Oct 11

  Some years ago now, my friend who runs a charity dealing with kids reflected that I "made myself very small". He was pointing it out as unusual. And that no one else he knew made themselves quite that small. He was talking about me taking up space with demands or expectations or a need to respect who I am. I didn't have it.

I didn't think a lot of it at the time. I understood what he meant. To me. That's how it was. Of course you don't impose. At all. Even slightly. And you are responsive. And adapt.

But that was the first time someone had very explicitly set that out.

And the commenter wasn't a random. It was someone used to dealing with kids with all sorts of difficulties. Kids for where there was often nowhere else to go. Complicated and rough backgrounds. But all sorts. A background of understanding of the push and pull of demands and space and development.

And even though he didn't really mean to. It was an assessment. A nose twitch. Something. Is up.

I had heard variations of this before in much more vague and tangential terms.

I was no trouble. That you couldn't tell if I had been somewhere. Nothing was out of place. And the very earliest instances of this, that I was so "laid back" that I was horizontal. The laid back comment was when I was still a teen - just about. And. I didn't really understand what was being said - oh I understood the words. But. How they fit with me, I didn't see. I just shrugged. Sure. Perhaps. I don't demand. Don't react.

As I've got older there has been a recurring thought process. An identification of a continued pattern of my existence with others. People ask. I answer. People need. I give. People take up space. I adapt. Over. And over. And in work terms. Giving me ever bigger responsibilities. A never ending set of job hats. And expectations. No mistakes. No failures. Everyone else brings the broken crockery to you. No expectations there. All the expectations here. If you're being critical. I softly enable this. By always doing. By always managing. Until job specs would come up with two words. And that. Was the expectation of enough. I would fill in the rest.

I think it was the wear on me that started to make this noticeable to me. And the repetition. Particularly at work. At work it became entrenched. Part of the furniture. It wasn't about me being an expert. And doing expert things. It expanded. I would inevitably correct and do better. With anything. Not a boast. I am. Utterly uninterested. In rating it. Or comparing it. I do not care. It's an observation. Correct the pitch. Oh. Now I get to write that. Understand the business. Oh. Now I do strategy. As well as coding. And architecture. And everything. Because there is also the opposite side of that. Someone else realises they couldn't meet that level. They get an anxiety response. And pass the task to me. I do it. Hand it back. They feel better. The behaviour reinforces. And subtly. I end up doing everything.

At the start of this, I would often use the phrase, stick a broom up my ass, and I will sweep the floor as well.

Therapy. Eventually asks who I am. One of the few questions that found a hole. A gap. No answer.

I don't know who I am. Do you know who you are ? You do ? I don't. Wait. What.

Who am I.

And the acknowledgement in therapy. Fucky childhood. Became louder and louder. It was already. "known". But now. It had letters after its name. A certificate on the wall. A title. An evaluation. Not good. Neglect. In some instances. Abuse. Really ? Surely not. Denial. Isn't that like. Normal ?

No.

Flip it around. Make it about someone else. Now what's your response ?

Diabolical.

Give it back to you.

No big deal.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Again. I knew I applied a different evaluation to myself than others. Particularly in older life where I am very understanding and forgiving of people. A background in how hard life can be for everyone has taught me to walk softly there. And that a single ordinary day can be challenging. But for me. Do better. Not good enough. Be the example you want to see in the world. Take up no space. Do not make anyone elses life harder than it already is. Act to regulate. Soothe. Make their lot easier.

But.

Something about the direct contrast dragged this glaringly out into the light.

I think a lot of people, guys in particular, can live somewhere in this space. Where their own needs are minimised. I think. This is part of human society coding. Guys are supposed to provide and give it up. Of course it's not that simple. There's also the alpha male taking all the cookies model as well.

But in my case. This minimisation. Was honed to a vicious degree.

Parents.

That taught me my opinion absolutely held no weight. At all. And was not even wanted. Let alone considered. Shut up. I am. As were my siblings. An inconvenience. A weight and obstacle to my parents otherwise delighting in life. And we were constantly shown that.

My mom in particularly was very volatile. Aggressive. Argumentative. Always seeking confrontation. Not a soother. Not a calm de-escalator. But an initiator. You learned. To read the room. Before the room changed temperature. To placate or run. And often. The best thing to do was avoidance. If you don't encounter the maker of the storm. You avoid the storm. Which works fine until the maker of the storm actively comes looking for you to cause a problem.

We can get into the whys and wherefores of that. Cathartic. Taking out your rage and frustration, anxiety et al on your kids. An easy target. An always available lightning rod. But. It doesn't matter to this story. The result does. 

My father was mostly absent. Not physically. Emotionally. In fact. Both parents. Utterly unavailable emotionally. No comfort. No interest. Nothing. Go away. My dad spent a lot of his time wrapped in his own miseries. Depression. Anger. So much anger. Resentment. Huge amounts of resentment. I'd go so far as to say that my dads life was defined by resentment. Every major piece of the mental landscape was informed by resentment. Envy of others. Grudges against transgressions, from serious, to imagined. A seething rage that he could have, should have been something else. Better. Bigger. Richer. But he was held back. He wasn't to be clear. Sure. He had nothing handed to him on a silver platter, being one of four kids out of a poor east end home. But he wasn't held back either. He had opportunities. But the thing my dad missed in his assessment. Was his inability to take a risk. To make that step and try something. A plan with an understanding and mitigation for risks. He never could. Would always freeze. Then watch others execute. And blame them. For a missed opportunity. Or for not bringing him along. Always. Everyone elses fault.

