Trudging through the outback
Sep. 17th, 2015 22:32![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
torquillYesterday Amy hugged me back.
It seems like a small gesture, but I cried for over five minutes afterward. I've been making a habit of hugging her tight whenever she gets distressed over something, even if I don't know why. I read an article on how to help kids with anxiety, and I've been using a bunch of those tips. I tell her it's okay to cry, it's okay to feel what she's feeling, and I'm not going anywhere. And I hold her.
It helps. It helps in the short term, and it's helped to get her to open up more and feel things more easily. But yesterday was the first time she's actually trusted me enough to hug back.
She hung on tight. I don't think she's let go since. I can still feel it.
I've withdrawn a lot in recent weeks. I had expected this to be a time of re-establishing my social network, touching base with a bunch of people I lost track of while I was busy reinventing myself. Instead, I've become more introverted than I've ever been, even when I was badly disabled. I resent having to come into contact with other people, even good friends. It's a strain to teach, or meet clients, or go to social events. I even hesitate to run errands because I'll have to interact with checkout clerks; as brief as that interaction is, it's like a weight.
I have a suspicion that it's part of the healing process, though I'm not sure which part, or what I'm healing from. Some of it is that I'd like to rest after all the heavy lifting of the past few months... but I had already been feeling very peaceful, and I took that to be my anodyne. This doesn't feel restful; it feels like I'm hiding, or like I'm already too burdened to take on the strain of dealing with other people.
Having figured out how to meet my own needs, having become self-sufficient, there's some sense of "what do I need them for?" It's why I'm not lonely, despite my self-imposed isolation. When I can manage solitude, I am content. I'm getting to know the person I am, and getting used to the idea that I don't need anyone else to meet my needs, even basic ones like validation. I can accept that as a reasonable phase to go through right now.
But Amy doesn't want people. Not only does she not need them, she actively dislikes being with them. And compensating for that wears me out, when I'm already exhausted from the last several months. Maybe Amy is just finally feeling able to unload, after all these years? I've been crying on a pretty frequent basis, though it's not the descent into despair that it used to be. It feels more like grief, though I can't pinpoint what I'm grieving -- it just has that same quality of letting off emotional pressure to allow me to heal and move on.
Maybe that's all there is to it. Amy wants time and space to feel her pain in private. I've also been trying to set aside a little time to do stuff she likes (though I've been so under the weather lately that I haven't succeeded; it was touching when I got tired early last night and Amy said it was okay if we didn't do any coloring, she understood). I have to respect that need, even though it's not where I want to be right now. I'd rather reconnect with people.
It's been making me feel broken, though, like there's something wrong with me. I have friends who want to see me, who want to hang out and chat; Ivan actually sent me email today to that effect, asking when we could get together. I explained, and said he's on my short list when I come out. But this acute withdrawal feels odd and wrong to me, partly because I've always wanted to be accepted by others, partly because geek culture taught me that a social life means you're successfully exercising a valuable skill. And partly, as a vestige of my former life, because if people want my company (!) then I have a duty to oblige. Breaking that habit is pretty hard.
It's a phase, I know. It'll pass, and maybe I'll feel more like bringing other people into my life again. I don't know when, but I have to stop pushing for this to be over -- it won't happen any faster if I fret over it, and it'll just make me feel like a failure. The sense of "but I should" is the only thing that keeps me from being fully content with my current lack of a social life. And it's not helping me relax into myself, which I'm trying to do.
The fact is, I just have to accept that I have a little kid who wants to spend time with only me, and she gets priority. When she's had enough, everybody else can have a turn.
It seems like a small gesture, but I cried for over five minutes afterward. I've been making a habit of hugging her tight whenever she gets distressed over something, even if I don't know why. I read an article on how to help kids with anxiety, and I've been using a bunch of those tips. I tell her it's okay to cry, it's okay to feel what she's feeling, and I'm not going anywhere. And I hold her.
It helps. It helps in the short term, and it's helped to get her to open up more and feel things more easily. But yesterday was the first time she's actually trusted me enough to hug back.
She hung on tight. I don't think she's let go since. I can still feel it.
I've withdrawn a lot in recent weeks. I had expected this to be a time of re-establishing my social network, touching base with a bunch of people I lost track of while I was busy reinventing myself. Instead, I've become more introverted than I've ever been, even when I was badly disabled. I resent having to come into contact with other people, even good friends. It's a strain to teach, or meet clients, or go to social events. I even hesitate to run errands because I'll have to interact with checkout clerks; as brief as that interaction is, it's like a weight.
I have a suspicion that it's part of the healing process, though I'm not sure which part, or what I'm healing from. Some of it is that I'd like to rest after all the heavy lifting of the past few months... but I had already been feeling very peaceful, and I took that to be my anodyne. This doesn't feel restful; it feels like I'm hiding, or like I'm already too burdened to take on the strain of dealing with other people.
Having figured out how to meet my own needs, having become self-sufficient, there's some sense of "what do I need them for?" It's why I'm not lonely, despite my self-imposed isolation. When I can manage solitude, I am content. I'm getting to know the person I am, and getting used to the idea that I don't need anyone else to meet my needs, even basic ones like validation. I can accept that as a reasonable phase to go through right now.
But Amy doesn't want people. Not only does she not need them, she actively dislikes being with them. And compensating for that wears me out, when I'm already exhausted from the last several months. Maybe Amy is just finally feeling able to unload, after all these years? I've been crying on a pretty frequent basis, though it's not the descent into despair that it used to be. It feels more like grief, though I can't pinpoint what I'm grieving -- it just has that same quality of letting off emotional pressure to allow me to heal and move on.
Maybe that's all there is to it. Amy wants time and space to feel her pain in private. I've also been trying to set aside a little time to do stuff she likes (though I've been so under the weather lately that I haven't succeeded; it was touching when I got tired early last night and Amy said it was okay if we didn't do any coloring, she understood). I have to respect that need, even though it's not where I want to be right now. I'd rather reconnect with people.
It's been making me feel broken, though, like there's something wrong with me. I have friends who want to see me, who want to hang out and chat; Ivan actually sent me email today to that effect, asking when we could get together. I explained, and said he's on my short list when I come out. But this acute withdrawal feels odd and wrong to me, partly because I've always wanted to be accepted by others, partly because geek culture taught me that a social life means you're successfully exercising a valuable skill. And partly, as a vestige of my former life, because if people want my company (!) then I have a duty to oblige. Breaking that habit is pretty hard.
It's a phase, I know. It'll pass, and maybe I'll feel more like bringing other people into my life again. I don't know when, but I have to stop pushing for this to be over -- it won't happen any faster if I fret over it, and it'll just make me feel like a failure. The sense of "but I should" is the only thing that keeps me from being fully content with my current lack of a social life. And it's not helping me relax into myself, which I'm trying to do.
The fact is, I just have to accept that I have a little kid who wants to spend time with only me, and she gets priority. When she's had enough, everybody else can have a turn.
