On Growing Up
“Let’s sit with that feeling of anger for a moment. Can we do that?”
My therapist is annoyingly good at seeing things when I can’t see them, noticing things that are bubbling to the surface. I hate this skill he has; hate that he can see parts of me I can’t see when I’m in a triggered state. But I remind myself I’m safe in this room, even though every ounce of me is telling me to run; to find a drink, a smoke — to find something to numb this pain.
I agree to sit with the anger. I don’t want to because I know I’m going to cry, and I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to let this thing thats bothering me affect me, I want to be impervious to it. But I’m human, and I’m not impervious to anything; I am porous and breathing, so I sit with the anger and the tears begin to swell.
I recently found out some upsetting information about an acquaintance. The details don’t matter as much as how the news was delivered: rushed, at the most inappropriate moment, and without consideration for how it may affect the people it was delivered to.
‘Why are you angry do you think?” my therapist asks.
My body reacts to this very reasonable question with an urge to slap him so hard across the face it echoes off the walls. I don’t want to think about this stuff, my body doesn’t want to think about this stuff. Digging in to find the truth sucks. There’s nothing beautiful about it, that’s why so many people don’t do it.
In an interview for the The Paris Review №116 Fall 1990, titled The Art of Fiction, author Maya Angelou is quoted saying,
Most people don’t grow up. It’s too damn difficult. What happens is most people get older. That’s the truth of it. They honor their credit cards, they find parking spaces, they marry, they have the nerve to have children, but they don’t grow up. Not really. They get older. But to grow up costs the earth, the earth. It means you take responsibility for the time you take up, for the space you occupy. It’s serious business. And you find out what it costs us to love and to lose, to dare and to fail. And maybe even more, to succeed. What it costs, in truth.
As the tears swell I remember that quote and the urge to slap him lessens. I remember the commitment to my own growth and healing that I made years ago. A promise that I’ve kept because I know deep down I deserve better than what I was given, and because I refuse to become like my parents.
My parents never took responsibility for the time they took up or the space they occupied, and because they never agreed to pay the cost of handling their bullshit, their trauma drowned me in abuse and neglect.
Our parents are supposed to be the people who keep us safe; the people who help us learn to trust our instincts so we can keep ourselves safe when they aren’t around. But when they are the ones doing harm, it’s hard for us to grow up into people who can trust ourselves or feel safe at all. It’s not impossible, but it is really fucking hard.
I was angry because life taught me that adults not handling their shit meant I got hurt, so the delivery of the upsetting news by adults who weren’t handling their shit (and didn’t have a great track record of handling it either) set off alarm bells that screamed “fuck these people, get out, this isn’t safe”.
“People who aren’t able to handle their stuff, aren’t a threat to you”, says my therapist after guiding me through some deep breaths that reground me back into the room, and out of the deluge of sobbing and disassociation that comes with being in a triggered state.
“I don’t know if I can believe that” I say, my head pounding from crying; the muscles in my hand fatigued from clutching what must be half a box of Kleenex. Time for our session is almost up.
“You are not responsible for these people. Do you think you can work on believing that this week, and we’ll continue to work on it together?”
I nod in agreement. I throw out my tissues, put my mask on, grateful that its hiding the puff under my eyes, and make my way home.
Therapy sessions don’t always end in resolution because growing and healing aren’t destination based or linear experiences. Healing is cyclical, tumultuous, and at times cathartic. Growth is done slowly, in pieces and segments, but never alone. There are no short cuts, no neat little bows and tidy packages. It’s just the simple and challenging task of showing up, over and over.
I let myself cry when I get home. My spouse kisses me on the forehead and tells me he’s proud of me. I sink into my bed and text a friend. I hold my stuffed animal close and think about when I’m going to get a dog. I let myself dream of a future full of possibilities that aren’t limited by people not handling their shit, because I am handling mine.
