A long time ago, in a time I feel is so forever ago, it might as well never have existed, my father and my mother were at the front of their car and I, 20 years old at the time, was sitting in the back. I felt like a child, discussing my future with them as if I had one that they could influence some. But it didn’t feel like they knew what they were doing, during my childhood or at that moment. So the conversation went like this  (them listening): 

« I know what you’re gonna say, you’re gonna say that I should do this, but I don’t know if I should. But then I know what you’re gonna say next. You’re gonna say I should follow my instincts, and I want to, I swear. You’re going to tell me to follow my instincts and my heart. So what does my heart say? ».

To this soliloquy of a discussion between me and « my parents », my dad replied:

« Stop guessing what I’m going to say. You always do this. I remember you’d do this even when you were younger. You always tried to guess what I was going to say before I could even decide what to say or know if I had anything to say at all. »

Silence. Fish caught in a net. 

He’s absolutely right. And to this day, I still do this. I write to my therapist guessing in advance what he’s going to say. I am tempted to write his reply just so I don’t have to send my message. I can almost always guess that he will say he’s sorry, it’s horrible and it shouldn’t have happened to me. Or a version of those words. When he catches me by surprise with some wisdom or information, I congratulate him for being surprising. 

When I send the message anyway (because of loneliness and lack of omniscience on my end), I throw myself to the teeth of his reply and when he offers me a slow and kind response, I feel like he’s feeding me already chewed bread. 

My father I would guess the entire mindset just to avoid having any conversation with. It was just easier this way. His replies to my most profound questions are still ingrained in my mind and in a bad way. My guess was better than his uninformed response as he knew nothing of the horrific situation I was in. The one piece of advice I kept: « I don’t know and if you want to figure it out, find yourself a therapist. »

I do admit the problem lays with conversations I have in my mind with people who don’t have my best interests at heart and for whom I invent all sorts of mean things they could say, based on all the mean things they and other people have said to me… turning my defense mechanism into a very powerful self-loathing machine.

I have also been postponing writing on the Hearts Multiplied community forum I’m part of. When I pick up my phone, I change my mind and decide that I « know » what my friends are going to tell me. 

I sometimes find helpful the « I’m so sorry », « that’s horrible » and sometimes I post just for that. I tell them what’s what just to have confirmation, in writing, that they are in fact sorry about my situation. 

But at the moment, I think I am terrified and petrified by the uselessness of their compassion for my cause. It seems like I can’t get the help I need or want because whatever they say will never bring me back what I’ve lost. My innocence, my identity, my life, my freedom of movement, my health, my career, my status, my brain… Their compassion is lost on the soapy wall I’ve built in my head. Nothing sticks to it. Replies are oily.

I want to scream loudly (to whom?) to give me back my life – not request from them words of comfort. I don’t even want them to be angry next to me or for me. Anger isn’t magical. It won’t bring me back anything. But it seems to my greatest dismay no one has that power, not even g-d (my own smarts would tell me if this way is blocked and impossible, so it’s probably not the right way… told you I don’t need anyone… right?). 

My father said to stop guessing but the thing is, I am not open to listening to the answers that people have. I don’t want feedback. I can barely muster the courage to read books that aren’t even specifically written to me. I am tired of collapsing at other people’s words.  

Side story, I once went to a semester review at work and had prepared my self-analysis so well, my manager said she had nothing to add. She seemed surprised. It’s years of practice. 

I find myself overlooking the answers people give me. I can write but I can’t read the reply. I refer to me, myself and I and no one can get close to me. No one. 

« Beware » says my psyche. Those who got too close, those who had these conversations with « me », those people who got too close to my soul, they hurt me. They took apart my core. Sometimes in therapy, when I feel too close to the truth of my situation, it’s like being programmed all over again. The same feeling arises, that someone is accessing a deep electrical system that we can now tweak. 

So to avoid any tweaking, any opinion, judgment or decision about my self, situation, core, feelings or actions, I don’t listen and I don’t share. I keep to myself and I invent entire conversations never to be had or heard by those who are talking with me. I’ve been hurt enough, thank you very much.

As a last thought, you may think you have heard a lot about me on this blog or instagram or podcast but the truth is, true disclosure would be closer to a mountain chain of dirt than this neatly laid pile of letters. But thank you for reading anyway.