Dwelling in the in-between
I took a break from writing the last couple weeks. I had given myself permission to take a little time off for my birthday, and then hit a slippery slope into a familiar place of invisibility. What if I just stopped? Would anyone notice? What if I just quit writing altogether? I don’t have to sit and feel and allow my voice to be heard. What difference does it make, really?
Invisibility is a tricky thing. On one hand, it saved me. It was a way I coped with living in a childhood home where if I shut up and hid, it would hurt less. There wasn’t room for me anyway with all those other feelings as loud as thunder booming through the enclosed walls. My invisibility was sneaky. I thought of it as clever. I came to believe I could maneuver around other people’s crazy in a way where there was little cost to me. One person called me the “most public private person” they’d ever met. I was vulnerable, but not really. I could assimilate into any group, as though I’d always been a member. And then I would disappear when things got too intimate.
Because I was sure that I was cultivating a superpower (while avoiding the pain of being seen), I considered invisibility an asset. I held it dear, and still do today. I don’t mind that I can be the life of the party or a quiet observer, depending on my mood. I covet my ability to leave any room silently and unnoticeably. But is there really no cost?
Over the last couple weeks, I have been going through massive indecision, regret, emotional pain and self-doubt. I have been deeply sad. I have been scared as hell. I have been confused and muddy. I have been all the things that if someone you loved expressed to your face you would hold them close and not let go. You would worry and offer them a warm bed and a bowl of soup. You would take their hand and comfort them. You would ask, what can I do? Who can I call? How do we get through this together?
This is the cost. When I most need support, my impulse is to withdraw.
I have come a long way—I cry more, I hide less, I have a few people in my innermost circle who have an idea of what I am feeling. I have a new therapist. I am taking my supplements, I went to yoga, and I got bodywork that I desperately needed. I put my feet in the sand and my back against the cement wall along the strand, and watched a sunset through clenched jaws and rolling tears. I talked out options with trusted friends. Life will continue.
I can’t say with conviction that I am at the bottom of this slippery slope. There is likely more to go. I’m struggling with a lot of decisions right now that affect the structures of my life. I said to a friend, “I feel like the continents inside my body are spreading apart.” Where I live, who I love, how I lead, the uncertainty of parenting. It all feels up in the air right now. I have no idea what’s right. Or next. I feel out of touch with my inner knowing, uncentered. I will probably continue to disappear at times when I’m hurting the most.
But that’s okay. Sometimes we just need a warm enclosed room in which to lie down, break apart, and break through. And then I will emerge.
