The Paradox of Control

Turning your back on something is easy. Turning back around is what's difficult.

Turn back around. Just start somewhere.

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Sometimes I fear that my passion for writing is dwindling.

I pay for a website that I posted on only a few times last year.

Where are the words? Why are they not there?

But then the more I think about it, I realize that I still have the words constantly flowing through my head - an endless narrative begging to be recorded in some manner.

I jot down brief notes here and there, losing them in a string of others just the same.

It's devotion to the practice that's no longer there. I need to get it back.

Writing is how I find my voice. It's how I show up.

It's how I've gotten to know parts of myself that I didn't know existed.

It's the place where I feel the most seen, the most heard & the most understood.

It's the thing I can turn to in moments when I can't speak up for myself.

Writing is my safety net.

It's the thing that can hold all of me safely; always allowing for room to grow, room to fall, and room to just be.

It's the thing that frees me from all that weighs me down.

It gives me autonomy and separates me from the things that have happened to me.

It allows me to process things in ways I didn't know were possible.

Writing is a touch stone to my past, my present, and who I want to be in the future.

It connects pieces and parts of my life together in a way that makes sense.

Making sense of things is all I ever wanted.

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I've been thinking a lot about why I write and how the passion faded. It all comes back to control - the unrelenting drive to control everything around me to prevent triggers and feel safe. This took me a while to unpack. Feeling safe wasn't ever a thing I actually thought about or considered because I always generally feel physically safe. But when I think about my life and patterns I've exhibited, I realize that feeling safe comes in waves for me. A sense of safety arises when enough aspects have come together in unison. I say enough because it's different for each person. What we need and how much of it we need to feel safe differs from person to person, and will change throughout life. Safety isn't static; it's always in motion and affected by a multitude of factors. Environment. Mental state. Physical health. Interpersonal relationships. Family dynamics. Financial security. Career satisfaction. Communication and transparency with others. Self care. Rest. Play. Nourishing body, mind, soul, and spirit. The list goes on and on, endless things that contribute to our sense of safety in any given moment. In the blink of an eye, things can change. Safety can be ripped away without warning, just as it can come swooping in when it's most needed.

Inner torment is a fitting phrase. If something causes you to feel distressed to the point that you feel a physical need to escape from it, that's a good indication that some part of you doesn't feel safe. That doesn't mean turn and run. It doesn't mean escape. It doesn't mean numb it all away and pretend that it's fine. It doesn't mean lose yourself in work or throw yourself into one thing after the next, never allowing time to think or breathe. When a part of you doesn't feel safe, you have to stay. You need to listen to what it has to say, or that thing that's making you want to run will never go away. I get that now. I didn't always have the words for that, let alone an awareness or understanding of it.

Now that I'm at this point, I can see example after example of times in my life when I didn't feel safe and decided to cover it up, numb my way through it, or completely turn my back and run. I think I do this because I don't trust that I can advocate for myself. When I don't feel safe, I grasp at what I can to find a semblance of comfort and control. I make compromises. I bargain. I pretend like I'm fine when I'm not. I hide when I'm triggered. I start to lose myself as I realize the impossibility of confrontation and advocacy, even in the smallest of situations. When I can't achieve the comfort that's needed to show up, I panic and look for the exit. Turning my back has always been my go to move. It's what makes me feel somewhat in control when I'm spiraling or questioning things. It paradoxical because the reactionary things we do to gain control can leave us feeling pretty bad about ourselves or a situation, and anything but in control. I know that turning my back isn't really the way I want to handle things - it's not the way I want to feel in control of my life, but turning my back is often how I handle things. I know I'm not the only one who does this. For me, the tendency to escape - to avoid, to numb, to turn my back, to run - is an ingrained form of self sabotage. For as long as I can remember, I routinely disappear.

Before it can be noticed by others, I begin to pull away. I always know why in the moment - the exact thing that was said or done that invited the first whisper of skepticism, causing a shift in my core. When the skeptic arrives, my breathing changes, as does the way my brain thinks. They see threats everywhere. They're hypervigilant and question everything. A simple thing cannot be a simple thing when the skeptic is around. A single question or the way that something is said or read or interpreted can send the skeptic into a spastic tailspin, where in the end, everything is muddied and coated with disdain and distrust. It's suffocating. This is the exact moment I begin pulling away, the moment I begin to question if I'm safe. I prepare to flee.

The sad thing with this knowing is that I don't stop it from happening. Rather than confronting it or making it known, I listen to the Skeptic and I make assumptions. I stop showing up. I numb. I avoid. I start to look the other way. I turn my back. I pull away more and more until I've disappeared. To remove myself is to rid myself of the muddiness. It physically separates me somewhat from the uncertainty and doubt, which gives me a sense of safety. Disappearing gives me a false sense of control. I say false because I realize much [MUCH] later on that turning my back and disappearing is the exact opposite of what I really need to do to feel safe. True safety comes when I look at things head on, name them for what they are, and advocate for myself - which is f'n hard.

At first, I thought I only did this disappearing act with other people. I didn't realize that this is what I've been doing with writing. I didn't realize that I do this with myself. This is the unsettling that I was feeling all last year that I couldn't put words to. I was making immense progress processing trauma through EMDR therapy, but as I got closer to processing things from my twenties, I began pulling away from myself and the work. I thought that I was "leveling up" and feeling a natural progression away from weekly therapy and attending support group. I thought that I was taking time away from writing because I was doing so much in therapy. I thought that I no longer had the need to write that was there the first three years of trauma work. I didn't know that all of those little narratives were whisperings of deception convincing me I needed less, as some parts were packing their bags to flee. I'm glad I caught them before I really did turn my back on the healthy routines I've established with therapy, support group, and writing. I never want to turn my back to making sense of things. It's been challenging to turn back around to writing, to look at and put words to what I was feeling and doing all of last year, and to feel confident in sharing what comes of it.

When you decide to process trauma, you're rewiring your brain to think and react differently. You're unlearning a lifetime of narratives and ingrained behaviors, and teaching yourself a new way of thinking and living. Yourself isn't just you either, there are so many parts of you. They all have their own memories, their own perspectives, their own hurts, their own beliefs, their own fears, and their own needs that need to be acknowledged. It's confronting and exhausting work. It's not a walk in the park. Sometimes it feels like carrying the weight of ten people through quicksand as a demon chases you. I totally get why some parts of me were trying to slam on the brakes and steer me away from trauma work. Sometimes doing the work can feel unsafe because you're learning how to allow yourself to process emotions that you never let yourself acknowledge or feel. I rarely feel in control of the process and get lost in the ambiguity of it all. It's overwhelming because it's new and we're learning as we go. While it's anything but easy, as I continue to do the work, it's freeing.

It's an odd process catching yourself doing something you didn't know you were doing. Noticing is always the first step. No matter how much or how little progress you think can be made, even if it seems impossible or pointless, just start somewhere. Show up, and turn back around.

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