Guy, my NIS practitioner, told me the emotions would come out. I was expecting tears but not rage. Today, I wanted to smash things, throw this pint of water into the radiator, not stop there, smash the furniture, the crockery, the TV, the whole house up. I wanted to. In my head, I did, viscerally, I saw it all being smashed and felt the wild energy it would release, but I didn’t do it and I didn’t release the energy.
I wanted to cry too, so badly, I wanted to bawl my eyes out for days, I was desperate to do so. If only I did, I thought, I would feel better, I would be able to move past this. But it just would not come out, no more than a few tearful streaks, a small sniff and a heartfelt sigh.
The tinnitus has been loud for three days. It’s getting tiresome, to say the least. But it’s the thoughts I fear the most. They are so clever, those thoughts. They think they are boss, they sound so believable, they seem so rational, they almost had me fooled. No, they did have me fooled. I believed them completely. I believed their poisoned point of view. I won’t say ‘lies’ because they might be true. They are fears, not love. But fear is love too. They are making me push the people I love the most in world away.
When I was a baby in the womb, the young girl who got pregnant with me and who gave me up, hated me from the moment she knew. She refused to name me or touch me after she delivered me. She denied me then and she denied me again when I got in touch as an adult. She did not want me or love me from the womb. Maybe I stewed in her hurt and rage and fear and hate, when I was inside her.
When I was adopted, my damaged mother could not open her heart to me. She was not coping and she used me as her scapegoat, even as I was a baby in the crib. She gave permission to the rest of the family to make me their scapegoat. They did not like me or love me from the start.
There is so much in my life that I have achieved, so much I have fixed, so much I have given to others. But I have not fixed this.
I went to see somebody when I was in my thirties, about 25 years ago, who asked me why I don’t tell my mother exactly how I feel. I didn’t say it’s because I’m too scared to, although I was. I said because if I let even a tiny bit of my true feelings out, it will explode out of me like a nuclear bomb. “What’s wrong with that?” I was asked.
“People will get hurt, badly hurt, it would be huge,” I said, “people could die.”
When I said that, back then, I didn’t know where that came from, it was like somebody else was talking through me. But it was true. I’ve been holding in that rage all my life. Something Guy did when he worked with my emotions during my treatment last Friday seems to have brought it to the fore. I can contain the rage, but only at the cost of being engulfed in depression. Depression is a bitch, as anyone who has danced with her will tell you. When you dance with depression, you are on your own. You are torn up inside, the way a tiger rips open a carcass. You are exposed to the rawness of life. You are tossed on the black storm of self-hate into the sea of despair. There are ways to get out of it and I know most of them. Sometimes, you sabotage every method of escape from the jaws of depression because you think you deserve it, because it’s the only thing you know, because it makes you feel alive and dead at the same time.
Right now, I don’t care. I don’t care about you and I know you don’t care about me. We belong to a world wide web, all connected by a silvery thread of electricity, but everybody is completely absorbed in their own troubles, and we’ve all got troubles. Thanks to the web, we feel closer to people and yet farther away and more alone than ever.
I’m going to stay here and dance with depression alone. You can’t reach me.