Old habits are hard to break
Oct. 30th, 2015 23:31![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
torquillOlder habits are harder still.
Amy learned early on not to cry in public.
My mother tells me I was a quiet child; I suspect that's because I had two major role models, one who didn't show much emotion, and one who always did. Of the two, my father's moods scared me more, so I tried to emulate my mom's coolness. I'm having to tell Amy now that I am not my mother, and her rules don't apply to me.
School taught her the same lesson, though. Little girls who cried got teased. Little girls who cried disappointed their teachers. Little girls who cried didn't get any more attention until they calmed down. Little girls who cried regularly were assumed to just be fussy, and ignored. And if there was one thing that Amy didn't want, it was to be ignored. That made her want to cry even more.
More than once I have had to give her explicit permission to cry, even when I'm alone in the car and nobody can see me. Crying isn't okay; crying is what happens when you can't handle things properly. Crying is failure, and disappoints people, and makes them not want to be around you anymore. Multiple times, I've had to remind her that I'm not going anywhere. On a rational level, it strikes me as absurd (Buckaroo had it right). But it's what she needs to hear. Small children are not known for being rational, especially when worked up.
Apparently it's what I needed to hear during my whole childhood life, and never did.
It's so very strange having someone else inside my head who thinks so differently from the way I do as an adult. Sometimes I can't understand her; sometimes she won't talk to me, even to tell me what's wrong. That happened tonight, and I was rescued by L's presence of mind -- I was, I think, actually incapable of asking for time and physical attention, so she did it for me. At times like that, I've blamed myself for failing my own code of conduct, what I consider to be my pact with other people: I ask for what I need, and they aren't responsible for reading my mind. When they have to guess, when I know things aren't right and on some level I know what I want to have happen, yet I don't articulate it... I've always felt that that was me being selfish, expecting others to do the work and show that they were willing to go out of their way so that I could feel special. It was the mark of a drama queen, and got me branded as such a few times.
It used to happen a lot more often, but these days I'm better able to step back and see what's going on in my head. I still feel like I have the communication tools necessary for those times, and I'm not using them... but I'm getting less sure that it's deliberate negligence on my part. There's some disconnect between the part of me that knows how to use the tools, and the part that needs to communicate. The impetus is there -- I want to say something, do something, that will get me relief, but I can't grasp the techniques properly. I can talk, sometimes, and say things that aren't what I need to say; sometimes I use that to come at it obliquely. But the direct approach isn't available. I would say that it's blocked by fear of rejection, but I've said many things in the teeth of that fear. This is some deeper dysfunction I can't identify yet.
I tell Amy I'm learning to do better. It's a hard problem we've had for a long time, and it's a tough nut, but I'm working on it. She doesn't understand anything but now, though, and she's still afraid that bad behavior will lead to isolation. Worse still, it will be her fault, for not handling things properly. (I think this was the root of the "fail the test" meme I kept running into a year ago.) All I can do is pat her on the back, and tell her everything's okay, and we'll get better.
I tell her that a lot. I feel like I'm still in bandages; out of surgery, recovering, but having to take things slowly and deal with complications. My identity isn't as fragile as it was, but it's not rock-solid yet. Some issues are still there, laid bare by all the layers I've stripped away, but my triggers have changed, and I have to learn them all over again. It's all less work than it was early on, at least.
This evening Amy, depressed and hurting, said that she wished things were back to the way they used to be, when things were simpler. I took a breath to consider that statement, and replied that actually, things are far simpler *now*. She had calmed down enough to listen to me, and I was a little surprised when she said "oh, you're right", and that little ache went away. Sometimes even tantrums can be reasoned with.
She may not ever lose the fear of abandonment, but being able to recognize what triggers it now (getting there) and being able to ask for help (there's the rub) would be a good start on coping with it. I still have the habit of withdrawing into myself when I'm in pain; I'm not sure how to address that without being surrounded by caring people I can rely on, which is not my current reality. I do recognize it when it's happening, at least... though seeing the irony of my self-isolating actions doesn't help me resist them. I understand why I do it: I'm withdrawing before other people have the chance to reject me, and thus hurt me further. That survival mechanism is of long standing, and as difficult to retire as any of Amy's other habits. It may have to wait a while, until my environment changes enough to facilitate letting go of it.
As always, my default action in the face of things I can't change is to maintain good signage: tell people close to me as much as I can about what I understand of my reactions, so that they aren't taken off guard. Sometimes, if you can't clean up the mess, a hazard sign is the best you can do.
