The Split

Image: dream by greg westfall, CC BY 4.0

My first childhood memory comes from a very early age. I was only 6-8 months old but I can clearly remember what I was motivated to do. I was crawling down the corridor to the living room and I was so excited! I knew there were a lot of people there and that they all would laugh, clap their hands and greet my appearance with great joy. I wanted that moment when I was a queen of the house and everybody’s attention was on me. No fear at all, only pure joy. This memory reminds me I wasn’t born socially anxious. I became one.

Fast forward few years later. I was sitting in my grandmother’s lap at the dinner table, and a celebration just like in the first memory was taking place. But I was so shy and scared that I couldn’t even ask for a piece of food that I really liked. I remember sitting there and craving that dish but words just didn’t come out. When my grandmother finally asked me if I wanted something, I was able to whisper in her ear. That was all I was capable of. That little charming and joyful baby girl was gone. What happened?

When I was born my parents were very, very young. My grandmother raised me. She loved me a lot and took a good care of me but she also permanently damaged me. Her idea of showing love to a kid was limited to material things, at least I didn’t have a chance to feel her emotionally nurturing side. She worked very hard to provide for me and there wasn’t enough softness inside her. She taught me directly and by her own example that life is harsh and requires one to work very, very hard. You have to be tough to survive, you don’t give in to your weaknesses and you always do your duties no matter how you feel.

She also taught me that my worth lied in my achievements. I knew that to get her love I needed to impress her, to make her proud of me in front of her friends. So I also started to work very, very hard. I strived for perfection. Because the more perfect I was the more love and appreciation I would get. She never protected me in social situations. I knew I needed to please her by acting a certain way around others to leave a good impression, but I often couldn’t because of my shyness or confusion, and then she would shame me for being impolite. I learned I couldn’t trust myself because what I felt was wrong and inappropriate. But my grandmother’s ways didn’t feel right either, so I decided to become silent and invisible for the sake of my own survival because I just couldn’t align my feelings with the expectations of others. I stopped talking without being asked.

And so I grew up. I am actually a soft, empathetic and very emotional being. I thrive on emotions. For me, no duty is ever more important than how you feel about it. It’s just that these traits were never approved in the household I grew up. So I had to develop this hard shell around me, the persona that would keep me alive. But cracks start appearing in that shell. The more it happens the stronger my anxiety gets. I have been living with this mask for all my life, it has become an integral part of me and for some time it really served it’s purpose. But it is what it is – a false identity. The last couple of years have shot some even deeper holes in that façade – I learned I cannot be protected any longer by my grandmother’s ways. She taught me I would be rewarded and loved for my hard work, and indeed I was but not anymore. The world actually didn’t give a s**t about my sweat and blood. These were all painful lessons, a series of disappointments that made me desperate and exhausted from living my life. But they also made me realize it was simply not working that way anymore. Another crack. And then another one. The wall is about to break down. And my anxiety is at it’s peak.

Earlier this year, during a meditation, I could clearly see it – the split stretching through my solar plexus and dividing me in half. Sharp edges and splinters. Fractured. That’s how I was. Nothing has changed much, except that I am now aware. I am being pulled in two directions. My true being is getting stronger, it wants me to follow. But my old identity is desperately fighting for survival. A lot of inner tension and resistance is generated, no wonder why my anxiety progresses – there’s a war going on inside me! But I have promised myself that I will stay here, with the totality of myself, as long as it takes. I will not abandon any broken or wounded parts of myself anymore, ever! I will pour all my love over them to try to relieve the thirst for attention that has been building up for years. I don’t care if it slows me down. I just want to be whole again. Every single piece of me deserves my unconditional presence. I deserve it. We all do…