Rocking
When I was a child, and on into my teens, I used to wrap my arms around myself and rock. Back and forth, back and forth. Comfort-seeking. In fact I still do. It used to make my mother very cross if she saw me. Only people who are mentally retarded rock like that, she said.
Soothing though it might be in the short term, the problem is that it isn't enough. I crave love, I need love, I am desperate for love. I am frantic for what I never had.
The immensity of this void is profoundly terrifying. Is there anything as repugnant as a middle-aged adult who wants a parent? Is there anything as pathetic as the crumpled snivelling creature in the corner of the tube carriage?
As a child I went through a stage of crying in bed at night hoping an adult would hear, hoping someone would come and hold my hand and stroke my face and comfort me. A touch. The merest whisper of a caress would have been enough. No one came.
Now I cry at night hoping the children won't hear. Knowing that no one will come. Now I cry during the day because I can't help it. Because there is nowhere to hide from the pain.
How long, I wonder, can I carry on. Plucked up and smashed against the rocks of unrequited longing again and again. Pulling together the shreds of flesh into some semblance of a human, cracking the brined skin in the spasm of a socially-appropriate smile. The show must go on, but the mask is nearly gone.
I find myself wondering if people who have not experienced it can imagine what it's like, to grow up without affection, without touch, without kindness. No one to talk to. It puzzles me. It's like torture. It never goes away. It is a vacancy. A void that can never be filled.
Mostly it's the children that keep me going. I love them so much. I don't want one of them to find me. Sometimes of course I want to take them with me, to save them from this pain. But I have now had a very seductive thought. If I were out of the way they could stay here, in this house, go to their schools, stay with their friends. They could be cared for by their father and his new partner.
Yes, it is self-pity of an unimaginable scale. I am infantile. I want someone to come along and make it all better. But of course they won't. And can't. And neither can I.
Soothing though it might be in the short term, the problem is that it isn't enough. I crave love, I need love, I am desperate for love. I am frantic for what I never had.
The immensity of this void is profoundly terrifying. Is there anything as repugnant as a middle-aged adult who wants a parent? Is there anything as pathetic as the crumpled snivelling creature in the corner of the tube carriage?
As a child I went through a stage of crying in bed at night hoping an adult would hear, hoping someone would come and hold my hand and stroke my face and comfort me. A touch. The merest whisper of a caress would have been enough. No one came.
Now I cry at night hoping the children won't hear. Knowing that no one will come. Now I cry during the day because I can't help it. Because there is nowhere to hide from the pain.
How long, I wonder, can I carry on. Plucked up and smashed against the rocks of unrequited longing again and again. Pulling together the shreds of flesh into some semblance of a human, cracking the brined skin in the spasm of a socially-appropriate smile. The show must go on, but the mask is nearly gone.
I find myself wondering if people who have not experienced it can imagine what it's like, to grow up without affection, without touch, without kindness. No one to talk to. It puzzles me. It's like torture. It never goes away. It is a vacancy. A void that can never be filled.
Mostly it's the children that keep me going. I love them so much. I don't want one of them to find me. Sometimes of course I want to take them with me, to save them from this pain. But I have now had a very seductive thought. If I were out of the way they could stay here, in this house, go to their schools, stay with their friends. They could be cared for by their father and his new partner.
Yes, it is self-pity of an unimaginable scale. I am infantile. I want someone to come along and make it all better. But of course they won't. And can't. And neither can I.
posted by tournesol at 12:29 pm
12 Comments:
Get outside right now, please. Walk. Walk hard. Walk until it hurts. Vigorous exercise is the only thing I have found to keep the black dog subdued. Walk hard. Please.
Good advice. Physical movement really helps me when I am very upset or depressed. Walking. cleaning the house. But especially things that take me outside. And remember that you are, actually, loved. A lot. Maybe not in the precise way you want or need right now, but you are and will continue to be loved, just as you are, and FOR who you are.
And, p.s. - your children need YOU, not some woman they don't even know.
Yes, as Tom and Beth already said! Many virtual hugs and gentle strokes being sent your way. Get better, feel better.
Oh, it's so hard to feel that way. I'm hoping that writing it out here has helped, and knowing we're here, too. We care. Lots of hugs.
Dear Rachel, you are very much beloved.
There is nothing whatsoever repugnant about it.
The miracle -- as I said the first day we met in the flesh -- is not that you're in pain. It's that you're still here. I'm profoundly grateful for every moment you remain here, knowing at what cost you do so.
I know virtual hugs aren't what you need, but I'm sending them, because they're what I've got.
I find myself wondering if people who have not experienced it can imagine what it's like
Not really, no. I am pretty sure that if I had been in that situation I would not have survived.
Walking therapy sounds like good advice to me, too. Hugs.
Oh, my dear. When I read this post I hear the depression speaking through you, and it speaks so convincingly...! That is the worst part of depression, for me. The seductive and nasty whispers that this is what life is, this is what is left for me, what I will always inevitably return to. It is, thank God, many years since I felt those chill fingers. I wish for you that they will go the hell away, and that you can return to the garden-variety ups and downs of a liveable life.
So much love.
Dear R,
Sorry to hear you're going through some life turbulence. Just keep on flying and you'll be in the sunshine and above the clouds once again.
Remember that rainbow on the HI arising out of the sea? Such a powerful image and one which brings such hope, and I was privileged to have shared it with you. It's my belief that was meant for us - I think we both needed to realise there was beauty in the world that was just there waiting.
I know it's trite and often used, but remember that "this, too, shall pass", and the rainbows will be back in your life.
Much love and affection,
A
About half an hour ago I was somewhere else, then like a flat pebble skipping across a pond, rock meets water, each time I recover, a bit wet, but glad that I have touched the surface of depths that I know are more than my mere skimming the surface will allow me to enter, and I wonder, does the water think me cold and hard, do I disturb its tranquil surface, or does it welcome my unexpected, and perhaps unrefined, visit? Of course we may never know, for words are our only lasting memory of our brief encounter, and unless we utter words, utter thoughts, utter our souls, then the memory will be but concentric circles upon the surface while the depths remain untouched. Shalom, Bro. Bartleby
take care, you. I think of you.
the need to be loved is so very strong amongst all of us and i've realised that i've done many things and still do not for the right reasons but to seek appreciation and then of course it gets so complicated.
be kind and understanding and respectful to yourself.
and yea walking/runnnig to music is theraputeic.
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