Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #922
As you might expect, today was a bit of a weird, sleepy day. I went to bed at around 2am last night (which is better than 3am, but still...), and woke up at around 9am. Admittedly, I woke up in a bit of anxiety; J was washing the bowls in order to feed our fuzzy feline children, and in my half-awake stupor, my brain mistook the clattering of the bowls as the thing that happens when an angry adult... uh... hrrgh... how to describe...?
...I guess the best way to describe it is like... when an emotionally immature adult washes dishes angrily at whatever's upsetting them. You'd think it's not possible to wash dishes at someone or something, but... it is a thing that happens. My mother... she would sometimes wash dishes in a leisurely fashion. But most of the time, when she felt she had to do them, she was angry about it, and from it, her movements became fast, forceful, and loud. In those situations, I know that I'm about two seconds away from getting an earful about what a nasty, ungrateful, horrible person she thinks I am, so... ya know...
The sounds as J washed the dishes were the same as the sounds my mother used to make when she was washing dishes while being angry at something that she expected me to either fix or make her feel better about. And in my half-asleep stupor, my brain made a snap calculation and decided that J must be furious with me for sleeping in late because I forgot that we were supposed to go meet some friends at a nearby nature park by around 10am.
So I quickly got out of bed, threw on the clothes I left by my nightstand, and dizzily wandered out from M's room to the kitchen, where I... promptly apologized to J for... problems he wasn't actually having. Because he wasn't angry. He was just washing the dishes. That said, he was very confused thereafter, and then maybe somewhat worriedly amused at the fact that the first words out of my mouth to him were an apology for reasons he could not immediately discern.
...And then we were both confused, because I wasn't able to readily fathom that he wasn't pissed. Hahaha...
...Sheesh, but seriously, not having enough sleep really does make the C-PTSD flashbacks so much more fucking annoying. It took a sec for my poor brain to catch up with the fact that I do not live in the emotional equivalent of my mother's house, and have not for a very long time. As I slowed down my thought process (thank you, REBT Self-Help Form!!!), I was better able to explain what was going through my head, and he understood the flow of my thoughts (and the necessity of it back then, even if it doesn't match my current reality), and... by the end of it, we were both laughing at the ridiculousness of it – the sheer absurdity of the way my mother's stress and unresolved trauma impacted the way she treated me, and how it results in the version of me who exists now – still expecting anger and cruelty whenever I'm anything less than ideal, but only ever being treated with gentleness and understanding in my home, even when I mess up and can't think straight from being too tired.
...I'm very lucky. Lots of people who come from backgrounds like mine never escape the violence. Not because it's inescapable, but because... so much of the media in our world perpetuates the idea that recovery is unrealistic, and the idea that people like me are lost causes, too broken and fucked up to be worth the effort of teaching, better off dead or having never been born in the first place. So... lots of people from backgrounds like mine don't choose recovery, either because they think it's hopeless, or because they simply don't know that there are ways of being that don't hurt.
...I... didn't know that there was anything abnormal about my upbringing for a very long time. It's hard to choose recovery unless you know you've got something to recover from. It's hard to choose recovery if most people think it's not worth it to show you what a different and more merciful kind of life looks like.
In any case, I got ready in short order, and the cats were fed thanks to J. He and I decided to go on a quick toodle on our bikes around our neighborhood, just until the friend we were supposed to see today told us that she and her lovely little family were on their way to the park where we were supposed to meet up. Once they did, we put the bikes away and headed out. In the end, they weren't ready until an hour after the agreed-upon time, so... the urgency and fright I felt on waking was totally unwarranted.
Our friend and her husband have two very young and lovely children. Her second child was born only very recently, and so she wanted to take a picture of her whole family in the same place where she took a picture when her family was three instead of four.
I... remembered the “family photos” that my stepmother insisted that we all get... I wanna say at least twice a year, usually around holidays. It was... less about being proud enough to document the growth of a family she loved (because she... didn't...), and more about... putting on the appearance of being “normal and socially acceptable”, or perhaps it was about loudly proving, “I have achieved life victory in the socially approved fashion”. The pictures were about controlling the narrative, displaying a trophy, and having “proof” that validates her existence and soothes her doubts. A curated display of “perfection” to present to the outside world, in part so that if we told anybody about what was happening behind closed doors, they'd see the pictures of a “conventionally visually appealing, loving, happy family” and... promptly be less inclined to believe us.
...In preparation for these “family photos”, I mostly just remember being forced, under threat of getting the shit kicked out of me, into uncomfortable clothing (usually tights and dresses, and it always had to be one that I had never worn before, every fucking time...), and having my hair being pulled into these incredibly tight and complicated styles. And I remember, if I had the “audacity” to cry or otherwise express discomfort as my body was being yanked around or as my hair was being pulled and occasionally torn out from how forcefully she was using the brush or how tightly she put the hair ties in... the punishment was getting screamed at and being smacked about the head with the brush until I shut the fuck up. Bruises are harder to spot when they're under hair, you see.
