A few weeks ago, I felt ready to mildly socialize again. As in: Call someone up, arrange for a time and place to meet up and hang. Ideally, watching a film at an open air movie theater. The person I had in mind for this was a female, who I thought had shown some continued interest in me. For the sake of my own well being, I never even began to ponder her motivations, although one or the other idea ran across my mind. But anyway – I thought, her and I had enough in common to be able of enjoying a night at the movies together. So I set it up. Unfortunately, the plan got criss-crossed by my escape from my abode for about 2 weeks and 2 weeks ago, as it got too crowded/noisy in here and this having all my triggers go off like a freaking bell tower! In other words: Torture. So I escaped – to my parents, of all places. (And it really seemed the only place I could go to… )
When I came back, I met her prior to our replacement date. We spent an afternoon hanging at a beergarden, enjoying some live music, talking, then heading on to a different place, which had a fair ground and fireworks later on. Quality time. Until we return to the car, when she explains a time of silence and distance in between. How she had receded from me, because I felt “too heavy” on her.
Now, see – I understand that. Noone really enjoys being around someone, who is “down”, for whatever reason. We’re all champions of entertainment in one way or another. Once, our bellies are fed, we seek excitement or distraction at the very least. I do, too, whenever I’m not too depressed to drag myself up from bed or just about do anything. I understand all of that. But first of all, it was me warning her of this aspect of me and kind of putting some distance in between us when feeling she was moving too fast. And second – relapsing and feeling depressed is a part of me. Not a part, I particularly enjoy or like about myself, either. But a part of me, I don’t seem to have much control over. Whatever control – diet, exercising, self-medicating – I have, I employ. Always. I can be very demanding of myself. And all that in the service of not being a burden on anyone.
So now she says I was being exactly that – a burden. Wow. I mean fucking wow and then some! Here I am, my life already going down the shit road and thoroughly slammed into a wall to the point, where I have practically become a ghost. And of all things you need to rub it in what I’m using my very last breath on fighting each and every day? How fucking sensitive! And you’re a therapist and coach of all things? Well, my bad. I should have been warned. Things I had to listen to:
- “And then your body betrayed you” (when talking about somatic responses to the fight-or-flight reflex). Hell, yeah! And I don’t particularly like it!!
- “You’re afraid to open up.” Doh! Oh really… I was let down, deserted, put away from the very beginning, left to die. Shouldn’t it be normal to not trust in this case?
- “Seriously? You haven’t worked since … ” [upon my answering her very question on whether or not I was on disability]
- The list goes on with equally “qualified” prompts
So – rejection. Again. “You’re too heavy on me” – and I don’t want you around for that. Yeah, well, I wouldn’t either, if given a choice. But I wasn’t given that choice, shoot me!
I share the story with my therapist. He goes about the usual DBT/CBT stuff, like my emotional perception replayed something from the past. OK. I know that, you know? I’ve been there enough times to know that this is what’s happening. Yet, I can’t stop it from happening when being triggered! And I can’t get over the hurt and pain of having gotten shunned like this in the first place, of having someone send a message that says “Not you! I don’t want you here!” And it seems ingrained in me so hard, I subconsciously couldn’t help but somehow create circumstances that would have me reexperience this over and over and over again. Like above experience.
“You’re too heavy on me.” Well fuck you then! You’re too fucking dumb/insensitive/cruel for my taste!
Over and out, Captain!
P.S. I just seem to realize that this particular experience along with the 2 weeks at “home” preceding it live up to a real emotional desaster of proportions that might take weeks to recuperate from. “Weeks” is an optimistic assessment. This was bad. It threw me back quite some in my journey.