I grew up in that environment. Where no love is expressed. No hugs. No encouragement. No interest. Treated as a punching bag when necessary. Expectations held high. Not listened to. And I thought that was normal. Stand on your own two feet. Do not impose. Do not ask. Your needs are unimportant. Don't exist in fact.

And. Internally. Though no one would really know unless you were watching closely. I operated.

I did not drink. I did not eat. Did not ask for a rest. Did not pee. Did nothing. I endured. This was my default. Do you want something to drink ? No. Something to eat ? No. Because. That's what you do. Take up no space. If I don't ask for a drink you don't have to get me one. You don't have to spend energy on my behalf.

I still do this. That tug. Is enormous. I have to consciously loosen the grip, realise someone wants me to be comfortable. And say sure. A cup of tea would be nice.... if you're having one... if you're not... don't bother.

Because. What would a demand be, without a legal minimal effort clause on its backend.

I will literally stand in discomfort. Hungry. Parched. Dizzy. And endure. Hit the floor. Rather than ask.

Although these days. The CFS has rather forced my hand at the end bit. It doesn't negotiate. And so I am placed in an awful position of having to override one of my strongest pulls - of being small - in order to stave off the CFS effect. I am sorry. I need to sit down. I am sorry. That psychological battle. Costs. A war within. Do NOT do this. I have NO CHOICE. Pathetic. I know.

I have been told in the past. That I am terrible at asking for help. This is just another way of encoding the same message. You do not take up space. And it's true. I am. Bad. At asking for help. I wont do it. I will literally in many case just rather die. Than ask. It is so strong in me. That I will happily cease to exist rather than to put someone out and ask for something.

The very long and dark shadow of my parents teachings.

Of late. This last year or so. Therapy. And comments. And others on the back of those widening doors into information. It has now become... obvious. Blindingly obvious. Where the flaw lies. That making myself small. Is not a bump in the landscape. It IS the landscape.

There are many parts of me. Many threads. Many truths. I am not just one thing.

But this. Making myself small. And available. Is a big part of me. Of how I act. Of choices that are no longer choices for me. They are automatic. I have had that.. free will... removed.

The other day. I asked a thinking machine. Which has now months, more than a years worth of information on me. Compiled. Related. Many things. I asked it. If it had anything to say.

And it pulled this thread.

That I spend a vast amount of energy understanding, tracking, questioning and fixing other things. People. Systems. Everything. And am understanding. And caring. And "tread softly". But that there is an asymmetry as it called it. In that I do not apply the same thing to me. And that the pattern is always one way around. That I am never met. Never understood. Always adapting. Never adapted to. I do not take up space.

Damning.

Because it is the echo of all that has been said. Another voice in the chorus that makes it look in hindsight so obvious.

There is no happy end to this story.

No satisfying conclusion. Just a path. Where we can see where we are. And how we got here. And where it started. And what that means.

In theory. If you have an understanding. It means you maybe can think about fixing it. Mitigating it. At least nudging it.

But the universe is not always like that. Somethings once done cannot be undone. You cannot bring the dead back to life. Time. Runs in a single direction. At least for a subjective human experience anyway, if not everything.

I can see the amount of damage that has been done to me. A subtle building of walls into an entire castle of fuckery. That can, most of the time, pass unnoticed in polite society. Indeed, is even seen as a "good thing" in polite society. The giver. Not the taker.

But scratch the surface. And there are problems of agency. And extent. And down that end of the spectrum. Problems in dealing with life. Dealing with things that are too big to be dealt with by a single person.

I had a conversation with my friend about agency a long time ago.

He pondered that society needed people that were wired to be more selfless than selfish. And that if upbringing a certain amount of grim conditioning got you there, then, that was ok.

The problem I said. Is agency. It is one thing to make a choice to help. It is something else altogether to be forced to help. And if you are conditioning people to have no choice. A compulsion. A hardwiring. That. Is very problematic. For everyone concerned. Not only the person without a choice.

It whispers too closely to slavery. Coercion. Suffering.

In any case.

This is part of me.

Part of who I am.

I do not know who I am. I have inadvertently been a mirror to everyone else. I used to say that a long time ago. Without knowing the full extent of how true that was. That I would hold a mirror to people. Reflect back who they were.  Because what I didn't realise at the time. I had exquisitely trained machinery to do just that. To polymorph into someone elses expectations and shape.

There is a bit of a sharp irony here as well though.

In some cases. Perhaps the ultimate expression of the opposite.

I do not toe the line. I do not do what society expects. I loathe societal expectations. I am comfortable with bucking a social expectation. Come to this party. Dress like this.

No.

For some reason. That bit. Sticks up in the opposite direction. Perhaps because as a kid that was not one of the things I was asked to do very often. Dress like this. Go here and play nice. Neglect was the watchword. But I did have to endure some of this. But perhaps a minor amount.

Perhaps. It is a reaction to the rest of it. A fucked up attempt at balance. If I have to be a chameleon in so much else. I will absolutely not kow tow to your corporate horseshit. Your parties. Your expectations of who I should meet. But. Put me in a room with them. And I absolutely will.

Perhaps. This is just an expression of the run or placate. Avoid or deal with.

If I don't have to deal with it in the first place - avoid the storm maker. Then I will. Exit. Run. Don't let the storm catch you. And in life. Those storm makers, unlike my mom, rarely if ever then pursue you. So avoidance. Is safer.

Perhaps in the end. That is exactly it.

Avoidance.

Avoidance and extreme placation.

Still running the same software my parents taught me.

What a good boy. 

 Or perhaps. Not to overload the same thread. The denial of somethings is actually my preference. Ethical. Rational. Whatever. Of choosing not to have inflated horseshit. Of being honest. Of making a choice. Agency. Not tied hands.

Or a mix of all of them.

Some ethics. Overlaying old programming.