Fuzz Jam

I run my fingers through my hair. Feel each follicle. Become lost in the feeling. My finger pads go numb from the pattern. The searching. Looking for the small pits of emptiness that had filled with dirt, shampoo, proteins. Picking them out of a pin prick sized anomaly. It's like a game. To see what I find. Know that I can pick every last bit from my body. Everything that isn't supposed to be there, like somehow this will make everything okay. The contamination is gone. I can be free now. I can breathe again. But, no, I still feel the anxiety, so I keep looking. I find more things to run my fingers over. To pick. To bleed. Then, I worry. I want the bleeding to stop. It's never about the blood running out of my pores. It's about the excavation of the plugged parts of my head. About pushing out the white bits of crud that got stuck in the tiniest of spots. I hate when it breaks the skin. I have to stop picking then. I have to wait for it to heal. Crust over. Then I know I will look for it another time. I will instinctively remember where that scab is- I forget on the day to day tasks- and I will scrape it off until it bleeds again. Pulling more skin off. Until it gets bigger. Until it scars. I will wear the mark of each with embarrassment. I never meant to brand myself. I just wanted to release the pressure. 

It's a stress response, at its core. I didn't know this. I realized it when I decided I needed a divorce. Or shortly thereafter, since I was a bit drunk when I had declared I needed to separate. I was realizing a lot about myself, and I still had a lot to go, but one of the things I realized is how stressed I was. I thought that I was always such a calm person when in reality, I was on the edge all the time. I was picking the back of my head so much that I had 4-5 scabs about the size of my thumbnail on the back of my head. It was hidden under my hair, but I would find myself on the couch, burnt out, and tucked into myself, picking those spots without realizing it was my coping mechanism. I was coping with the fact that I was so manipulated all the time which stunted me from being a basic human being. I didn't know what I wanted. Who I was. What I needed. What I liked. I was reduced to a shell of a person when he called me, "boring." The idea that I could have something that was just for me was both thrilling and terrifying. I just wanted to be free of the feeling. I still didn't realize that getting away from the stressor would release that pressure. 

It wasn't all the fault of my ex. I put myself in this position. I recognize that I was playing a part in a role that I signed up for. I asked for this part. I acted the FUCK out of my role. I was SO GOOD at it. But, in actuality, I hated it. I hated being the person that was so kind. So loving. So caring. To him. I just allowed him to turn me into a verbal punching bag. I did fight back. Verbally. I was always screaming into the void. I was reacting to the stress of being around him. I would be calm and patient until I couldn't take it anymore. Then I was crazy for feeling... well, crazy. I did actually believe I was going crazy. Despite the gut feeling I had that was saying, "this isn't right, you know who you are... you know you are right... just leave."

I know that growing up, I had so many different role models thanks to a string of my mother's ex boyfriends and husbands. Of random babysitters. Of my siblings who would watch me when my parents were at work. I had so many different ways of learning that the best role for a woman was to be quiet and agreeable. I wasn't meant to be loud. I could be funny, if being able to make someone laugh served as an accoutrement to the dinner table games. I was always welcome to be cute and sweet. There was never any room for being a real human being. A sweaty, pudgy, mess of a human. As if growing up was something to scold. I wasn't allowed to be awkward about growing up. I got the belt for that. Any small transgression was perceived with a fantastical reaction. I learned that being quiet was better. Then, when the physical abuse was replaced with a new boyfriend of my mother's, sexual abuse stepped in. All the while, emotional abuse was a part of my daily life. I have seen all of the abuses as a child. As an adult. I endured so much for being just a simple human. I took it all as if... I deserved it somehow. I always thought I deserved it. I was served these punishments for being too much. Or not enough. Or too feminine. Or not enough like a lady. It's a wonder I had any coping skills all. I am surprised I got through it without any sort of outside help at all. I don't know how I survived it all. Or maybe I do. 

The deep dives always bring it all up. It all bubbles to the surface. Like a cork in a bottle. I think, I need to work on more healing and all my traumas say, hello, old friend. I thought you had forgotten me. No. I cannot. Unfortunately. I wish that writing about it would make it all go away. But, it does at least help somewhat. My own personal echo chamber. To say that I've always been perfect all the time and my abuse was completely unjustified. Because, I don't really think that it was. Justified, that is. I don't think that any of it was warranted for the way I endured it. Maybe I deserved a talking to. A scolding. But not the abuse. There's making mistakes as a parent and then there is straight abuse. I had both. The making mistakes (or being the recipient of those bad parenting choices) and the straight abuse. None of it was my fault. Even when I did something to provoke it. It was never okay for me to receive the abuse. 

But.

I did. I did receive it. My whole life.

It's strange to think that the times of my life, as I look back on it fondly, were so riddled with abuse that the small bits and pieces that weren't equate to only a small percentage as part of the whole of my existence. It's sad and pathetic to know this and to keep going. To say, yeah sure, I am fine with this. I am so glad that I ended up with a picking habit to cope with the decades of trauma I endured. Cool. So so cool. This does lead me to believe that I do have so much more healing to do. Because sometimes I think I am fine and then I get triggered, which reminds me that I am NOT done cooking. If cooking is referencing the trauma healing soup of my life. It's decent, but it'll never finish. It's a forever work in progress soup.

Chapter 2:

In what ways did you fawn growing up?

It might be easier to think about how I didn't fawn. There's less of a list. I did as I was told and any push back that I gave was punished severely. I learned to people please instead. It was easier to worship the ground that my abuser's walked on. They were all in some kind of authority over me. Even if siblings aren't supposed to be in parental roles, it doesn't matter. They were. I have always been in a state of fawn, as I just learned recently. 

How did it protect you?

It kept me from harsher punishments. Although, did it? I think I still ended up being hurt a lot. I don't think I got beat as badly as my siblings. Whether it was age, personality, or learning to be perfect while I could, I did whatever I could to survive that trauma and part of it was that it was circumstances protecting me. Part of it for sure was the fawn response. Fighting got me beat. Running away was never an option since I was very clingy (I still am).

How does fawning pop up now in your everyday life that aren't as helpful?

During one on one meetings with my GL and she asks me, What can I do to be a better manager? and I just look at her, smile and say, I dunno, nothing. You are fine. But that's not the truth. It's not helpful that I can't stand up and say, Actually, you argue with me over whether or not you are "more" right instead of opening up to the possibility that there are more than one way to do things correctly. You also micro-manage which is a really toxic way of managing. I know what I need to do, I will do it when I get to it. None of the deadlines you gave me weren't met. There is no reason to talk to me like a child. Or be condescending. I am a grown adult and when I don't know something I ask or look it up. There's no reason to berate me about things that I don't want to talk about or don't need to talk about to get my work done on my own time. You don't trust me and it shows. Or, something like that. 

I feel like I could be doing it more than I realize, but I haven't been looking for it because I didn't realize it was a problem. Now that I do, I will have to explore these feelings as they come up in future writings and therapy sessions. 

Thank you, past self, for protecting me for so long, I am safe now.