Detachment, Trauma, and Recovery

 I've re-started today's post three times.

Once was a typing error that made the post disappear. The other two were plain old restarts.

I guess that means I'm not quite sure where I'm at this morning. I've done some work recently that had to do with adjusting my level of detachment with people I love. Some of the folks involved, include complicated histories.

So it's been a lot to maintain, then re-enter with relational interactions to these folks. Detachment is a crucial part of my recovery skills set. But when boundaries are established that halt further contact, hurt feelings can come up for both parties.

During this level of detachment, there can be more than one narrative. The person setting limits has a story, but so do those who are affected by the boundaries.

Venturing from this level of detachment to reconnection, there is a temptation to establish the validity of one's own story. This can be a pitfall to the ultimate goal of leaning in, after seperation.

If the insistence of connection hinges on everyone holding the right position, then conflict ensues or continues.

Choosing to re-enter into contact does not require a hammering out of my story. I know what my truth is, and I have supports that validate and enrich my recovery to that end.

Insisting that the people I reconnect with believe my story is not recovery, but control.

And if the goal is maintaining contact that is healthy for me, then those boundaries and truths are to be maintained on a very personal level. Not something that I insist all should follow.

This does not mean that I do not get to tell my story; only that others are not obligated to repeat it as I see it. In fact, others may do the exact opposite. Conversely, accepting that others have differing truths, does not discount of invalidate my experience.

So in reality, the detachment shifts, instead of coming to an end.

My integrity to my story can be maintained, and I can allow for others to have their story as well.

And I need not gloat that there are mechanisms of care in place that may not have occurred without my absence.

I'm reminded of how the word, "No." gently encouraged my journey into recovery from addiction.

My last summer using drugs and alcohol, my mother called me to let me know that they were going out of town. When they'd leave, I would go to the house, and help myself to whatever I wanted. I felt entitled to it, because I was caring for my maternal grandfather.

My mother calmly explained over the phone that one of my cousins would be staying at the house, feeding the cat, and doing whatever chores were necessary.

Her voice broke, and I could hear her muffled crying as she said, "Michael . . . They'll be no need for you to stop by."

It's one of those pivotal moments that, once sober, I realized had nudged me toward recovery. I did not appreciate it at the time. In fact, I was deeply hurt. And my perception of my story was that she intended to injure me.

But looking back at her calmly stated boundary, and the boundaries of others at the time, it's easy for me to see that I was running out of options. And that the word "No." was a boundary with the intention to stop enabling my addiction.

The irony of my recent limit setting is not lost on me. And I struggled with setting similar boundaries. I wish I could have been as calm as my mother was in that moment, thirty-two years ago, but I could not.

But as surely as my mother's boundary came from love, so did mine.

M <3

Getting Messy

 Those moments.

The ones where I feel stuck.

Like this is going to last forever.

I still detest those times.

Yesterday afternoon, a boatload of feelings decided to visit me while shopping at Target (of all places). Why is it that the insoluble, grab hold of everything negative, torrent of grief and sadness will show up, unannounced, in a crowded store, on a saturday afternoon?

My life is good. No . . . It's amazing! I have waded through things (with help and love of others) that can be debilitating to the human spirit. Dynamics I have personally witnessed that led to the destruction of others like me. Histories that, in simply laying out the details, can traumatize the listener.

And yet, there are people stronger than my past, who have stood by and been my guides. People who have loved and honored me. Walked with me, given me permission to pick up and put down my stuff for whatever duration. I have received so much empathy, validation, and understanding in my journey along this path to survival and a fruit bearing life.

But when these brick walls of gut-wrenching grief tumble in, I can't see my way to any of it. All I feel is danger, and a need to have big space, even from those that would love me. My old defenses kick in, and I take on the armor of anger and resentment. My tools of recovery are replaced with weapons of spite and injury.

So yesterday, I did something courageous. I walked out of the store with my partner, got in our vehicle, and started to cry. Instead of turning up sarcasm, or targeting (pardon the pun) someone I love with criticism, I opened the tap to grief, and let it pour out.

I spoke of my plans for the immediate future. I talked about calling folks in recovery, and giving voice (again!) to the way that history can invade my psyche and feel like eminent danger.

