A funny thing about earthquakes is that you can’t know whether what you’re experiencing is the cataclysm or is merely a harbinger of cataclysm until the cataclysm is upon you.
I should’ve seen this coming. All the signs were there: The recent (natural) end of an extended period of intense positive emotion. A long trip away from home base, with no space of one’s own and a chaotic schedule.
But I’d Done the Work. I was fine. It was just a little stress—I knew how to handle that. I’d built myself some sturdy foundations that had already withstood some emotional quakes. Certainly they were up to code.
Ah, but what happens when your foundations are too sturdy? That don’t have any give to them, the give necessary for large-scale tectonic trauma?
“Trauma.” What a ridiculous word to ascribe to something so simple: When I was growing up, life got real unpleasant when people around me were in a bad mood.
There are a lot of long-lasting effects from this sort of upbringing, sure. You learn not to look people in the eyes when they use a certain tone of voice, or when you’re experiencing big emotions. You learn to make yourself as small as possible. You learn not to speak, though half the time that makes things worse. These are just the things that become instinct to your body.
Your mind? You make yourself a bellwether. You learn to interpret looks, learn to hear anger or disappointment well before it presents itself in ways other people would notice. You learn fear: fear of failure, of disappointment. You develop an instinct to people-please, to soothe, even in situations where none of these instincts are helpful.
Even after all this time, you startle so easily, yelping and flailing. People think it's funny, or cute, and you can’t tell most of these people it's because your body was conditioned to fear human contact. You laugh along with them and hope they didn't see the flash of fear in your eyes. You flinch at every unexpected touch.
You feel ashamed for these reactions you feel you can’t control, even after all this time and work.
The shame spiral is so easy to tip into: "You are a fuck up, irredeemably so," you tell yourself. "This is shameful—so shameful you cannot hide your shame. And because you are incapable of hiding the shame, you must hide yourself." So you lock yourself away, body and soul. You trap yourself in your trauma.
I trap myself in my trauma.
And, in turn, hurt everyone who loves me. Which makes me yet more ashamed.
The waves of shame and anger and self-loathing send me lurching, unable to grab hold of anything. You can’t stop them, and I don’t even think you’re supposed to try. But I still haven’t learned to ride them. I don’t know if that’s possible. And the architecture I so painstakingly erected is not only shattering around me, but a liability, now. Maybe there is no architecture that can withstand this kind of seismic event.
Back to the drawing board.