Talking about my younger self yesterday surprised me. I hate looking back at those years.
When I think of Dave, aged 6, all I can see is a wimpy, whining little tantrum-throwing crybaby. An embarrassment. I cringe.
Family and close friends have a different memory, though.
“A bundle of love and laughter and joy” is what they say. Oh, they remember the tantrums and the attention seeking too, but the first thing they talk about is the smiling little boy with golden curls and a big smile.
Funny. I don’t remember him.
But there’s the thing – talking to my therapist about how I just can’t get my sister to see and feel and understand all this noise in my heart, she brought me to the realization that although my sister and I share a past – a factual past – our emotional and psychological experiences of that past are vastly different.
How can she know what I am feeling? Trying to force that on her through rage-filled arguments and harsh text messages fired off in anger means I am acting no differently to what I feel is happening to me. She can’t know what I feel, and I can’t make her hear my words. We speak different realities. We may as well both be speaking different languages.
So. Maybe the first step is to release that expectation. The reality is we’ll never share an empathic connection over this. That’s hard to accept, that someone you love so much, someone you hurt so much trying to force that empathy, can never be on the same page as you, and vice versa.
Here’s the epiphany I had today:
It was inevitable I’d find myself at this point. Getting off drugs, going to therapy to learn how to feel all the emotions, to learn how to grieve, to deal with my codependency, and to learn how to to love myself – that was the goal, but when it became too real – too emotionally real – I stopped the process. Oh, I quit the drugs, but I was way too scared to go any further into my emotions. So I did the usual Dave thing and I pretended like everything was fine.
It feels like everything I felt as a child, and since, that I have been avoiding, sidestepping or had been numbing with cocaine – everything that I tried not to feel – has built up like a volcano about to explode.
So I either go mad, get high, die, or fix it.
The first three aren’t options.
©️ Dave Luis 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Image by Annie Spratt at Unsplash Free Images