When you can't shake your past, no matter how many different ways you try...
Some carry their baggage life a baby Bjorn, out the front for all to see, a figurative blocker and huggable item to be conscious of at all times. Some carry their baggage as a backpack, hidden behind them, putting pressure on their spine at all times. Some leave their baggage at home, or bury it and try and forget it altogether. I carry mine around like a snow boarding bag, it's got wheels so it drags easily around with me, and only gets heavy occasionally when my arms feel more tired than normal. Most of the time, it's comes along nicely with me, never forgotten but not weighing me down. But sometimes, just occasionally, it feels like I am trying to lift the world with jelly arms. On those days, it is too heavy for even me to carry. And I've been working out.
On the night in question, I was ready. Ready for anything! I had a buzz of anticipation, for it had been the first time in a long time that I had been to a social event, let alone seen many of my friends, and I was R.E.A.D.Y, ready. Ready for a big night, whatever that looked like. My hair was a crazy fun mess of curls and makeup was on point, I felt a million bucks as I madly found the right outfit for the night - a casual but dressy enough jeans and a pop of bright red in my top.
As I circled the room, catching up with long lost friends and laughing as I saw my kids slipping in and out of the crowd to roam between the food table and the kids table, I would be naive to suggest I hadn't relaxed into a specific kind of comfort. The kind of comfort that existed when the room was mine to enjoy... because he hadn't shown up. Or maybe he wasn't invited. Either way, the night was mine.
The night also had a different feel to it, as I was not the parent in charge tonight, I was the parent drinking. And thanks to my friends, the wines came thick and fast. My husband gave me a smiling gentle caution 'take it easy, princess, no need to go hard' and he was right. I paced myself for fun.
It was mid-conversation with an old friend when my gut plummeted as my periphery caught a glimpse of a familiar build, a familiar movement, and noticed that familiar feeling of being observed again. Out of the blue, it was there and it changed everything. My body reacted like I was being confronted by an enemy. My sense of carefree joy and confidence shrivelled into a tense stand off with a long lost and ever present adversary. I knew it. He knew it. My husband knew a bit of it. And some friends knew some things. But really, only I knew it properly...my Trauma just walked into the room and took his jacket off.
It isn't until moments like this that I realise he is trauma for me. It isn't until I can't breathe properly, and my body stiffens and needs to be reminded to move, and I feel hyper alert and I endlessly know where he is standing and who he is speaking with and if he is near or far from me. I cannot have fun, although i pretend to. My husband walks past and gives me his comfort in a single look, and all I can do in return I nod in the direction of my Trauma, indicating to my chosen man that 'the other' is in the room and its causing me discomfort.
But it's still early, so I drink wine. Glass after glass, it soothes me, then bolsters me into a brave force of demure nature so much so, that for the first time in 20 years, I decide to stop dancing the same dance. In my head, I'm thinking that if I can doing the same things the same way, the same result will occur. So instead of the same, I take the bull by the horns and decide to address the situation like the mature, successful, confident adult I am. And so, for the first time in 20 years, I take 10 steps from my husband's side towards my Trauma and I stop at his side and I nudge him a little with my arm to announce my arrival. A mistake. It's already too informal and familiar.
"Hi" I say.
The moment I look up at his face, I realise it's a big mistake. One big fat fucking mistake! For he is looking at me, thrilled I've approached, as though he's been waiting for me to do so for 20 years (which is fair after literally 2 decades of me pretending he doesn't exist at this social events) and i'm here, cluelessly drunk, standing beside him, facing the world together and with my back towards my husband, who I can only imagine is thinking holy hell, this will be interesting and is bound to cause trouble.
"Hi!" he says.
And then there's an incredibly awkward silence I hadn't planned as he smiled at me, and I reviewed the familiar yet unbelievably unknown face with all the indifference I could muster. It struck me clear as day in really quick succession, I neither recognised his voice, nor knew the cadence with which he spoke. He was a stranger. Not a person I knew. When he spoke, his age made him sound entirely different than he had as a 19 year old.