Amy learned early on not to cry in public.
My mother tells me I was a quiet child; I suspect that's because I had two major role models, one who didn't show much emotion, and one who always did. Of the two, my father's moods scared me more, so I tried to emulate my mom's coolness. I'm having to tell Amy now that I am not my mother, and her rules don't apply to me.
School taught her the same lesson, though. Little girls who cried got teased. Little girls who cried disappointed their teachers. Little girls who cried didn't get any more attention until they calmed down. Little girls who cried regularly were assumed to just be fussy, and ignored. And if there was one thing that Amy didn't want, it was to be ignored. That made her want to cry even more.
More than once I have had to give her explicit permission to cry, even when I'm alone in the car and nobody can see me. Crying isn't okay; crying is what happens when you can't handle things properly. Crying is failure, and disappoints people, and makes them not want to be around you anymore. Multiple times, I've had to remind her that I'm not going anywhere. On a rational level, it strikes me as absurd (Buckaroo had it right). But it's what she needs to hear. Small children are not known for being rational, especially when worked up.
Apparently it's what I needed to hear during my whole childhood life, and never did.
It's so very strange having someone else inside my head who thinks so differently from the way I do as an adult. Sometimes I can't understand her; sometimes she won't talk to me, even to tell me what's wrong. That happened tonight, and I was rescued by L's presence of mind -- I was, I think, actually incapable of asking for time and physical attention, so she did it for me. At times like that, I've blamed myself for failing my own code of conduct, what I consider to be my pact with other people: I ask for what I need, and they aren't responsible for reading my mind. When they have to guess, when I know things aren't right and on some level I know what I want to have happen, yet I don't articulate it... I've always felt that that was me being selfish, expecting others to do the work and show that they were willing to go out of their way so that I could feel special. It was the mark of a drama queen, and got me branded as such a few times.
It used to happen a lot more often, but these days I'm better able to step back and see what's going on in my head. I still feel like I have the communication tools necessary for those times, and I'm not using them... but I'm getting less sure that it's deliberate negligence on my part. There's some disconnect between the part of me that knows how to use the tools, and the part that needs to communicate. The impetus is there -- I want to say something, do something, that will get me relief, but I can't grasp the techniques properly. I can talk, sometimes, and say things that aren't what I need to say; sometimes I use that to come at it obliquely. But the direct approach isn't available. I would say that it's blocked by fear of rejection, but I've said many things in the teeth of that fear. This is some deeper dysfunction I can't identify yet.
I tell Amy I'm learning to do better. It's a hard problem we've had for a long time, and it's a tough nut, but I'm working on it. She doesn't understand anything but now, though, and she's still afraid that bad behavior will lead to isolation. Worse still, it will be her fault, for not handling things properly. (I think this was the root of the "fail the test" meme I kept running into a year ago.) All I can do is pat her on the back, and tell her everything's okay, and we'll get better.
I tell her that a lot. I feel like I'm still in bandages; out of surgery, recovering, but having to take things slowly and deal with complications. My identity isn't as fragile as it was, but it's not rock-solid yet. Some issues are still there, laid bare by all the layers I've stripped away, but my triggers have changed, and I have to learn them all over again. It's all less work than it was early on, at least.
This evening Amy, depressed and hurting, said that she wished things were back to the way they used to be, when things were simpler. I took a breath to consider that statement, and replied that actually, things are far simpler *now*. She had calmed down enough to listen to me, and I was a little surprised when she said "oh, you're right", and that little ache went away. Sometimes even tantrums can be reasoned with.
She may not ever lose the fear of abandonment, but being able to recognize what triggers it now (getting there) and being able to ask for help (there's the rub) would be a good start on coping with it. I still have the habit of withdrawing into myself when I'm in pain; I'm not sure how to address that without being surrounded by caring people I can rely on, which is not my current reality. I do recognize it when it's happening, at least... though seeing the irony of my self-isolating actions doesn't help me resist them. I understand why I do it: I'm withdrawing before other people have the chance to reject me, and thus hurt me further. That survival mechanism is of long standing, and as difficult to retire as any of Amy's other habits. It may have to wait a while, until my environment changes enough to facilitate letting go of it.
As always, my default action in the face of things I can't change is to maintain good signage: tell people close to me as much as I can about what I understand of my reactions, so that they aren't taken off guard. Sometimes, if you can't clean up the mess, a hazard sign is the best you can do.
