I learned to feel safe by caring for others. I couldn’t take feeling in danger, I hurt myself, and then I learned to find a space inside me where I felt safe even if there was no safety around me. I didn’t fully trust the safety at home, because I believed it would fall apart in a moment. When it did, I felt like I’d predicted the future, and that certainty helped that feeling of safety.
I wired my nervous system to equate danger with my own sense of personal safety. I taught myself to expect bad outcomes. And when I left home, I carried all of this with me. Over and over I recreated what I was used to. Put myself into situations of threat and turmoil, and let myself believe I was thriving and just fine.
Except, for such an empathetic guy, why the outbursts of anger and sadness randomly? Why was my nervous system such a mess that it was destroying my digestive system? Why did I need to spend so much time alone? Why was I gaining so much weight? Why could I, over and over, see my weight as a crisis then solve the crisis through a crash diet and exercise program? Why did I numb myself with drugs, and alcohol, and out of bounds risks? Why was I drawn to people who were never compatible, and trying to shape shift myself into what I thought they wanted? Why was I so ashamed of my trauma, my hidden childhood poverty, my addicted self? Why could I love so many people but not myself? Why was I so blind?
Why?
It wasn’t healthy. I have strict edicts about suicide – never again. Ever. And yet, the realization hit me. I choose to kill myself slowly, as if I took the moment I hurt myself as a child and spread it out over decades, like a sour margerine on burnt toast.
Why?
Because it was the price of the safety I understood.
And that moment of realization showed me that I understood less than I thought. Slowly, I changed. Starting by seeing all of my repressed self, all of that shame, and saying simply, “I love you.”
I spoke to my childhood self. I know it was just a hallucination, a metaphor, a way to connect with myself. But I spoke to him as if I could stretch across the decades. Sitting in the closet, door closed, crying. And telling him I loved him and would always protect him. I don’t know if I heard that voice then. But I heard it now.
I spoke with my rebellious young self, the rogue, the addict, the sometimes criminal, the self I was so ashamed of, and said the thing I never said before. Two words. “Thank you.” This self coping with the mess and doing the best he could to protect the child hiding and afraid. And both of us realizing that the child never needed protecting in the first place.
This scared kid, who once looked his Dad in the eyes, the Dad who said he was proud of him, the Dad who read him bedtime stories, the Dad who drove him to school for a while so he didn’t have to deal with bullies, the Dad who drank too much, the Dad in pain, the Dad who hit his Mom and his siblings, the Dad who screamed at him, the Dad who belittled him, when it was his turn to be hit, this kid looked his Dad in the eyes and said, “if you hit me like you did everyone else you’ll never forgive yourself.” The kid said that. And his Dad backed down, and walked away ashamed of what he almost did. A secret his Mom knew but never talked about.
This kid yelled at an entire playground of children to get them to stop bullying abother child, a child who it turned out hated him for being asian, but he did it. This kid, too scared to ride a bike, this kid who never learned to swim because his folks forgot, this kid who somehow learned to surf and dog paddle enough to at least not die in the ocean. The kid never needed protecting. The kid was braver than me and the rogue combined.
Why?
They were all me. The metaphors weren’t alters or other people. If they were other people, I would’ve already told them they were awesome people, and all the reasons why. And that glimpse taught me how to finally love myself just like I can love everyone else.
And I changed. In that moment of acceptance, all of the shame vanished and I felt whole. Another hallucination. Another metaphor. But it’s real. People have noticed. The most common thing I’ve heard is that I seem younger. Even look younger. Of course. If you merged with younger metaphorical versions of yourself you’d seem younger, too. I get looks on my face I haven’t seen in decades again. It’s comforting to see.
In one month, it’ll be one year since that change. I’ve been learning to live. Still a work in progress. But I’m teaching myself how to be calm and safe in a calm and safe place. How to be in tune, so that I don’t need the chaos anymore. It’s been falling away. It’s not a straight line
Somedays it’s five steps. One step. Three steps back.
But I’m getting there.
And I’m grateful.
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915 words.