I don't know if it's true.

I have. A disconcerting feeling. There is a non zero chance. That it might be. Where once. I did not know that.

The void that is inside me. The lack of care. Neglect. Has set me up. To feel loss from those genuinely close to me, who can show at least some sign of unconditional love, an absolutely cataclysmic thing for me. Because it pushes me back into the original state of hell itself. It echoes my siblings leaving me on my own with my parents. Abandoned. And as a young kid. With no support in how to deal with that. No comfort. Just that relentless expectation and pressure to shut up, be quiet, get out of the way, where are you I need to unleash toxicity on you. Come here punching bag.

And this. Is mostly me to a tee in adulthood. Punish me. I'm ok with that. But don't help me. I will get in trouble for needing help.

I think. Some people who I have interacted with in the past. If not consciously. If not able to put an exact finger on it. Have sussed something of it out. A pattern. Selfless. To a point of pain. And beyond. That there is something not quite right there. And I think. Sometimes. It comes out that some people around me who give a shit. Become protective of me. Even if it's not stated verbally. Or consciously understood. I think. There almost becomes this subconscious small urge. To protect me. Because. I am vulnerable.

But it is one of those things. Subtle. Unstated. Not understood. But I do see the meta patterns there. I can also understand better why sometimes people do that for me. Or feel inclined to do that for me.

Oh. I see. You can see. A little of my shadow. Hiding amongst the other shadows. But very visible in the actions the mask does. The tendencies the happy smiling mask does.

Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

And there's that. That whole sense of a soft denial. Nails dug in. And being dragged backwards. At each step. No. Can't be. No. Surely not. Well ok. But surely not.

And then a pause. Ok. Too much. I'm stopping thinking about this for a moment. A pause for breath. For recovery. Instinctive wisdom. At least that bit is functioning well. Rome was not built in a day. You do not have to process the entire universe in one step. It's more than ok to pace yourself. It is a marathon. Not a sprint. You wrote those words on your fridge several years ago. You get this.

Ho hum.

This week at therapy. For just a moment. We grazed over my deep sadnesses. We were talking about it again in terms of memory. And that. Somethings in my memory. Some very terrible things. Were crystal clear. High definition. And that. If I went near them. It was reliving that moment. In all its intensity. And it was devastating. And. I only briefly. Very briefly. Internally did that catalogue check. This is correct ? List them. A micro second. Of reading the filenames in the folders. And wham. My mood went into negative hell. I stopped. I closed my eyes. To stop myself from crying. I struggled to keep my breathing in check. Ragged. Up. Down. Everything. Focused. On not losing it. Not bursting into tears.

The shrink told me it was ok. Take my time. What was going on. I could not answer. That moment when grief steals all your words but beyond that, it is trying to steal your breath. Trying to stop you breathing. That feeling like someone has punched you in the stomach. And is now trying to pull your insides out. That knot. That ache. That steals everything away from you. Can't talk. Because. If I formed a word. It would require just enough control, that I would lose control of everything else. And the entire system would fall down. And I would burst into tears and sorrow and spiral out of control. 

So.

That happened. In therapy this week.

The shrink re-iterated that it sounded very much like trauma. Where traumatic memories do not go away. They get crystallised into high clarity.

We have talked about this before. I find. I can also remember things like this that weren't traumatic however.

Also.

It's now very clear.

I have that same crystal clear memory of my asthma attack as a child. A few moments there. Frozen in time. At once awful. Oh look. We nearly died. And at the same time. No big deal. A non event. No emotion. No connection. Nothing with my parents. A void. Is that normal. Or is that you going into a switch off mode in light of the environment you find yourself in where you have no parental help when you are literally dying on your ass.

Anyway.

Whatever.

My inner critic has had enough.

Stupid. Shut up.

None of it is relevant. Or happened. Ok it happened. But. It doesn't matter. Shut up. Go do something else.

Oi oi.

I think. I am very brutalised.

But such a good masker. So very clever. And adaptable. Always one step ahead. Always one step ahead of everyone. It makes hiding. So much easier. It makes it necessary. To be one step ahead.

Survival trait.

Sayeth the shrink.

My ravenous intellect. Is born out of survival.

I reflected darkly the other day. That if a thread of that is true. Then. If you want to raise a human that's going to challenge things intellectually. Neglect them and force them to placate the adults around them and implicitly reward them for figuring out how to do that well. Avoid beatings where smart adaptability is shown.

