I was back in counselling on Monday and was talking about the other week with its slight meltdown. From here, L was asking me about how I manage/express/deal with etc – anger. I hate anger, or more specifically, being confronted by angry people. I am afraid, of angry people. Angry people say what they don’t mean, and mean what they don’t say, and aren’t very good at being objective, and to be honest, scare me. I hate being angry – I hate that feeling of a red mist coming down over your eyes and distorting the world around you. I hate the way my inner voice starts shouting about the situation, or person, in ugly terms I would never say aloud (or if I did, be ashamed, afterwards). I hate the way anger crowds out my reason and banishes my sense of balance. I’m afraid of lashing out and hurting someone with my wrath, of throwing out words I can’t take back. I grew up in an angry house. This stuff probably isn’t that surprising. Apparently, a lot of kids with drinking parents, feel that way.
I know, that I’m not all that great at ‘confronting emotions’. I prefer to head off alone for a few hours to cleanse them away, and come back, calmer, rather than giving in to them. I prefer to stuff them away and slide that placid mask, back in place. Out of sight, out of mind. I know this. And sometimes, it makes me feel a little broken, a little messy – surely, I should be able to manage things coming from within, from my own mind? Sometimes, it makes me feel so past repair, as though, if I can’t even deal with softshoed feelings, what can I deal with? L was going on (in predictable counsellor fashion) the need to FEEL your emotions and LET THEM BE HEARD and GIVE THEM the TIME and SPACE they DESERVE. And me, well, I was sitting there crying, trying to explain that I try, that if I could, I wouldn’t be so crap at it all, that most of the time, I’d quite like to not be attached to tags like ‘dysfunctional’ and ‘aberrent coping mechanisms’ and all the rest. And L, she really went all stereotypical therapist-y and started talking about tackling the ‘darkest, deepest issues’ and ‘healing the untouched wounds’ and all this sort of thing, saying that it was going to be Painful with a capital P, and difficult with a capital D.
And part of me wanted to say – what do you think this has been so far, a walk in the park? Did you think that the last few weeks, have been painful-with-a-small-p and difficult-with-a-small-d? Did you think that this whole counselling thing has not had me hurting, crying, bleeding, tearing in two? Do you not hear when I say that I struggle to come each week, that every week, part of me is too afraid to get through the door? You say the next bit is hard – then, bring it. If this doesn’t finish me off, something else will. If this doesn’t finish me off, nothing else, will. Part of me wants to say fine, do your worst, consume me, break me, burn me, brand me. You can’t do any worse than depression did. You cannot push me closer to the edge, than I’ve already been. Throw at me what you will. Scald me, where you must. Let’s get this over with, finally. Let me get over this, finally.
However, being part human, part hedgehog, sometimes I’m not quite brave enough to say these things. I’m not quite big enough, grounded enough, fearless enough. It wears me down. And so I say, yes, let’s do it, let’s open the curtains and open the wounds. And what I want so much to add is, when you do it, please don’t hurt me more than neccessary. Please don’t let me down. Please don’t wound me more as others have done. Please, be there. Be there.
The thing is, no matter how difficult (with or without a capital letter) the next few weeks will be, just knowing that I’m going for it shows that over the last few months, I have moved forwards. When I first became a Christian, before any of this depression malarkey took hold, the thought of healing was just too much for me. I didn’t want to go there. I didn’t want anyone, to go there. It was less painful, less frightening, to carry on as I was, walking wounded, than let someone in and lead me towards being healed and whole. If I’ve learned anything about God’s plan for us, it’s that it’s tailor-made and only includes good things. I wasn’t ready, then. I have to trust that if I’m ready now, it’s because God knows I am ready, and knows what He’s doing. I have to trust He knows what’s best for me.
I’m choosing to trust.
Learning to be still 