Fog softened the land in North Texas this morning. Mornings like this are common down at the Texas coast this time of year, but I have seen only a handful since moving to North Texas in February. Plenty of icy mornings have greeted Sam and me as we head out on our morning walk, but three at most have been foggy and only this one, so far, was so thick with fog that it lent a magical air to a largely pedestrian locale. It was quite beautiful and invigorating and I was happy, for a moment, to reside in this place.
I grew achingly tired of the fog at the beach though I tried to view it as a source of moisture and life for the dunes (as it was) and did not allow myself to dwell in the oppressiveness of it too often. Weeks would go by with barely a respite from the fog, short of leaving the island for an hour or so to go shopping. That’s something no one warned me of when we were house hunting on the Texas coast: weeks and weeks of fog in winter and spring. There are aspects of it that are beautiful there: the sea visually truncated at the limits the fog allows, the seeming sullenness of seagulls waiting on shore for the clearing, the steady drip of water off of eaves and decks, and the mournful warnings of foghorns.
For someone who was steeped in depression and isolation, the fog was suffocating after a time. I once complained about how deeply this was affecting me and someone who didn’t live there said, “I love fog!”
In that moment, I learned to not give such a contrary opinion when someone speaks about something that is causing them distress.
I can be bitchy, know-it-all, and aloof, but I don’t ever wish to diminish others’ pain and discomfort like that, although I know I have at one time or another.
One of the things I hear regularly from therapists and recovering abuse survivors, as I sort out all of the pain of the last 40 years, is that our needs, our pain, and our pleas for understanding, are simply not important to our abusers. The abuser’s need to believe in and reinforce their infallibility supersedes all else. It’s challenging to reconcile this with the constant assurance from the abuser that we are loved, in fact, loved beyond measure and forever. How can someone who professes to love us so much actively harm us?
It has become almost a pathological need for me now to make sure I don’t do the same to others. I made mistakes in that regard early in my recovery; laying my pain and rage at the feet of others who had their own struggles and failing to recognize their boundaries. I’m working to fix that. I don’t speak of him to certain people anymore except in very light, bland language in response to mention of him. I don’t tell anyone exactly what my depression looks like anymore for fear I will cause them discomfort.
Unfortunately, I don’t even tell my therapist. I’m not sure what benefit therapy offers if you lie to your therapist.
But there it is; while I try to be as “authentically me” in as many aspects as possible, I am still trying to shield certain people from what is in my head and heart. Sometimes, the main purpose of this blog is to express these things I feel that I cannot express to anyone in my life save perhaps one sibling that allows me significant latitude. Even there, I find I am backing away. He has too much on his plate. I just need to suck it up as I have always done and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Denial is a Coping Mechanism in Texas
Sometime after I was told to end therapy in 2012, I fell, as might be expected, deeper into depression. One day (some two years later) my then-husband walked by me as I was working on my thesis and I commented something about how much easier it would be if I could just dredge myself out of the pit.
“You’re not depressed! You haven’t been depressed in years.”
I could only stare at him.
I didn’t even know how he could think that. I’d been on antidepressants for years; seen a therapist for years prior to 2012; and stomped, cried, and clawed my way through regular, deep dives since 1996.
Not depressed?
I know now that he needed to believe that. He needed, for his own comfort, to believe that he had no responsibility in the equation and that his removal of my therapy (and the addition of rules of engagement set forth in the relationship) did not facilitate further decline.
There was so much neither he nor I understood about why I was so lost. There was so much neither of us acknowledged.
I was being told, indirectly, that I was not allowed to feel the way I felt. If he didn’t see it (any emotion anathema to him became conveniently invisible), it didn’t exist. Like the acquaintance saying, “I love fog!” in response to my frustration with the mind-numbing weather, my ex’s, “You’re not depressed!” was the subtle, emotional equivalent to, “Run along and let us be happy in our ignorance about and disregard for your feelings.”
Unboxing
I follow a gentleman that I admire who is on various social media platforms. He speaks often of putting out positive messages. I agree, on the whole, that there is a great deal of negativity and divisiveness on social media and I try not to add to it. However, I grow weary of stuffing feelings down. I stuffed them down for decades just as my mother did. One stimulus to leave my marriage was watching the waning years of my mom’s life and understanding that I simply couldn’t be a vessel of compartmentalized pain and anger for the rest of my life. She was an amazing woman, but she shouldered a great deal of pain with little support.
Like my mother, the men I have loved, few though they are, are yawning caverns filled with little boxes labeled, “Not gonna think about that.” When I asked them why they did the (morally questionable) things they did, their responses were vague and meaningless. “I like who I am,” said one. “I’m just selfish,” said another. Simplifying their rationale is easier than looking at the real reasons—whether it be childhood events, early adult trauma, or some fundamental lack of integrity—for their behavior. I don’t know. Only they can figure that out.
I, too, am selfish and have done morally questionable things, and I have thoroughly examined why. The result: I’m trying to change. It’s challenging. I’m lonely and want someone in my life, but I know I would be selfish about it, so I stay lonely. If I am ever able to transcend that selfishness, I will revisit my options. Until then, I don’t wish to burden anyone directly with my pain and greed. Nor do I wish to box up my hurt and leave it unexamined. I’ve seen the harm that causes.
For now, the fog has cleared and it is simply gray outside. I am still walking toward something I can’t see. I’m still peering through the haze and carrying my hurt alone.