Then we drove home. I sat in the driveway and did some talk therapy on the phone. Even in this, I stumbled and let my anger and fear of not being heard get ahead of me. But people with similar histories and recovery can be such understanding souls. I abruptly ended the call . . . And made another one. The second call involved owning how my reaction was over the top, and what to do to get grounded again.

Sometimes I think, "When can I just be DONE! With all of this?" I don't want a life where I am constantly working on my past. I want to be able to enjoy my life, as it sits, today. I want to let go of all that bad stuff, and just live.

Ironically, this thinking is emblematic of my being stuck in the past. No-one truly wants to suffer. And being aware of trauma, as difficult as that is, holds the key to my release.

This messy, wonderful work, allows me to have the life I am present for today. The work makes room for me to see when I'm playing out a dynamic of needless suffering in my personal and professional life. The work encourages me to nurture, and care for myself. The work enables me to set boundaries, even in the most uncomfortable of situations. The work has infinite rewards for myself, and how I love and interact with others.

But I don't see that, when it hurts.

That's why I cannot do this work alone.

M

 

Moving Through 

Not an endorsement. Simply a book I utilized in my early recovery. 

Writing has meant so much to my recovery. I remember journaling, just before I got sober, and writing certain words in code. I used numbers for letters in conjunction with their alphabetical order.

It was still courageous of me, but I realize now that there was an effort to hide within that code. I could not say that I was a survivor of 9,14,3,5,19,20. And I had such shame about it, that I was fearful others would find out about it. As a closeted gay man, actively engaged in self-destructive substance abuse in his mid-twenties, I thought the events (what little I could remember of them) were my fault.

Today, I can say incest (9,14,3,5,19,20) out loud. My personal definition of the word transcends any of the stereotypical joking, or front loaded shame of judgment about particular family dynamics.

For me, the word no longer means the violation of the familial. Incest is the overreaching violation of someone from a position of power. It is the best word I had at the time (late 1980's) to encapsulate the meaning of what had happened to me as a very small boy.

In today's time, the identifying codes have changed. CSA (Childhood Sexual Abuse) is one of the current monikers. It is more specific in its description, and attempts to remove the judgement of the victim. This is how I see it, anyway.

As I got clean and sober, the memories and flashbacks felt unbearable. They were frequent, and positioned me in a place where it felt like the horrors of my past were actively happening.

For me, talking about my recovery from trauma is forever linked with my recovery from addiction. The two are never mutually exclusive in my story. I know that is not everyone's experience, but my sobriety hinged on ownership of trauma from my childhood.

Being sober a while, gave way to other symptomatic behaviors. There were additional arcs of engagement that had their roots in trauma. Unrequited and intense love relationships, soul-crushing emotional entanglements, sexual dysfunction (There I go, speaking in code again), incessant cruising, being a magnet for the workplace bully, food, cigarettes, caffeine, and a host of other "coping skills" were at my disposal. And at moments of my recovery, I was blissfully unaware of the how the dots connected to trauma.

A lot of the above mentioned behaviors are decades old, but there are subtle variances of the dynamics that will always require maintenance and adjustment . . . Again, I am speaking for myself.

Still, I can look back on the path of my recovery, and see that awareness has been revealed at exactly the point in time when I was ready to receive it.

Recently, I am aware of how I can bottle things up as a way to avoid confrontation. At some point, the pressure becomes too great, and the top pops off the bottle. People around me are surprised at the intensity of my reaction to a given situation that has long been intolerable for me. Yet fear of naming the situation kept me quiet, until things were more than I could bear.

This leads to hurt feelings all around.

It's true that one of the possible consequences of setting boundaries, is creating discomfort in others. But in reality, setting boundaries of for the person who sets them. So if my past history of conflict is interfering with my present ability of limit setting, then I am perpetuating self-harm.

I am recently healing from one of those scenarios.

And while I did not need (or want) to retreat into some of the immediately self-destructive behaviors of my past, I am grateful for the safety net of my recovery folks who support me.

They help me continue to unlock the coded behaviors that are emblematic of CSA, and the lingering damages those experiences have in my life.

It may sound daunting or even overwhelming to hear that the work is constant. But there are incredible benefits to continuing on this path.

The fruits of this labor are even richer, when viewed through this lens.

M