I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream*
Pursuant to yesterday's post, on the drive home yesterday I had another thought:
I had cause to wonder whether my fears are being kept stirred and running high (consciously and subconsciously) by legitimate but unaddressed anger?
Anger has for so long been the mask of most of my fears that the two may be inextricably linked now. My fears of losing people and things I care about have historically (even recent history) resulted in a childlike lashing out at the perceived threat; yes, inevitably this creates the very situation of loss I feared in the first place, but the nature of this act is rooted in small child thinking, rooted in an age before causally-related actions and consequences are perceived and understood (developmentally speaking, this is toddler-era behaviour). Psychologically speaking, this is classic "ambivalent/resistant attachment" behaviour as clinically observed in small children (unsurprisingly, generally pre-verbal children who experience inconsistent or neglectful care from their original caregivers).
That this pattern still resonates so clearly across my adult behaviours says a lot about both my early childhood experiences (coming back to the issue of well-intentioned but alcoholic parents), and about my defining needs within intimate relationships:
In the last few months of the relationship, Matthew had been waiting for me to be able to articulate exactly this list, but I couldn't because I was too wrapped up in the triggers and awash in the raging-toddler headspace to be able to see the fear underneath and address it directly. We could see the rage; it's pretty hard NOT to see it when it's kicking out at your 'nads every time the tension spikes, frankly (you may now all wince in sympathy with Matthew, who bore the private lashings repeatedly, right up until he couldn't any more). It wasn't until weeks after the breakup that the true aspect of fear showed itself, and it's only now I can look even somewhat directly into the face of the fear to see who or what's at the heart of it.
The entire gist of my need to be someone's "special little snowflake" is wrapped up in this state of negligent caregiving and the terrified, enraged toddler who doesn't understand object permanence, who doesn't trust that love and care will be constant even when select actions make the source of that love and care *seem* behaviourally-inconstant. My perception is that love is as inconsistent as someone's physical presence in a space; when the person leaves, the love leaves, and I am nothing but alone and unable to fend for or tend myself. I cannot cope with that. There is no soothing that abandonment; the toddler doesn't understand that at all.
So what does the child do? The child howls: interminably, inconsolably.
What do adults do? We learn that that kind of deep emotional response is "inappropriate" or "unwelcome", especially when we connect with other adults who are distressed by deep emotional displays, or avoidant of anything that looks like conflict (and this isn't just about Matthew; looking back, I've been selecting for type most of my life). And so we learn to clam up that howling, to block it in and mask it with more socially-acceptable responses. We divert, subvert, ignore, pretend; we become inauthentic, but with the best intentions. This is all meant to ameliorate our social constructs, to soothe those around us into loving us, to stabilize relationships so we might finally gain the intimacy we've been craving since childhood.
But inside our heads, the child is still howling. We try to turn a deaf ear, but outwardly we're still cringing from the sound, a cringe that over time becomes a kind of growth that has twisted us around all of the things we fear - all of the things we have always feared - and a kind of movement that is always designed to move us in a complicated dance around those fears without ever unmasking them, or soothing them, or really even acknowledging their existence. That howl becomes the Thing around which we form ourselves, around which our egos take shape as conscious defences against the noise and the fear it signifies.
And thus does S's comment about "stripping away our egos before we can remake ourselves" fall into context completely. It takes a catastrophic failure to finally remove the last of those carefully-constructed defences and lay bare to light the core of fear that has shaped me for 43-odd years.
That howling is my constant companion now, the fears tied to it are what keep me awake at nights. I'm still cringing, but I can't block it out any more.
Ironically, I've been using the phrase "noise in my head" or "screaming in my head" for almost all of my adult life to describe the sense of constant mental business that I've gathered as the screen between my conscious world and that inconsolable howling. Pain can drop that screen; pain and sex in particular combinations can even quiet the howling for a short period of time (the psychology of my kink starts to become much clearer here, but that's another contemplation for another day). My use of pain/sex as a bridge between my conscious head and the leviathan under my skin is the same bridge by which I coax the silenced-voice of that rage up and out of the past and into expression now. In pain, there is permission (permission to let the pain flood me instead of fight it, to cry, scream, howl); in sex, there is connection and warmth. Both are fleeting, ephemeral, tenuous experiences that don't always get to where I need or want them to be, but they are the best tools I have found (albeit unconsciously; putting the pieces together recently makes it very clear this need to find and give voice is something I've been pursuing most of my life).
