Believe it or not everyone, I am a bit of a control freak. “That surprises literally no one.” you might say. Or, “I saw your picture on a google search of the term control freak.” But in my defense I would respond, “I have had to take care of me, by myself, for a long time.” The two may seem unrelated but bear with me. If someone learns self protection early, if they have not been able to consistently depend on even their caretakers for protection or the ability to meet their needs they have deeply ingrained the idea that survival means minimizing risk. Which means maximizing control.
What I have just described will sound familiar to anyone who knows even a little bit about attachment theory and/or trauma. We throw around a lot of diagnoses these days and I think that people have become a little desensitized to the idea of trauma and PTSD. But I also think that for too long we have culturally dismissed how deeply traumatic our human history, economic structures, and parental techniques have been. But I digress, what this musing is actually about is relationships and the ways they evolve.
I do not come by vulnerability easily. I am very skilled at telling people my history without sharing any of the ways I feel about it. Good at facts not at feelings. It isn’t that I haven’t wanted closeness. It’s that I know intimately the dangers of closeness. I both desire intimacy and am deeply terrified of being intimate. In the last decade of my life I have worked exceptionally hard to become intentional about how I show up in my romantic, and platonic, intimate relationships (to varying degrees of success).
But now, because my brain is a sneaky trauma ninja, I have to be extremely careful of trying to overly manage the responses and feelings of others. It is especially intolerable for me if someone close to me misinterprets my motives or my desire for connection. I think that being misunderstood is hard for all people. Don’t we all struggle to explain ourselves? Even to strangers, people we may never see again. But when it is someone closer, someone we love, it is even more painful.
A number of my core relationships have changed drastically in the last year. My pandemic “pod” accessible constantly before is now working and busy. Folks who I didn’t have access to for 2 years became accessible again. New people I met through any number of avenues became options for deepening relationships. And people dear to me have left me. In all of this the hardest challenge for me has been the loss of control.
Coming to terms with the fact that you will never get a chance to explain yourself. Or that even if you did the outcome would still be the same. Coming to terms with releasing expectations. Coming to terms with new needs you never knew you had. Coming to terms with deep grief. This is complicated internal work. Work I have never been good at. Worthy work. Necessary work. Hard work.
Last week I stood in the ocean for the first time since my ex husband, abuser, father of my child, and best friend committed suicide almost a year ago. I hated it. I kept getting knocked off my feet. I kept getting water up my nose. I kept losing sight of my people. But then I lifted my feet. I leaned back into each wave. I floated, rose, and fell. I felt the energy and power move through me instead of run into me.
I struggle to allow relationships to ebb and flow. I struggle to release them to their own outcomes. I struggle against them. I struggle to control them. I fight and push and pull and smother them with words and intentions. This is my confession and moment of accountability that I will lean into the power of the loves that I have found. And release the people I have lost to the next iteration of themselves. Not because I don’t want to be safe. And not because I don’t love them (or myself). But because I do.
Saraline Speaks 