I’ve been struggling with communication lately. Hell, what am I saying? I have struggled with communication my entire life. In all kinds of circumstances and situations. My preferred means of communicating is writing, because here, on the page, I can express myself in ways that are simply awkward or feel unsafe in person. And there is time to edit. Finesse the tone, the tenor, the word choices.
I grew up in a “children are seen and not heard” household that devolved into a “children are rarely seen and never heard” and one where your best bet was to be silent and invisible if you were meant to survive. Being invisible was a choice. I learned how to melt into the background at a young age. To not “make waves” or “rock the boat.” I had once been an inquisitive child. I learned to stop asking questions. To observe instead. Or flat out ignore. To pack away the point of contention. Avoid.
Eventually, I found myself in a relatively safe space where I could speak and survive – and was determined to be seen and heard. The refrain from my classmates had been “Shut up, Sheila” and is a fond memory from those days. There were places that I felt safe enough to ask questions, to speak my mind, to make declarations and set big goals to achieve. I would, though, always take the temperature of the room beforehand.
Not all spaces were safe, and not all questions were welcome. I held more in than I asked.
Old habits die hard.
I find conflict difficult. Nearly impossible to handle. When I have a grievance, I eat it. My imagination runs wild. I assign terrible thoughts and deeds to other people, without their knowledge or consent. Sometimes it is correct. Sometimes it is not. Because I avoid the conflict until the grievance has become a festering wound, sometimes the outcome is what I imagined the original slight to have been. Sometimes, I carry around this box of pain, letting it get heavier and heavier, assigning to the other person, when that person may be completely unaware that it exists. I have not evolved beyond that silent, invisible girl in these moments. When I think about all the things I fail to talk about, this is what I see. That girl, with her box of pain and grievances, folding up yet another bit of it, adding to the box. The box doesn’t get emptied. Those little bits of pain are revisited occasionally; when a familiar pang occurs, I rifle through the box, pull out the bit and add the name of the perpetrator to it. It is patently unfair to the other people in the equation. They have no idea that they resurfaced something ancient and terrible.
I am learning to stop myself before I add names to ancient hurts. To step back from the box, resist rifling through it (or worse, adding to it), is a Herculean effort. I’m not yet adept.
In the meantime, I’m examining my own behavior and responses, and setting aside time to chat with folks. About some of the hard things, if I can muster the courage. If not, well, let’s talk about the weather, then. That’s difficult enough these days.
Thank you, love you, too. It is a decidedly female approach I think. A positive of the pandemic is the space and time for introspection. And I will try your method of emptying the box. ❤
Excellent self aware post, Sheila. I think you speak for a good portion of the population – especially women. I definitely relate. And the only thing that has ever helped has been a commitment to meditation. And a very small commitment at that – I sit only ten minutes per day. Having found the Headspace app about 4 years ago, it has helped empty my box of grievances. Thanks for your writings. You should gather and publish. Love you!