So the question now is whether or not giving this time and space to sit with the howling will make a difference for me, for my relationships, for my future. I don't know. I think the behavioural historicity is going to be slippery slope for a long time to come - old defences die hard, especially where primal fears that defy logic and language are concerned. One can't simply rationalize or logic a toddler's fear away, and the same is true here. But being able to put names on things, and being able to *finally* put a list of relational needs on the table that fit the better-understood form and context of the fear... these things are *HUGE*. They come too late for some things, but the work is not wasted, even if I still spend most days convinced otherwise.
My despair is simply another aspect of the fear, and I have to learn to accept it in all its guises.
[Edit to add: The thing about "legit anger" is to differentiate the normal sense of anger that comes of being dumped by a partner - no matter whether or not I can see and understand the reasons behind the dumping - from the primal rage that has always lurked below the surface; I was started on this tanget by wondering if, in an effort to try to remain affable and equitable during the separation process, if I'm expending too much energy to keep the rage and fear at bay, and completely failing to address a perfectly natural and expected sense of adult anger over the situation? If unexplored and unexpressed anger is at all connected to fear, it might explain why my subconscious is still connecting the dots even in my sleep, since my conscious brain is possibly trying hard to subvert *ANY* forms of anger in an effort to just survive each day? It's certainly worth considering, at any rate, that I maybe need to spend some time sitting with the totally-expected non-raging anger. Differentiating between fear, rage, and anger, while giving each its own time, space, and voice, is going to be some hard work.]
* - Apologies to Harlan Ellison for appropriating the title of his short story of the same name; it fits the context of the post perfectly.
I had cause to wonder whether my fears are being kept stirred and running high (consciously and subconsciously) by legitimate but unaddressed anger?
Anger has for so long been the mask of most of my fears that the two may be inextricably linked now. My fears of losing people and things I care about have historically (even recent history) resulted in a childlike lashing out at the perceived threat; yes, inevitably this creates the very situation of loss I feared in the first place, but the nature of this act is rooted in small child thinking, rooted in an age before causally-related actions and consequences are perceived and understood (developmentally speaking, this is toddler-era behaviour). Psychologically speaking, this is classic "ambivalent/resistant attachment" behaviour as clinically observed in small children (unsurprisingly, generally pre-verbal children who experience inconsistent or neglectful care from their original caregivers).
That this pattern still resonates so clearly across my adult behaviours says a lot about both my early childhood experiences (coming back to the issue of well-intentioned but alcoholic parents), and about my defining needs within intimate relationships:
- I need my partners to be constant, and consistent; when they are not (or are perceived to be inconsistent), all the ancient patterns get triggered as incoherent rage I can barely mask and contain as anger; this explains why stress generally hits me so hard, and why surprises in relationships are the worst possible things I can experience
- I need a consistent stream of reassurance that my partners are available to me whether I'm in distress or not, and lack of availability is one of the most common causes of distress; this explains the Drama Queen call-response chaos I would historically engender as a means of provoking some kind, *ANY* kind of response to me from a partner, and would mercilessly escalate the chaos until I got any form of engagement; even negative or hostile engagement was infinitely preferable to non-engagement (the emotional disengagement that marked my later relationships was the substitute for the call-response chaos; if I retreated, I was signalling that I needed someone to "come after me" - Harriet Lerner's distancers & pursuers in a nutshell - because I needed the reassurance and perception of value that went with being pursued when I felt I had no other way to voice the emotional maelstrom I was experiencing in the moment
- I need hierarchy and structure in my relationships because it's something I'm guessing I lacked as a child, and because it provides a sense of stability that I require for feeling safe, before I can go exploring out in the wider world of Options; without that secure and safe base, there is nothing but instability and surprise... see Point #1.
- I need someone with an almost parental level of patience because, triggered or not, my fears are a part of who I have become and as such, inform a lot of what I do. Not that I'm looking for a parent-child kind of relationship (age play in a D/s context is one thing, but otherwise... ew), but I need partners who will understand that sometimes the level of processing that goes on in my head is nothing more or less than that of a fear-spiked enraged toddler in the midst of a meltdown, and that what I need is a reassuring and gentle presence to help talk me down off the ledge and hold me for a while.
In the last few months of the relationship, Matthew had been waiting for me to be able to articulate exactly this list, but I couldn't because I was too wrapped up in the triggers and awash in the raging-toddler headspace to be able to see the fear underneath and address it directly. We could see the rage; it's pretty hard NOT to see it when it's kicking out at your 'nads every time the tension spikes, frankly (you may now all wince in sympathy with Matthew, who bore the private lashings repeatedly, right up until he couldn't any more). It wasn't until weeks after the breakup that the true aspect of fear showed itself, and it's only now I can look even somewhat directly into the face of the fear to see who or what's at the heart of it.
