As I walked to my car, I sat, forehead in my hands, the door ajar. The rearview mirror reflected a glimpse of hollow eyes. Dry. Eyes that longed to be wet. Once again, there were no tears to be found—it seems these days there never are.
As I drove over the bridge I asked for them, pleaded, floodgates open, please. Unanswered. Surrounded only by a desert of emotions.
My father called. The father who has only become a figment of that role in the past year. And I shared, divulged the subconscious torment that was beginning to unveil itself to my conscious. On the surface my emotions remain unscathed, but a teardrop that crawled down my face upon hearing my mother’s name two weeks ago proved that the truth lies elsewhere. My shoulders have also become the physical manifestation of my repressed emotions. The pain so intense I forked over $180 last Wednesday for the only massage I could find at 8pm. The gift of our bodies.
Psychological pain syndromes are actually defense mechanisms designed to cover up sensitive or unresolved emotional issues. The subconscious mind feels that these issues are so threatening to the well being of the individual, that it will do anything to prevent the issues from becoming conscious. This process is called repression. When repression is not enough to guarantee that the painful issues will remain hidden, the subconscious will create psychosomatic symptoms to preoccupy the conscious thoughts of the individual. This conscious focus on the pain is a very effective means of making sure that repressed emotional issues remain well hidden.
This in combination with the sabotaging of my relationship Monday night had me convinced I was a psychological, repressed mess. I must figure out how to fix myself, again. Thoughts of seeing a therapist danced in my mind. I thought of S, his stability and my contrasting instability. The cards dictate that I am destined to be single.
I initially attracted S because I was in a stable period, inspired by a new project of my own making and in love with my life’s ability to grant me to time to enjoy my passions. We matched . . . temporarily. Now, I am complex, messed up, and a saboteur.
But then came my father’s words. Advice, a first. He told me, “It doesn’t matter how messed up you think you are—what matters is that you share who you are with that person. The person then has the ability to meet your needs or not. The right person will want to learn how.” Such a simple truth, one I have known but knowledge and application are not the equivalent. My father’s multiple dictations of the above allowed it to permeate, a calm overcame me. I stopped worrying about whether I fucked up. I emailed S with an explanation. I shared how I work. The outcome was not in my hands or tied to my actions. Relief.
This morning I felt something I never had. As if my father gifted me another leg on which to stand. I noted my solitary life and my limited internal reach of my emotions. I realized how precious speaking is. How vital support can be. It’s not something built in my life and often when I seek, my calls are returned unanswered. But, for now, I am stronger, balanced, and once again, myself. And my shoulders feel a hell of a lot better.