Noticing & Naming the Paralyzing Fear

Showing up and being present are two very different things. I often find myself showing up in social situations, suddenly triggered or lost in paralyzing fear, and struggling to be present. I can say with certainty that I believe I am important, but I can't say that each part of me knows that they're important or that they deserve to take up as much space in the world as everyone else.

When the opportunity for connection presents itself, that fear stops me dead in my tracks; like a powerful vortex, it holds me back and prevents me from moving forward. Important thoughts, having just been formulated for sharing are sucked into the abyss, shredded apart and broken down to tiny meaningless fragments of words. There are no words now, only fear. Even while writing this, thinking about a specific recent encounter I had with fear, the words are taken from me and replaced by criticism. It's hard to write about the experience because I feel that fear so near…as if it's whispering in my ear…What you're writing isn't good enough. It doesn't make sense. Nobody wants to hear this. Nobody cares about or relates to your paralyzing fear. They think you're a big whiney baby, seeking attention and praise.

SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! I am a writer, don’t you dare say that I'm not good enough. Your constant criticism and relentless berating is exhausting to deal with. No matter how jumbled or nonsensical my words may seem to you, they are important to the rest of me. It breaks my heart to know that dad did this to you. That by being a normal child, seeking acknowledgement and praise for your hard work, he angrily dismissed you time and time again. He made you feel small and unimportant. He made you feel like you were in the way, especially when you wanted to speak or show him something. His explosive and dismissive behavior taught you to disregard yourself - the same way that you fear being dismissed and overlooked by others. You fear that what you produce and share won't be good enough. You fear taking up space. You fear sharing in any regard whether it be your thoughts, questions, struggles or accomplishments. You fear being screamed at for doing so - he did that to you time and time again. It's understandable that you're overcome with paralyzing fear in social settings. It's understandable that you don't speak up in conversation for fear of interrupting someone else. It's understandable that you have doubts about following a conversation and understanding what's being discussed, and in turn think that you're input will be unhelpful or unimportant. It's understandable that even when you want to speak, you make yourself as physically small as possible, and remain quiet, taking up as little space as to not disrupt the adults talking. You were a child of an abusive and volatile man who struggled with anger, rage, and mental illness. Because of this, you grew up in a home where yelling and screaming were the norm, words were used to manipulate or harm, objects were kicked and thrown in anger, holes were punched in walls, and the police were called too often.

While you dealt with these things, you were not alone. I was with you, The Writer. During Christmas one year, I wrote a letter to Santa asking for dad to be nice to me. That's all I wanted that year. That letter got published in the newspaper; while many probably thought it was cute, I know it was a cry for help. Just as it was when Anthony and I would crawl behind the antique furniture in the corner of the room and write things on the back of it about our dad. I love my Nintendo more than my dad, I remember Anthony writing on one occasion. At different ages, through writing, we find our voice, and we learn to take up space. Dad was pissed years later when he found our creative writing on the back of the antique - although I think he was more upset that we wrote on his antiques than he was about the content. Typical. An added layer of anger atop further dismissal of poor regard to human life and feelings whatsoever. Growing up, Dad was indeed an asshole. In recent EMDR sessions, as the memories of childhood with my dad flashed before me, bringing waves of emotions, I was also visited by warm and loving memories of my mom. My mom always made me feel loved and cared for; she acknowledged my hard work, and praised me often. She's always known that verbal affirmation is something that I need. She asked me a couple years ago why I never told her that I was being sexually abused when I was little. I didn't really have an answer; I thought I was keeping a secret, as the abuser had told me to do, but now when I think about this question I think I didn't tell because I had already been living in a home where we didn't acknowledge or speak about the verbal and physical abuse that was happening. So when sexual abuse entered my world, it was just another thing that I thought I was meant to stay silent through and deal with on my own. God that's sad. By the age of five, I was already compartmentalizing and withholding information in an attempt to protect myself. I don't know what else to write now. The Writer has departed, and I'm just feeling the sad. I'm going to go sit outside with that, then go to therapy.

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Post therapy: I would rarely share something like this - an incomplete piece of writing, intended to be polished with a clear subject for a specific audience. Yet here it is, started with one audience in mind and ending with another of greater importance: myself. A writing prompt in mind turned into parts work in the moment. Real. Raw. Unfinished, yet true and deserving of taking up space in the world.

Give yourself permission to let it be enough, whatever it is, because IT IS enough.