The entire gist of my need to be someone's "special little snowflake" is wrapped up in this state of negligent caregiving and the terrified, enraged toddler who doesn't understand object permanence, who doesn't trust that love and care will be constant even when select actions make the source of that love and care *seem* behaviourally-inconstant. My perception is that love is as inconsistent as someone's physical presence in a space; when the person leaves, the love leaves, and I am nothing but alone and unable to fend for or tend myself. I cannot cope with that. There is no soothing that abandonment; the toddler doesn't understand that at all.
So what does the child do? The child howls: interminably, inconsolably.
What do adults do? We learn that that kind of deep emotional response is "inappropriate" or "unwelcome", especially when we connect with other adults who are distressed by deep emotional displays, or avoidant of anything that looks like conflict (and this isn't just about Matthew; looking back, I've been selecting for type most of my life). And so we learn to clam up that howling, to block it in and mask it with more socially-acceptable responses. We divert, subvert, ignore, pretend; we become inauthentic, but with the best intentions. This is all meant to ameliorate our social constructs, to soothe those around us into loving us, to stabilize relationships so we might finally gain the intimacy we've been craving since childhood.
But inside our heads, the child is still howling. We try to turn a deaf ear, but outwardly we're still cringing from the sound, a cringe that over time becomes a kind of growth that has twisted us around all of the things we fear - all of the things we have always feared - and a kind of movement that is always designed to move us in a complicated dance around those fears without ever unmasking them, or soothing them, or really even acknowledging their existence. That howl becomes the Thing around which we form ourselves, around which our egos take shape as conscious defences against the noise and the fear it signifies.
And thus does S's comment about "stripping away our egos before we can remake ourselves" fall into context completely. It takes a catastrophic failure to finally remove the last of those carefully-constructed defences and lay bare to light the core of fear that has shaped me for 43-odd years.
That howling is my constant companion now, the fears tied to it are what keep me awake at nights. I'm still cringing, but I can't block it out any more.
Ironically, I've been using the phrase "noise in my head" or "screaming in my head" for almost all of my adult life to describe the sense of constant mental business that I've gathered as the screen between my conscious world and that inconsolable howling. Pain can drop that screen; pain and sex in particular combinations can even quiet the howling for a short period of time (the psychology of my kink starts to become much clearer here, but that's another contemplation for another day). My use of pain/sex as a bridge between my conscious head and the leviathan under my skin is the same bridge by which I coax the silenced-voice of that rage up and out of the past and into expression now. In pain, there is permission (permission to let the pain flood me instead of fight it, to cry, scream, howl); in sex, there is connection and warmth. Both are fleeting, ephemeral, tenuous experiences that don't always get to where I need or want them to be, but they are the best tools I have found (albeit unconsciously; putting the pieces together recently makes it very clear this need to find and give voice is something I've been pursuing most of my life).
So the question now is whether or not giving this time and space to sit with the howling will make a difference for me, for my relationships, for my future. I don't know. I think the behavioural historicity is going to be slippery slope for a long time to come - old defences die hard, especially where primal fears that defy logic and language are concerned. One can't simply rationalize or logic a toddler's fear away, and the same is true here. But being able to put names on things, and being able to *finally* put a list of relational needs on the table that fit the better-understood form and context of the fear... these things are *HUGE*. They come too late for some things, but the work is not wasted, even if I still spend most days convinced otherwise.
My despair is simply another aspect of the fear, and I have to learn to accept it in all its guises.
[Edit to add: The thing about "legit anger" is to differentiate the normal sense of anger that comes of being dumped by a partner - no matter whether or not I can see and understand the reasons behind the dumping - from the primal rage that has always lurked below the surface; I was started on this tanget by wondering if, in an effort to try to remain affable and equitable during the separation process, if I'm expending too much energy to keep the rage and fear at bay, and completely failing to address a perfectly natural and expected sense of adult anger over the situation? If unexplored and unexpressed anger is at all connected to fear, it might explain why my subconscious is still connecting the dots even in my sleep, since my conscious brain is possibly trying hard to subvert *ANY* forms of anger in an effort to just survive each day? It's certainly worth considering, at any rate, that I maybe need to spend some time sitting with the totally-expected non-raging anger. Differentiating between fear, rage, and anger, while giving each its own time, space, and voice, is going to be some hard work.]
* - Apologies to Harlan Ellison for appropriating the title of his short story of the same name; it fits the context of the post perfectly.