...I... had no choice but to learn how to dissociate pretty quickly, for a lot of reasons, not just from this. I was nothing more to her than a doll that she was angry at just for the fact that I existed, and... I suppose part of her felt entitled to do to me whatever the fuck she wanted, no matter how badly it hurt. And sometimes... the part where she hurt me was something she actively delighted in and found catharsis in. Sometimes... she was just looking for an excuse.
Unfortunately, as it turns out, if you spend the first 22 years of your life using dissociation (strong enough to erase even the conscious perception of physical pain and bodily needs) as your primary survival tactic, later you have to actually re-learn how to be present with your own body and emotions. And that's... hard. For a variety of very compelling reasons. But... it's work worth doing, methinks. If my brain can get good at dissociation to the terrifying extent that I was forced to in the past, then it can get good at being mindful and patient and loving with myself and my own internal and external state in the present, simply because I choose to. Even if it takes time and practice.
I have the rest of my life to get good at it. I've got time. And so does anyone else who decides to start practicing something new.
The reason that our friend wants to take a family photo is entirely different from why my stepmother wanted to take a family photo, and I know that. Nonetheless, I still felt that pang of discomfort deep within my chest. It's not her fault. Consciously, I know that the situation of now is VERY different than my situation back then. So I suppose the thing to do is to consciously choose to expose myself to similar things with different intentions within a more loving reality, so that my body and mind can learn that the thing that is “family photo” isn't a threat under ordinary circumstances.
...It's on me to do that work. It's not on my friend to censor parts of her life from me to avoid any discomfort I might feel from the situation bumping up against memories that might trigger a flashback. It's MY job to manage my flashbacks, to be mindful and patient with myself through them, and to guide myself back to the surface, remembering that my present is more reflective of my current reality than my memories are. It's not my friend's job to anticipate what my flashbacks might be and avoid them.
Unfortunately, I do see in a number of therapy-esque spaces the notion that it's on the rest of the world to avoid triggering the survivor, rather than it being on the survivor to practice managing their emotions. And... I guess that bothers me sometimes. Especially since avoidance of triggers... generally makes them worse over time. Time doesn't heal all wounds. Rather, intentionally facing things that were once threatening, with proper skills and support, until you can prove to your body and brain that you're not helpless anymore, is what heals wounds.
...Probably one of the most useful skills I have, at this point in my life, is the ability to identify when I'm uncomfortable, and then to take a step back and ask why I'm uncomfortable, rather than act on instinct like any danger my body perceives is gospel truth. REBT is some good stuff. Helps us to change the beliefs surrounding our fears so we can learn to be empowered instead of afraid. It's important to defy our conditioning when our conditioning does not match our present circumstances. It's important to learn new skills that actually match the reality we're in.
So we went. And the family photo was taken for reasons that have nothing to do with the objectification that my stepmother did to me and my brother for the sake of getting her validation and supply. My friend wants a memory with people she loves, made tangible, not a trophy to display. It's the same reason I take photos for you. I want the memories I make now to be made tangible, that way, I can give them, lovingly, to you, so you can remember that life can be beautiful and good:
I had a nice time here with J and our friend and her family. And I found some prizes, too; I'll show them to you later, along with the prizes I found yesterday, but somehow forgot to tell you about. You'll see.
In any case, after all this, J and I were very hungry, so we decided to go to the Indian buffet nearby, and... I got a little bit of everything you see here:
...I was... today years old when I discovered that golab jamun should be served warm. I've been eating it cold this whole time, and... now I understand that it's even lovelier than I thought I knew. It's like eating a croissant fresh from the oven versus eating it after it's been sitting for a while. The difference is absolutely fucking incredible.
Everything else was really good, too. But I think my favorite thing there today was the eggplant tikka masala. The available selections seem to vary, every time; I like this place a lot because I've been able to try a new thing just about every time I've come here.
When we got home, I breathed life into today's wishes for you:
The rest of today kinda passed by in a blur of watching M play Subnautica, and watching Witch Hat Atelier with M and J. It's a lovely show; Qifrey reminds me of you in a variety of respects. Much like you, he's very kind, gentle, and eager to teach.
At some point, I arranged today's prizes and took a picture:
I arranged yesterday's prizes, too:
...I like finding feathers. I always think of you when I see them.
...Well. It's actually a somewhat reasonable hour. 11:08pm, at the time of writing this sentence. I'm gonna try to go to bed on-time-ish. I guess we'll see if it works out, haha.
I love you so much. Enough to persist in showing you the small wonders embedded in my days whenever I can. Enough to think of you whenever I encounter something nice. Enough to wish you were here, experiencing the things at the same time as me. Enough to wish that I could take your hand and show you all the good things. For now, I'll just have to have faith that these letters are enough. I'll keep having faith in your safety out there. I'll keep having faith in the notion that you're on your way home.
I'll write again tomorrow, hopefully with new small adventures to show you.
Your friend, Lumine