Yet, we did know each other. A long time ago, we knew each other even better.
We knew each other every morning in roll call class for 5 years of high school. We knew each other from sitting in cars together. We knew each other from practical jokes. We knew each other from asshole behaviour. We knew each other from rescues from dead parties. We knew each other from birthday cards. We knew each other from first kisses. We knew each other from parties. We knew each other from phone calls to landlines, and pop ins at each others houses.
And last but above all, we knew each other from an unplanned teen pregnancy, and impossible navigations involved in trying to work through all of that at young ages...adult but only just.
And since then, we've known each other only through my avoidance of him. Steering clear, protecting myself, breathing through my memories each and every time I saw him at shared events...for the past 20 years. Ruined for days afterwards, dragging my legs through thick conversations, memories, our choices and all the grief that followed.
And tonight, propped up on wine and with my makeup absolutely on point, I thought I could resolve it all so we (I) could move on with my life like an adult and not be quite so broken.
I looked up, boldly and confidently, almost brashly, and straight into his eyes, considering my next play. How should I resolve this, how can I change the dance? I weighed up my options and before I can come up with a plan (I really hadn’t thought this through), he is talking, in this stranger's voice, taking away my moment of rewriting history, just like that.
And with every word he spoke, I realised with increasing reality that there was no saving this. There was no recovery available. No easy out. No release. No mature way out. This was not AT ALL what I was prepared for.
I won't give it to you word for word, because despite it all, it's still kind of private, but what followed was fairly uncomfortable conversation that left me feeling not better but WORSE than if I had just tensely ignored him all night instead. (I'll give you a hint... it wasn’t at all what I was prepared for...)
Why the hell did I think that would have worked? Why did I think I could just pack neatly pack all of that away with one conversation? Because you can not just delete trauma from your life. Not that easily. Not when conversations don't go the way you planned. I suppose it was the wine that spoke for me, taking charge for once and landing me in some relatively unexpected waters.
Don't get me wrong. He's not a horrible person. None of it was abuse. He offered to support. I didn't want that. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that it’s not really him that is the trauma... it's everything he reminds me of. I didn't want that choice. I didn't want that heaviness. I wanted to take it all back.
So I looked up at him, understanding in that moment that he was again, not enough and not helping me at all. I understood I would remain unsatisfied and unresolved. I was reminded, ever so clearly, why he was not my choice. So instead, I returned to the side of the man I did choose, grateful for him and satisfied by him.
That night, my snowboard bag of personal baggage was well overweight. Filled with concrete, of my hardening soul and tears. Of the injustice and disappointment. Of my choices, always of my choices. Too heavy for me to carry.
I was too tipsy. Too bold. Too confident.
Or maybe I was just enough of all of those to expose him, me and our shared bag of history we continue to drag around. For the eventual event that needed to occur to move forward. Perhaps it was progress?
Maybe one day, there will be no thoughts on this. Or maybe those thoughts will be less powerful, less overwhelming, less painful, less confusing. Or maybe they won't.
Because while ever Trauma keeps rocking up at things I go to, I'm stuck in groundhog day, reliving, reviewing and renewing it all, again. And again. And again.
I can deal with it. I just don't want to.
Note to reader: It may be news to you that Lucy was not my first pregnancy. Only now, literally 20 years later, do I feel empowered and supported by society to claim this story as mine, and decline the option to hide in a shame cupboard any longer. I will be sharing more about this in time, because I’m ready for my truth to be told. By me. Because it’s mine to tell. Watch this space.
Ciao for now,
LG - Life's Good!
P.S I know this post is self-indulgent and there is some work I need to do here to unload some of the imbalance around this trauma. I know in time, with work, I can take responsibility for my own healing.
P.P.S Hey Trauma, if you're reading this one day, I hope you know I take responsibility for my parts here too. I'm not just blaming it all on you. I know what I've done. I know the choices I made. I live with them everyday. I hope, one day, seeing you at things doesn't cause me stress.
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