I had one of my twice weekly sessions with my councillor today. I’ve had to increase my visits and it’s pretty much the only time I’m getting out of the house at the moment. I’ve made a big step and let him see this blog. He needs the tools to fix me. NG always used to shout at me to ‘tell him the truth!’.. it’s funny, I always thought I was.
But I can see now that I’ve not really opened up in my 3 years of counselling. The times he did get close to my Complex Childhood Trauma I batted it aside. But the similarities between my early rejection and the subsequent rejection of a woman I love as a partner were hard to ignore. I’d been talking about it for 18 months with him. I’ve made some progress. I know why but that does not help me fix it.
I spend most of my time talking about NG in all honesty. Trying hard to understand the way she worked. She had been in and out of therapy many times in the years I had known her. She had her own Monsters for sure. Ones I always seem to activate with my unintentional but untimely trips away without her. I offered to pay for her to go more but she was always very reluctant to accept my charity. I wish she had let me help her more that way. But she was very proud and always wanted to pay her own way. She carried many scares from the war in Bosnia. They needed addressing too. They still do.
She always accessed which room was safest in any house she entered before taking her coat off, that usually being under the stairs. One day, sitting in her Grandparents house in Sarajevo, a snipers bullet missed her by a fraction. Her friend at school suddenly expressing they wanted nothing more to do with her because she was a Muslim. She didn’t mix well before, always being something of an introvert. And coming home from that school not knowing if her wonderful father, who was serving in the army, would be there when she arrived. Living on UN ration packs. Silver Sachets of high energy essentials. And then to be shared. Eventually being sent to safety in Turkey with her aunt, more like her sister now because of it. The disconnect. The separation from her family. Closer with that aunt than with her mother, who was jealous of the little attention her father did have time to show her. Even now. Same same, but different to me. How can anyone relate to that? How can anyone fully recover from that?
But she has something I don’t from all that experience and it is that she a survivor. She knows when she has to put herself first and she makes decisions like a General in the heat of battle. Kill or be killed. As much as she often killed me, I so admired that killer instinct that I lack. That inner strength. I survive a different way. I do the opposite. In my time of ‘war’ all I had was time to think about my rejection. In the Locked Room. My disconnect. I had all the time in the world to think of it from every different angle. A very bad habit I do to this day. She had to think on her feet. She acts, I dwell. I get stuck. I regress, she moves forward.
I had time to learn to Obsess. It was used to good use when first I escaped the locked room. I did it with comics as a pre-teen, to escape the world of my parents constantly arguing or fucking. Sometimes both at the same time. After that with music, turning it into a profession that took me to the highs few will ever experience. Then I got good with Technology because I was obsessed with it. I can use my curse to over-analyse and understand positively at times. But when I have nothing to focus on, too much time, it turns to all the dark places instead. I question everything, but mostly myself. I’m doing it now. I’m obsessed with my self-loathing and rejection by all. It’s all I can think about. I need re-assurance and direction. I need to be valid. Not invisible.
My apologies are not going well. None have been accepted that I know of. I expect the worse but having it confirmed is fuelling my opinion that’s it best I shut myself off. Don’t pick the scabs. Just retreat. Accept. Stop getting punched.
The more I ask for help and reach out the more it confirms what I know. That no one wants is there. That everyone I’ve ever loved hates me. And in turn that feeds my self-loathing and makes me even more withdrawn. The more I’m rejected, the worse I feel. Ad lib to finite.
Everything I say sounds like a guilt trip. Like an attempt to control again. I can see that. But it’s just me admitting I’m not coping and why. No tricks, no games. No mirrors. Me naked.
I know that I can only be trusted to do the wrong thing and to make the wrong decision. To push those I love further away. To not take the new job the might fix me. To not look after myself. To make things worse.
I am my worst enemy. I will not be happy until I am what I think I must be.