Triggers and tender spots
I like to tell myself that I’m on the other side of a lot of the shame, guilt, self-doubt, and striving that I’ve battled with for years.
I’ll look back at how far I’ve come, run my mind across the scars I’ve nursed from jagged wounds to smooth, fine lines, and feel a sense of pride in the fact that I played a role in helping them heal.
The funny thing about scars, though—even the ones you’ve forgotten still exist—is that if something picks at them in just the right way, they can still re-open. Their pink, toughened edges can still separate and allow the red-hot pain back in.
Psychologists talk about big-T Trauma and little-t trauma, and how both can be triggered by a sight, a sound, a word, a smell that brings us back to a place where we felt attacked, helpless, paralyzed. These moments have a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect them. I’m incredibly talented at making myself believe I’m not like everyone else. That because I’ve done the work in coaching and therapy, my scars are different. More impenetrable, maybe.
Until I’m triggered, and I remember they’re not.
This past week at work was rough. I’ve been working long hours, spread too thin between too many projects, unable to sleep past 4am because my mind keeps waking me up to run-through all the things I need to get done that day. By Friday, I’d already logged a full week, I was physically tired, and my emotional reservoir was dry. If I’d been more mindful (which is really hard to do when you’re exhausted), I might have recognized that a few of the things I had on my calendar for that day were probably not a good idea to keep. But of course, I kept them anyway.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
The first trigger went off during a monthly group coaching session, with a group of women who are all on similar journeys of trying to reconnect with themselves, and remember their worth. Our coach was leading us through a visualization where we were invited to picture our child selves in a moment of fear, or vulnerability, or shame, and offer her whatever it is she needed in that moment that she didn’t receive the first time around. It’s a visualization that I normally find pretty cheesy, if I’m being honest, but I wanted to honor the sacred space of the group, so I put my pretense (and defenses) down, and allowed myself to sink in. What I found was a hurt little girl, maybe around 9 years old, getting teased by her older brother about her “fuzzy forearms.” I heard her being introduced to all of her teachers at school as “Larry’s little sister,” as though she was only valued by her relationship to someone else, not for the inherent worth she carried on her own. I remembered when she was older, in high school, how different she felt from everyone else. Like an outsider. How many nights she spent lying on her bedroom floor, listening to The Wallflowers’ “Bringing Down the Horse” album on repeat, because her mom wouldn’t let her go to a party with her friends. The ninth track, “God Doesn’t Make Lonely Girls,” always felt both like a prayer for the lyrics to be true, and evidence that they weren’t. All of these visions of my younger self came flooding back within just a few minutes of closing my eyes for the visualization, and as I started to feel tears rolling down my cheeks, I froze. I couldn’t go any deeper. I couldn’t offer myself the hug, or the compassion, or the understanding that we were supposed to be giving. I felt her sadness, and her hurt, and her longing, and I had to turn away. I actually think I whispered, “nope, can’t do this” out loud, and then switched my focus to my own daughter instead. Her, I could access. I could imagine comforting her when she’s upset. Telling her she’s perfect the way she is. Being more understanding of her challenges, and giving her the support she needs to work through them. I could offer love and compassion to her, to fill in the cracks and scars on her heart, that I couldn’t bear to do for myself. When our coach finished guiding us through the visualization practice, she asked if we wanted to share our experience. I didn’t speak up. I didn’t even want to admit to myself how much I had been triggered. How the memories I thought I’d dealt with, the hurt I thought I’d outgrown, all came rushing back. My child self is still in there, even after all of the work I’ve done. And I know she needs me to hold her. I just can’t bring myself to get close enough yet.
About an hour later, before I’d really had a chance to recover and find solid ground, I was confronted by a second trigger. This one was work-related, but still extremely personal, of course, and hit on my tender spot of feeling like I’m “too much.” Instead of retreating to a safer place like I’d done during the coaching session, this time, when the emotions swelled, I simply froze. I stopped talking altogether. I wondered why I was even there. What purpose was I serving? If I can’t say what I think, for fear of others perceiving me as being too opinionated, or too aggressive, then what’s the point? Those “what ifs” weren’t all in my head, either. Those were direct criticisms I’d heard in the past, from someone actively here in the present. I’d always felt those comments were more about the other person’s discomfort with a strong female lead than they were about my own behavior, but that’s an assumption, of course. Maybe even a defense mechanism. I can’t really be sure. Regardless, I’d worked hard to change those perceptions by being the consummate team-player, by letting-go of things maybe more often than I should, by giving up my ground so that someone else could hold theirs. For whatever reason, though, I felt like I needed to say something this time. But I also knew that if I did, and shared what I was actually thinking and feeling, those criticisms would come roaring back. So I chose to say nothing instead. I felt a physical sense of resistance building inside me, and had to choke back the tears that were welling up in my eyes again. I moved as far away from my camera as I could without seeming disengaged in the conversation, and just sat there. Listening without speaking. Taking long, slow breaths. Telling myself that none of this really matters, anyway. That whatever they want to do is fine, fine fine. I saw myself becoming invisible. The threat of being too much transformed me into not being anything at all.
I’m still processing both of these triggers, and the tender spots they broke open.
My inner child needs a hug,
My stifled voice needs to be heard.
I don’t want to do all this work again.
It hurts to show up.
Scars always hurt before they heal.