You can’t go home

(Yada yada yada angst, yada long)

Two days ago, at 2 pm, I was filled with a sense of urgent desperation, under pressure of a work deadline, aware the kids would come home and need a snack, the place was a mess, but I was compulsively texting line after line of angry, accusing, entreating, beseeching vitriol to him, crying helplessly, long after he had stopped responding, trying frantically to get a response that I knew was extremely unlikely, justifying actions and filled with a sense of anxious foreboding. I had been spiraling downwards this way for three days by then, pausing only to get essentials done, letting go of all the planning and projects on my lists.

Three days lost. And it wasn’t the first time. I have lost many such days over the last few years and had a knot of shame growing inside me about it. What was wrong with me, why was I sabotaging myself with these harangues. I knew quite well that they were pointless, rarely providing any tangible result. I had managed to reduce the frequency by ignoring obvious bait and recovered faster, but I still wasn’t able to control the complete spin out of emotion. That sick nasty compulsive litany of justification, as though reciting the facts one more time would somehow make him appreciate my point of view. It had become clear to me that this was no longer about what he was doing, it was about something within me.

I did the rounds of pop psychology. Self doubt and fear of success. But honestly, I knew it wasn’t confidence I lacked. Or knowledge of my abilities or skills. I am more critical of myself but it is more a function of my belief that it takes more than inspiration or desire to be good at anything, every art or skill has to be underlaid with a solid foundation of knowledge and then serious practice and study are needed to truly elevate the result. You need to put in the time, the effort, the tapasya.

I had individual portions of life functioning at astonishing levels, reconnected remarkably with the kids who, touch wood, were doing better than I had hoped, work is pretty awesome and structured in a way which is perfect for me (ie my bosses trust and respect me and leave me alone to do my job), I was reconnecting with friends and developing long held interests. But from time to time I still got sucked into these prolonged periods of arguments, often negating some positive step. And I had started wondering if I was that self defeating individual who conjured up obstacles to excuse my lack of motivation and drive.

Well, apparently I was. And if that was the case, then I was pretty much where I should be, and at least I could accept it about myself. I wasn’t unique in this, I was surrounded by people who had built lives around safe acceptable choices. I have no burning desire to be rich or powerful, I had more friends and love than I could handle, and if I let go of my sense of failure to attain glorious but obscure heights sparked by excellent post twelfth grade college entrance tests, I was golden. Except that I found myself crying for over five hours, texting appeals to someone who no longer really had any actual significance in my life. One more line, one more explanation and he would finally admit I had not done anything wrong, in fact I had done far more than I could ever have been expected to do, that I could let go of unreasonable demands and move on with my life. I was begging for permission to just do what I wanted to do.

Begging for permission from someone who had no control or rights over me. Scared of some unknown but feared retribution. Crying helplessly.

And in that moment I realized I had felt that way so often before, as a child. When I had tried so hard to explain my actions to my parents, trying somehow to make them understand that I had tried to fulfill their expectations but my own desires lay elsewhere. That I had no intention to rebel but I knew I definitely did not want to go in the direction they thought safe and acceptable. I used to try to somehow get that moment of understanding so that the inevitable punishment would some how be forestalled. That they wouldn’t keep saying that I was deliberately defying them and was thus unworthy of being loved. Unable to leave my home, I would feel that desperate compulsive need to justify myself to them, to make them admit that I wasn’t a bad child.

Somewhere along the way, I had transferred this authority to him. I had given up on getting that acceptance from my parents. I had been trying to get his admission that I had done all I could have done, and I was allowed to move on. I was reliving those moments over and over again, as though I could get an answer I didn’t get as a child. After every other visible tether had been cut, this one had remained. Strong and invisible, pulling the noose tighter around my neck like a choke chain.

Such a cliche, that one keeps recreating and revisiting childhood emotional experiences to somehow resolve them. Some people become people pleasers, compelled to make peace and be happy in giving way. Others learn to hide in plain sight, quiet observers alert to changes in emotional temperature of rooms. I had accepted that my decisions were considered wrong and that I had to justify myself.

Why do people stay in bad situations? Pulling apart the threads slowly.