Rejection and regression.
This week has been, on balance of emotions, a pretty rough one for me; rougher than I have had in a long while, certainly multiple years. The reason for the roughness is that I have suffered two significant-feeling rejections in quick succession (the first was five days ago, the second was last night/this morning). I won't be getting into the details of those rejections for purposes of this post; I imagine I will write about them at some other point, in other posts, when I am ready to. All I am able to truly capture right now is the feelings, which do not always marry happily with logic or reason. But it is important to me to capture these feelings, and not forget them, because that is how I learn, and live. And these are feelings that should not be forgotten.
Before reading further, know that I am currently in a calm state, dry-eyed, drinking coffee and typing quietly and gently on my laptop. Brandon is curled up next to me, a look of loving concern on his face, making the corners of his lips turn down in worry that he just can't help. His feet are pressed up against my thigh, and he occasionally reaches over to me with his hand to stroke my arm or squeeze my hand, and tell me he loves me. I am scraped raw, but not dying of my wounds.
It is well established that when I open my heart to someone and they reject it, I do not react well. In my younger years, I endured feelings of rejection from my father, from the various people I attached to, the people I felt I needed love from. Years of clinical depression combined with years of feeling my love rejected by people I was willing to give it to freely culminated in the crescendo of pain that was my suicide attempt, at age twenty-one. Living past that point has given me the opportunity to learn more about my needs and build a strong set of skills which allow me to deal with things like rejection in a more balanced manner. That is, ideally, and mostly.
The emotional reaction I experienced upon my second rejection has shocked me, and scared Brandon. As I calm from the state I reached, and I review my actions and words in my head, I feel certain that the intensity of what I was feeling caused me to emotionally regress a decade or more. For an hour or so, I was the same version of myself that would become so consumed by pain and anger that all she could do was scream, cry, and beat her fists against herself and the things around her. The cumulative effect of making myself vulnerable to multiple people and having them reject me in response (within days of each other, what horrible timing) has been strong, and violent. But again, it has passed.
It started when I woke up for a second time a little before noon, grabbed my phone, and saw a new text message waiting for me. As it came up on the small screen, I could immediately tell from the length alone that something of a one-sided nature was about to be communicated. It was the "thanks, but no thanks" message, similar to the one I received from Aaron five days ago (see post: Respect, and communication.). It had the same sense of finality, the same usage of past tense, the apology for any hurt that might have been experienced by me. Side note - expect a separate post regarding the severing connections with people via text message; it will not be positive.
My immediate response was to try and fall back on my training. In the message I received I found myself disagreeing with some of the conclusions the writer made, and wanted to be able to pursue clarity and understanding with them. I responded by asking for the opportunity to have a conversation so we could each get our thoughts and feelings on the table and be able to have more of a dialogue, but received no response (and do not expect to at this point). I lay in bed for about an hour waiting, but received only silence. Brandon came in to check on me at about the time he usually does on weekends, because I sleep hours later than he does, and climbed into bed next to me, asking me how I was doing. I read the text message to him, and by the time I got to the end, my voice was cracking and I began to cry.
The first few sobs were relatively light, but I could feel the pain mounting in me and rising into my throat, constricting it and making me gasp for more air. My eyes were stinging, my face was heating up. With the pain was intense rage, that it was happening again, the thought boiling the blood in my veins. Brandon tried to put his arms around me, and Theo tried to jump on my lap, and as simply as snapping a twig, my control broke.
I pushed Theo violently from me and rolled out of the bed away from Brandon, suddenly convinced that I wouldn't be able to bear the shame of breaking down this way in front of him. I rushed from the room down the hall to my bedroom, the tears breaking forth about midway. I slammed my door and shoved my face into my mattress, and let the first scream out. My body shook as I gasped for air between the violence of my sobs, and I screamed again as the tears streamed forth. I realized fairly quickly that Brandon would be worried, and I walked back out to the hall to find him standing a few feet away, looking at me imploringly, wanting to help. I ripped my glasses from my face to wipe the tears away as I heard myself say to him, "I am fucking worthless." The bitterness of the words and the anger in my body made me throw my glasses across the floor. Brandon rushed over to me and wrapped his arms around me, telling me I was not worthless, I could never be worthless, I was worth everything to him. I sobbed in his arms for a few moments before I couldn't handle the affection anymore (you're not fucking worth it, the demon in my head crooned to me) and shoved away from him, going into my bathroom to find tissues as he trailed after me. I gripped the towel rod in front of me and pressed my head to the wall, trying not to shake but feeling every sob rack my body, every shitty thing I've ever thought about myself pouring forth from my lips. I heard myself asking the universe what was wrong with me, that I can so easily be cast aside like I'm nothing. I begged the air to tell me why I was so unwanted, worth too little to offer the opportunity of conversation. I must be trash, because I was so easily discarded. I screamed into my towel and Brandon said everything he could to try and help, his hands on my back trying to console the inconsolable. "I'm fucking broken," I screamed at one point, and I could see the fear mounting in Brandon that I was in a truly dangerous place. The energy to stand drained from my body and I slid down the wall, banging my head against it as I went, slamming my hands and feet against the surfaces around me. Brandon asked me to stop, then started trying to grip me so I couldn't keep slamming the various parts of my body against the walls around me. I shook in his arms and said over and over, "I don't want to feel this way, I don't want to feel this way." At one point he said, "It's okay," trying to calm me, and I screamed back that it wasn't fucking okay, and sobbed harder. He gripped me harder and said it wasn't, what had happened wasn't okay, none of it was okay, but all he wanted was for me to stop hurting.
