The Stories We Tell Ourselves

I get so sad when I see a mother fussing over her young child. 

There I am, minding my own business, wondering along, doing the shopping or maybe just taking a Sunday stroll, when, bam! I see a mother fussing over her young child. That’s when my mind falls to pieces. 

Typically, in this scenario, there’s a baby is  losing their shit over something. Maybe they’re hungry, or thirsty. Maybe they just don’t like the weather. They’re not old enough for language or complex emotional reasoning skills, so they do what all babies do: wail their little hearts out. 

Want to know the bit that makes me sad? It’s the look in the mother’s eye. You know the one that I mean. She’s tired. She’s given until her bones ache. Her feet ache from pacing all night when her special little someone had a mild fever. She can’t give anymore. Yet here she is, reaching into the bottom of her soul, pulling out final fragments of sanity to calm her child. All of this taken for granted by her swaddled bundle of lungs.

You can tell a lot about someone from the look in their eyes. That’s doubly true for mothers of young children. They’re always thinking the same thing. 

I need to do better for my child. I hope I measure up. 🆙

On some level, it’s beautiful. The super-strength of mothers played out for all the world to see. On another level — the world that is my fucked up brain — it upsets me. It’s like the rug is being pulled from under me. 

I can’t concentrate. My breathing becomes rapid. My brain goes into overdrive. Imagine a book with every page is your emotion. Now imagine someone — anyone really — carelessly holding that book. Maybe they have it tucked under their arm. They’re rushing about their day with a million things to do, forgetting they’re holding this precious book. The phone rings. They fumble. Where’s the phone? They check their pockets, dumping the book on the table to do so. It lands with a thump. They don’t notice. They answer the phone and start talking. 

You think the book is safe. It’s on the table. It must be safe. But no. Again, this person is distracted. What’s going to happen? A few seconds go by, your lips are pursed to let out the breath you’ve been holding, only for you to choke on that same air with what happens next. 

That person, the careless one on the phone, fidgets. Maybe it’s because they’re talking on the phone. They reach for your book, that same book that was safe only moments before, and start flicking their fingers across the page’s edge. Flick. 

Remember, every page is an emotion. You’re now feeling all those emotions. They flick by as fast as a finger can flick all the pages in a book. The motions in your head rush by too fast to name. Was that anger or fear? Happiness or mania? Your brain is saturated with every emotion there is to feel. 

The person doing this doesn’t know that. You can’t tell them what they’re doing to you. It’s beyond your control. Besides, your entire world is now every emotion you have coming at you at a million miles an hour. Nothing else exists. 

Eventually, the person finishes their conversation and picks up your book, going about their day. The tide of emotions goes out to leave only sadness. 

Sadness isn’t quite the right word. I suspect the English language doesn’t have the words to describe emotions that relate to trauma. Sad plus? Sadness with sprinkles? Much like the baby, I can’t put it into words. 

That’s how my brain works. It’s triggered when I see a mother wanting to do better for her child. 

I wouldn’t blame you if you think that’s strange. Personally, I think it’s one nut short of a nuthouse. And then I remember my childhood. Oh, that’s right, my childhood. I didn’t have the best childhood. Some of my earliest memories are of the abuse. In fact, I have so few memories of my mother that weren’t abusive. 

I don’t know what daemons a person needs to abuse their own child, but my mother had the complete set. It doesn’t take an Einstein to realise that she suffered from abusive herself. 

The abuse warped her brain when her brain was still forming. It’s a part of her default operating system, so to speak. As much a part of her as the colour of her eyes. I know this to be true because that’s how it works for me. 

I have so many triggers. They are as much a part of me as the colour of my eyes. They’ve even affected my core personality. I can’t get over them. There is no cure. Imagine going to the doctor and asking them to make you a different person? It would be easier to change the colour of my eyes. 

Not all my triggers have answers. To give you an example, sometimes I can’t brush my teeth at night. I never have a problem brushing them in the morning, but at night, it’s like an invisible hand prevents me. I can put the toothpaste on the toothbrush. Run the water. I can even lift the brush close to my mouth. The only thing I can’t do is put the toothbrush in my mouth. 

I’ll stand there, staring at my reflection, wondering why my arm has turned to stone. On some fundamental level, my brain will prevent something bad from happening. I just don’t know what. 

The thing about issues is that they’re not always obvious to the person suffering from issues. For many years, my brain found ever creative ways to hide my issues from myself.

I’m not crying, it’s hay fever! I didn’t sabotage myself, I’m just absent minded… and unlucky! I’m too tired to brush my teeth. 😢

Lies and denial are so much easier than accepting there is a problem. Lies are a familiar comfort, an antidote for terrifying truths. Denial is a secret we keep from ourselves. 

I’d like to say that the second I realised something was terribly wrong, I sprinted to the therapist’s office, lied down on their couch, and was instantly aware of my issues and how to manage them. 

Of course, that would be a very comforting lie. 

There were an embarrassing number of false starts. I always had the best of intentions, accompanied with a plausible reason it didn’t work out (see the pattern here? I didn’t!). With each false start, is became ever more obvious.

On some fundamental level, I knew something was desperately wrong. On another level, I didn’t want to know. A battle of wills; me against my brain. 

For the longest time, I simplified my goals. All I wanted was a general awareness of my issues. It didn’t matter if that awareness was only in hindsight. Not being able to manage them or, god forbid, prevent them. Those goes weren’t on the radar. My only goal was the simple. It became a mantra. Something I would remember whenever my brain is fuzzy. 

Everything starts with awareness. 👀

For the longest time, the battle felt like a game of snakes and ladders, except I would always land on snakes. Frustration doesn’t cover it (frustration with sprinkles?). My brain would come up with all sorts of excuses.

Why bother? This clearly isn’t working. The abuse means I’m allowed to feel this way. 🛑

My brain wasn’t content with constantly winning, it wanted me to not play the game at all. 

Against all expectations, this story has a happy ending. 

With copious amounts of patience and help from my husband and therapy (such as DBT), I can now do simple tasks that regular people can do. Eat the last of something without breaking out into a cold sweat? No problem. Own up to making mistakes without thinking I’m going to die. Double check. I can cook without a crippling sense of self-doubt. 

Go me! 🎺

There’s still plenty of issues to work on. I do land on snakes but, sometimes, also land on ladders. All my wins have been small, hard-fought battles. Tiny victories in a larger war to get better. This is a battle I’ll wage for the rest of my life, but I’m getting there. Before there was only darkness, now there’s a sparkle of light. 

That tiny illumination has allowed me to think about my issues differently. I still think of my issues are a part of me, but now I think of them as a story. 

They’re one million of stories that make me unique. Thinking about it differently has added a bit of distance, allowing a perspective I never thought possible. 

I used to think of my issues as all powerful. Look up the picture of the most pathetic person in all of existence, and you’ll find a picture of me. 

I could’ve won the olympics for victimhood. But now, I’ve pulled back the curtain. I see my issues for what they really are. 

Stories from the past. 📚

And now I wonder what stories the future will hold.