(the first post in this series is here: On Being a Social Outcast )
I hope this makes some sense to those of you who are reading this. Now that I’m no longer living in the pitch blackness of addictions, I’ve had a revelation this morning of gigantic proportions. In the bright light of day, I am seeing someone brand new that I didn’t even know existed.
It’s the sensation of having my own feelings. My feelings!! For the first time in my whole life, I’m feeling MY VERY OWN FEELINGS. My very own, honest to goodness, feelings. No-one and no-thing is stopping them from coming to me. No one… or No thing is stopping them.
No person; no substance; no distracting behavior; is coming in between me and MY FEELINGS! It’s sooooo strange!!! And it feels…. so good!! They’re marvelous. I am breathing… my feelings. I can almost see them. They are like wisps of air delicately moving through sun light. Light wisps of air, morphing… shape-shifting… dancing. Like beams of sunlight dancing on dappled flowers. I’m watching them…. moving… changing. It’s pure delight. They whisper to me….
“We are here. We are here.”
I feel caressed by them as they move all around me, and ever so gently entwine me in their movements. Now here, now there. Delicate touches… here… there. Light, light touches as they dance all around me. They’re like fairies. Like little lightening bugs flitting around in the evening air. I am enthralled by them.
They are my feelings. My very, very, very own feelings.
I’m harkening back to when I was a little girl. She was NEVER allowed to have any of these feelings. The father forbid it. He screamed at her and he beat her. He showed her how little she meant to him by his neglect. Somewhere in the middle of all this, she figured out that she must never, never, ever, ever…. feel anything. He would kill her if he found her having feelings. Every day he’d pound into her that it was only HIS feelings that counted; HIS views that counted; HIS thoughts that counted, and she better well not have any of these, of her own. He was big, and he was mighty, and she was small, and she was powerless. So, to save her life, she caved. She gave up her whole being. Gave herself up entirely, to stay alive. Until there was nothing left of her. Until she was unrecognizable as human. Then she gave up herself even more. She, whoever she was, disappeared entirely. In the process of abuse and trauma, many, many years ago, before I was born, I’d heard she had existed, but by now she was surely dead.
This is what I thought.
But, apparently, it wasn’t true. At one time she did exist. And she didn’t die.
She didn’t die. She buried herself underground. Very, very, very deeply… underground. She’s piled a GI-hugic pile of refuse over her. She found a place to hide, where she thought she would be safe. She was alone. No one there to listen to her. But at least she was safe.
Alcohol, junk food, cigarettes, severe continuous depression with an obsession for death (involving actual suicide attempts), hyper-alert anxiety (continual terror), dissociation, obsessive masturbation, narcissism-like behavior, avoidance behavior, general sense of overwhelm by the demands of life and general hiding, bipolar-like symptoms (her official diagnosis which I am having a suspicion about not being accurate), a physical response erupting in ulcerative colitis, borderline personality behavior-like symptoms, social anxiety, extreme codependency on others for approval, and trauma bonding to her father. Even more refuse than this lay on top of her. There was a lot more, but I can’t, off the top of my head, think of all the refuse she had buried herself under.
I was sure there was none of her left. Or never even existed in the first place? Anyway, if she did exist at all, she had certainly died back then, while in the process of living under the roof of… the father. I didn’t know. I believed what I was being told. Sitting on top of the pile… the introject father… roaring at me…telling me she never existed. Or, if she did, she was evil… a toxic waste dump who would sicken anyone who came near her. He, like the real father, was determined she stay dead and buried for all eternity.
When I first started putting down the addictions, I didn’t have a goal in my mind of un-burying her. I didn’t even know she existed to un-bury. All I knew was that the alcohol had to go or I was going to wind up living on the streets selling my body for booze. But in the process of putting down my first addiction (alcohol) these last 34 years, and then letting go of all the other ensuing addictions and obsessions for the year or so, I think I have, by shear accident, unburied her.
She’s been dead and buried for so long now that I don’t believe I even thought she ever existed in the first place. In fact, she was very close to being only an abortion statistic. Her father wished her dead from the moment he first laid eyes on her new-born body. He would have murdered her at birth if he’d thought he could have gotten away with it. As it was, he treated her as though she was anything but viable. He knew it was illegal to kill her body, so he set about to kill what he could of her… her spirit and her soul. Since she belonged to him, he could do with her whatever he wished.
I thought she’d been long-gone-dead. But, somehow, she’s managed to make it through it all… alive. Barely alive… but still alive. Very close to being stone cold dead… but still alive. I think, that by removing all the refuse she’d been buried under all these decades, I brought this person… who I wasn’t even aware existed… back to the surface again.
This is what I think has been happening to her… to me. I’ve brought a huge part of me… no… the center of me…. back to the surface of the planet, and have allowed God’s Love to breathe the breath of life back again, into her lifeless body.
All these years, it was she who had acted as container for all… my feelings.
She’s marvelous!!! A priceless beauty. My feelings, my delicate and ever changing… feelings. And no-one, or no-thing, will ever bury them again. They are fragile. They are like children, carrying a bottomless well of wisdom. They wish to hurt no one. They only want to be listened to… to live… to dance… to feel what they feel…. and to love. God and I are holding her… gently… in the cup of our hands. And we will never allow anyone, nor anything, to ever try to bury her… again.
The next post in this series is here: The Peace of God Can be Found Inside the Spaces