the hook

I’ve been grappling with conflicting emotions lately, many of them related to my childhood. It comes with that whole mortality thing. Last night, I had a much-needed therapy session–which I booked knowing I’d need it. I was surprised by how angry I am, but also how calm I am. I vented to my therapist. But it was controlled–so unlike the triggered me that used to go off. And that was saying a lot, considering what I’d just encountered.

Lately, I’ve wondered if I actually should continue therapy, despite how much I love my therapist and how much it’s genuinely helped me. Mostly because a) it’s pretty damn expensive, and b) a lot of it feels non-productive—me just giving updates and her asking questions about the updates. I’ve gotten more and more skilled at managing myself as I age, as I’ve gotten healthier, as I’ve done my death doula training and taken courses in psych. But last night helped me remember why I keep showing up. A lot of it is just that—investing in myself and showing up for me—even when it doesn’t feel worth it—is SO HUGE because I never used to show up for me. But it can feel like a lot of back patting because WOW—I’m doing this shit. I’m not taking the bait. I’m not burning shit to the ground or running at my first instinct of shit. I’m giving people space to be their imperfect selves. I’m giving myself breathing room. But more than anything—I’m being the person I needed for myself.

And it’s interesting what happens when you do that. You start seeing your old patterns. You start seeing how you got stuck. You see why you liked certain people. You see why you stayed. And you realize you always had the power as an adult to change it. And you can do just that: simply make another choice.

In the past six months or so, I realized something really huge for me—a big, icky, sad something that I didn’t fully comprehend until yesterday. I’ve never ever felt safe with anyone. And I’ve also never really felt loved by people. It didn’t matter that I believed they loved me. Or that they told me four hundred times a week. Or that they did shit for me. It always felt superficial and hollow and easily dismantled. I intellectually knew how they felt. But internalizing it in the ways that matter? That was never a thing I knew how to do. And I wonder how much that impacted by ability to love. I know I do love things and people. I’ve used the words. I’ve walked the talk. I’ve heavily grieved people and beings I’ve lost. So, that’s the proof I guess. But perhaps, maybe—just maybe—part of the problem has been I didn’t know how to love people because I didn’t quite know what to do with the emotion when I lived in a body and brain and heart that was in constant fear of losing all things—of being obliterated.

We were talking about this idea of safety—particularly when I shared something about a friendship I’ve struggled with—with a person I love—as much as I can love anyone. I shared that I’ve learned, recently, that there are people who I adore—who I have fun with—who I genuinely would do anything for—who I’ve known my whole adult life. But when it comes to seeking support or talking about shit like this—or being messy—I am inherently unsafe there. And for years, I mistook my love for them as them being inherently safe beings for all things. But that isn’t true. Not remotely. And my therapist said something that really hit me. How on the whole hierarchy of needs thing—you can’t love until you feel safe. You can’t absorb love. You can’t give love. It’s not within your wheelhouse or your power. And that has explained my entire existence—but most especially my romantic relationships. And why I always felt deficient. And why I always found myself with people who were incapable of it, too.

Honestly, that idea—shit—it depressed me…made me hopeless for a second. So what the fuck do people like me do? Like what do we actually do to feel safe? How do we teach ourselves shit we never got? And I guess it’s what I’ve been doing in therapy for years now. You make yourself safe. You tell the truth. You find people in the damn weeds who will sit with you. You give yourself space and time and fuckloads of patience. And you let yourself off the damn hook.