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