Eventually I was able to peel myself off the floor of the bathroom and went downstairs, determined to just keep going with real fucking life and make coffee like I normally would. The tears continued to flow intermittently, and the rage wasn't fully gone. I tried to tie my hair up in a bun to get it out of the way, and snapped the tie in the attempt. "Fuck," I muttered, then suddenly screamed. Brandon stood by, helpless, as I grabbed one of the pillows on the couch and started beating the cushions with it as violently as I could, screaming "fuck" over and over again. I stepped back when I heard his alarmed voice say, "You have to calm down." I gasped for breath as I gripped my hands to my head, pulling at my hair and wanting so much to expel the pain and rage from me, but feeling that there was nowhere for it to go. There was no scream that could release it, no amount of tears that could cry it out of me, no violent act I could commit that would allow me to let it go without consequence - there could be no slamming my fist into the sliding glass door, no cutting my arms, no reckless attempts to end it all. In those moments, the feeling utterly consumed me, and there was nothing else but the pain and rage, nothing else but the vastness of my sorrow and loss. As had seemed to happen so many times before, my open heart and willingness to trust had done more to hurt me than help me.
It has been so long since I had such a violent emotional reaction to something that I wasn't sure I still had it in me. It doesn't really bother me that I still do, because in a sense I love the ability I have to feel things so deeply, and care about things so much. The fact that I can feel such pain means I can also feel bliss and ecstasy, and I know I will feel those again someday. Today... today just has to be a day for pain, I guess.
Before reading further, know that I am currently in a calm state, dry-eyed, drinking coffee and typing quietly and gently on my laptop. Brandon is curled up next to me, a look of loving concern on his face, making the corners of his lips turn down in worry that he just can't help. His feet are pressed up against my thigh, and he occasionally reaches over to me with his hand to stroke my arm or squeeze my hand, and tell me he loves me. I am scraped raw, but not dying of my wounds.
It is well established that when I open my heart to someone and they reject it, I do not react well. In my younger years, I endured feelings of rejection from my father, from the various people I attached to, the people I felt I needed love from. Years of clinical depression combined with years of feeling my love rejected by people I was willing to give it to freely culminated in the crescendo of pain that was my suicide attempt, at age twenty-one. Living past that point has given me the opportunity to learn more about my needs and build a strong set of skills which allow me to deal with things like rejection in a more balanced manner. That is, ideally, and mostly.
The emotional reaction I experienced upon my second rejection has shocked me, and scared Brandon. As I calm from the state I reached, and I review my actions and words in my head, I feel certain that the intensity of what I was feeling caused me to emotionally regress a decade or more. For an hour or so, I was the same version of myself that would become so consumed by pain and anger that all she could do was scream, cry, and beat her fists against herself and the things around her. The cumulative effect of making myself vulnerable to multiple people and having them reject me in response (within days of each other, what horrible timing) has been strong, and violent. But again, it has passed.
It started when I woke up for a second time a little before noon, grabbed my phone, and saw a new text message waiting for me. As it came up on the small screen, I could immediately tell from the length alone that something of a one-sided nature was about to be communicated. It was the "thanks, but no thanks" message, similar to the one I received from Aaron five days ago (see post: Respect, and communication.). It had the same sense of finality, the same usage of past tense, the apology for any hurt that might have been experienced by me. Side note - expect a separate post regarding the severing connections with people via text message; it will not be positive.
