When emotions are so huge you’ve got to push them All down
For years, I defined myself as phobic of emotional pain. Even the hint that the pain lay ahead was enough to make me mentally run away. I lost far too much time being dissociated. Like any proper phobia, just thinking about confronting it felt unbearable.
Luckily, over the course of 14 years with my therapist, that fear was something that came up. A Lot. Which gave me endless chances to get it “right”.
It was complex, getting past the fear and to the point of addressing the emotions. I had learned very early not to expose my feelings. Though I wanted to curl up in the chair, wrap my arms around myself, or hunch over, I wouldn’t allow it.
As a child, showing weakness was dangerous.
My father abducted my sister and me when I was just 9. Much of the time, he left us with Them (a group of 3 men and 2 women.) They were sexual sadists and would exploit any opportunity to break me down.
So, I learned to fight the urges to physically shield myself. In therapy, this meant I would sit, one leg crossed over the other, as though screaming; this is my space.
Eventually, I realized this was also blocking my feelings. One day, I dared to uncross my legs. It was scary. It was vulnerable. It created a change in the therapeutic relationship that reverberated across everything we talked about.
Controlling the fear of the fear
It all started with declaring my fear. “I don’t want to talk about this” or “this feels really bad”. For a time, that was enough. Still, there was this ledge I didn’t dare step over. My therapist eventually pushed me to say more.
I tried to just talk about the fear part of it. It made me want to cut. It made me want to dissociate. When I tried to sit with the fear at home, I frequently landed myself in a panic attack.
I back tracked. Months went by while I practiced breathing exercises to ground myself (plus, I admit, anxiety medications.) When I could bring myself out of a panic attack, I tried again. I worked at controlling smaller fears. Fear of confronting a roommate or of making a small, intentional mistake.
I grew to believe I was strong enough to live through the fear.
But what about the emotional pain? Just the idea of being vulnerable, of being genuine when I could get hurt, felt SO bad. However, I was getting mad. I didn’t want to define myself as incapable of taking risks anymore.
Still, saying it aloud, in real time, intimidated me.
Taking the long way around
I had protected my tender underside this way for over 30 years. I wanted to talk about it. Needed to talk about it. But the brutal voice in my mind blocked me every time.
I wrote about it in my journal. Honestly, I spent too much time simply complaining about how hard it was. Once I allowed myself to be vulnerable there, I found I wanted to share it with my therapist. It still frightened me to say it aloud in real time.
Sending entries ahead of time for my therapist to read was an acceptable compromise. As a first step, she read them before our session, and we would talk about it. Indirectly. The details still stuck in my throat.
When that was possible, we moved on. I would give her my entry when I got there and watched her read it. Discussion came a little easier. Eventually, I could read it aloud to her. The end game, talking about my feelings directly, followed.
The consequences of facing my fear
Like any phobia, my phobia of feeling my feelings faded when forced to face the light of day. Not to say that I did it once, and it became easy. For me, the key lay in expressing what I had repressed.
The pain of my little self was so deep and so profound. I feared if I started crying for it, I wouldn’t be able to stop. Then, to my deep frustration, I found I couldn’t lower the wall between that pain and now.
I went digging around for a skill to trigger me. I found it in television shows and movies.
I found I could cry for their pain. Not just crying. Body wracking sobs.
Eventually, I connected my sadness to the tears. The first time was frightening. Much like the first pure happy day that ends my book. I recognized the sadness without polluting it with everything else.
Those tears were so healing.
Behind all the sadness, I was horrified to find anger. Not just a little.
It felt life-threatening. I tried releasing it physically. I tried to break dishes. I tried screaming in my car while I drove down the highway. I even tried punching pillows. That didn’t really work for me. I felt worse.
Writing and talking served me best.
Surprise to beat all surprises. Feeling sad and angry opened me up. I was more able to feel happy, excited, awe at the world around me. Beauty was brighter, now that I had the wave length in my mind to let it in.
Prior to feeling my feelings, I experienced those things when I was safely home in my room. I was so afraid something would hurt me if I stayed present with anything good. Most especially with people.
That meant genuine connection was impossible. Now, increasingly, it was. I allowed people to matter to me.
Making it all worth it
Was the elaborate effort worth it in the end?
Absolutely. I have found, for me, feeling my feelings allows me to want to be alive. That is huge, since I was suicidal for most of my life.
It was rather like my vision after cataract surgery. Before the surgery, I had three prescriptions, each worse than the one before. After the surgery, the world was literally brighter. There were more colors, and everything was so clear. Even 1 ½ years later, seeing so much has not gotten old.
There was a price to pay. I can no longer see super close. That means there are occasional, small things; things like the small print on a label or the screw to fix my glasses; that I will never see again.
With my emotions, there is also a price to pay. I can not feel completely safe. I find it difficult to suppress my emotions. Therefore, I have to “process” them. I also find it harder to put up with abuse of power. I cannot enmesh myself with someone anymore.
Where I once craved drama and pain, now I seek connection and joy.
So, was it all worth it? I was in my early 50’s by the time I truly felt my feelings. It was hard. So much work to break down barriers and release scar tissue.
Yes!! Even if I end up with only a few years of this freedom. Yes. It was more than worth it. I will be me forever. Amazingly, that is something I now want.
Curious about my story? How I went from profoundly abused to free. Healthy and Happy? Is my story something you wish, however faintly, for yourself? I invite you to get my book.
Winning Over Shame – Overcoming Sexual, Emotional, and Psychological Abuse
for an autographed paperback. Or on Amazon, Barnes and Nobel, and everywhere you buy ebooks.
It is even available on Kindle Unlimited!
Winning Over Shame 