As the shrink says. At what cost.

And you're more likely to break the pot. Rather than forge it. 

There is.

Perhaps even a darker and deeper level going on here.

When I was a kid. I perceived. That I was under threat from a great evil. It was. Some. Externalisation I couldn't put a finger on. Suffice to say. I knew I was unsafe. Pursued. In danger. And. That I was utterly vulnerable to it. Dark. Things. But that. Quickly over time. As a kid. I would do these mental excercises - though I absolutely didn't understand at the time what they were. I would erect defences. Methods. Ways of behaving. And at first. I can clearly remember. I put up walls against this darkness. It was a fight. A horrible one. A scary one. And then. My defences got better. More sure. I didn't have to patrol the walls everyday. I was more sure of them. Sometimes they would scale them. And threaten to tear it all down, rush me, and absolutely devour me. But. I could step in. And bolster them. And say. No. And as time increasingly went on. I got better at it. And the dynamic slowly shifted. I was no longer at its mercy. I could hold my ground. I could negotiate. ( there was also a real odd internal visualisation of one aspect of this for a long time. it was a sliding door in and infinitely extending wall. not a full size door. more like. a trap door. but vertical. wooden. with a round handle. and the darkness would try to snap it open. and i would be on the other side. trying to hold it shut. And it would slide back and forth. sometimes slamming open or shut. slam click wrestle. slam. wrestle. struggle. And I absolutely had to keep that door closed or else the darkness would invade and devour me )

At some point in my childhood I can remember that it ended up being some personalised version. I could talk to the darkness. I started to understand the darkness. I think. At that point. It morphed from what it was. That childhood fear and uncertainty in my environment. To something of a companion. I could find it. In the quietest of places. In the darkest of places. Away from lights. Away from people. On my own. This very much drew me towards odd behaviour. I found solace sitting in the dark. A peace.

As an adult. With my dogs. This was well well developed by that point. Sitting in the woods at night. Pitch dark. I can breathe. I can reach out. And feel. It is a safe place. My safe place. And over there. Where there are lights. And People. And things. And houses. And society. Makes me recoil. It is unsafe.

And now I wonder.

Whether all of that. Is just a child feeling very unsafe in their home. And dealing with it in their own head. And slowly becoming more sophisticated in how they deal with their dangerous environment. And then. It finally morphing into something I related to. Part of me. Part of my understanding. And that I preferred the cold to the heat. The dark to the light. The emptiness to the full.

After I had slept some yesterday after the car had been done and Kev was on his way back home. I decided to check out the top of my road. And see if the nice wood fired pizza van was at the top of the road. Probably unwise with nausea. But. It was a whim. And it was. And I ordered a pizza. And obviously. You have to wait.

Dark. Cold. Winter.

Everyone else. And I do mean everyone. Hides from it. They go into the light and warmth of the pub. They retreat to wait in their home nearby.

And then there's me.

Sitting with my back to a wooden fence. In the dark. Isolated. Removed. Watching the twinkling of lights. Watching the people chat and be happy in the warm and the light.

And I don't want to be in there with them. I want to be here. In the cold. In the dark. In the shadow of a fence. Quiet and still and watchful.

This was me with my dogs. Blend into the environment. The woods. The brush.

And I got that sensation again. Of how very different I was. Pulled in the opposite direction to people. And I would endure the cold and discomfort. I wouldn't even blink. So that I could be on the outside. Subtly. There is no sense of safety for me in that light. There is a sense of safety for me in the dark. And. I also reflected. It's not that I can't do it. I can shift colours. The chameleon. I can put on my happy face. I can climb into my social set of clothes. And I can dance and smile and laugh and light up in that light.

I can be the thing that many that live in the light think I am. That happy, confident, caring, warm, social leader. That's who I am.

It is not who I am.

But as I've said before.

That's just my perspective. You are, what you are to people through their lens. And it is no less of who you are, than what you think you are on your own.

Both of those worlds, all of those worlds, can be true at once.

And me, yourself, I, you. Are no better an unbiased observer of ourselves than anyone else is. You also have subjective bias.

Anyway.

For me. In my heart. I am outside in the dark. Not inside in the light. And. Leave me alone.