My immediate response was to try and fall back on my training. In the message I received I found myself disagreeing with some of the conclusions the writer made, and wanted to be able to pursue clarity and understanding with them. I responded by asking for the opportunity to have a conversation so we could each get our thoughts and feelings on the table and be able to have more of a dialogue, but received no response (and do not expect to at this point). I lay in bed for about an hour waiting, but received only silence. Brandon came in to check on me at about the time he usually does on weekends, because I sleep hours later than he does, and climbed into bed next to me, asking me how I was doing. I read the text message to him, and by the time I got to the end, my voice was cracking and I began to cry.
The first few sobs were relatively light, but I could feel the pain mounting in me and rising into my throat, constricting it and making me gasp for more air. My eyes were stinging, my face was heating up. With the pain was intense rage, that it was happening again, the thought boiling the blood in my veins. Brandon tried to put his arms around me, and Theo tried to jump on my lap, and as simply as snapping a twig, my control broke.
I pushed Theo violently from me and rolled out of the bed away from Brandon, suddenly convinced that I wouldn't be able to bear the shame of breaking down this way in front of him. I rushed from the room down the hall to my bedroom, the tears breaking forth about midway. I slammed my door and shoved my face into my mattress, and let the first scream out. My body shook as I gasped for air between the violence of my sobs, and I screamed again as the tears streamed forth. I realized fairly quickly that Brandon would be worried, and I walked back out to the hall to find him standing a few feet away, looking at me imploringly, wanting to help. I ripped my glasses from my face to wipe the tears away as I heard myself say to him, "I am fucking worthless." The bitterness of the words and the anger in my body made me throw my glasses across the floor. Brandon rushed over to me and wrapped his arms around me, telling me I was not worthless, I could never be worthless, I was worth everything to him. I sobbed in his arms for a few moments before I couldn't handle the affection anymore (you're not fucking worth it, the demon in my head crooned to me) and shoved away from him, going into my bathroom to find tissues as he trailed after me. I gripped the towel rod in front of me and pressed my head to the wall, trying not to shake but feeling every sob rack my body, every shitty thing I've ever thought about myself pouring forth from my lips. I heard myself asking the universe what was wrong with me, that I can so easily be cast aside like I'm nothing. I begged the air to tell me why I was so unwanted, worth too little to offer the opportunity of conversation. I must be trash, because I was so easily discarded. I screamed into my towel and Brandon said everything he could to try and help, his hands on my back trying to console the inconsolable. "I'm fucking broken," I screamed at one point, and I could see the fear mounting in Brandon that I was in a truly dangerous place. The energy to stand drained from my body and I slid down the wall, banging my head against it as I went, slamming my hands and feet against the surfaces around me. Brandon asked me to stop, then started trying to grip me so I couldn't keep slamming the various parts of my body against the walls around me. I shook in his arms and said over and over, "I don't want to feel this way, I don't want to feel this way." At one point he said, "It's okay," trying to calm me, and I screamed back that it wasn't fucking okay, and sobbed harder. He gripped me harder and said it wasn't, what had happened wasn't okay, none of it was okay, but all he wanted was for me to stop hurting.
Eventually I was able to peel myself off the floor of the bathroom and went downstairs, determined to just keep going with real fucking life and make coffee like I normally would. The tears continued to flow intermittently, and the rage wasn't fully gone. I tried to tie my hair up in a bun to get it out of the way, and snapped the tie in the attempt. "Fuck," I muttered, then suddenly screamed. Brandon stood by, helpless, as I grabbed one of the pillows on the couch and started beating the cushions with it as violently as I could, screaming "fuck" over and over again. I stepped back when I heard his alarmed voice say, "You have to calm down." I gasped for breath as I gripped my hands to my head, pulling at my hair and wanting so much to expel the pain and rage from me, but feeling that there was nowhere for it to go. There was no scream that could release it, no amount of tears that could cry it out of me, no violent act I could commit that would allow me to let it go without consequence - there could be no slamming my fist into the sliding glass door, no cutting my arms, no reckless attempts to end it all. In those moments, the feeling utterly consumed me, and there was nothing else but the pain and rage, nothing else but the vastness of my sorrow and loss. As had seemed to happen so many times before, my open heart and willingness to trust had done more to hurt me than help me.
It has been so long since I had such a violent emotional reaction to something that I wasn't sure I still had it in me. It doesn't really bother me that I still do, because in a sense I love the ability I have to feel things so deeply, and care about things so much. The fact that I can feel such pain means I can also feel bliss and ecstasy, and I know I will feel those again someday. Today... today just has to be a day for pain, I guess.