I started writing 1000 words a day just a few days ago, and I’ve already felt that it’s changed my life. Yesterday’s post where I wrote of
my story and why I was against feminism [post deleted] was a powerful experience for me. It brought about a strong emotional reaction that I last felt on the day of my wedding – but not for reasons you might imagine.
What I was writing became an emotional trigger for a lot of suppressed anger that I’ve kept hidden from myself for most of my life. And there’s a lot there. I felt it boiling up inside of me, pulsating throughout my blood, and pounding in my head, to the point that I ended up getting a really strong headache from it. It was pretty intense.
I was getting up from my chair and going for a walk around the house, feeling the emotions inside of me, sitting down in the lounge room and trying to relax myself, but not succeeding. I had so much anger in me, I could feel it. I just wanted to cry from the feelings in my head and in my body, but the crying didn’t come. So I went back to my chair and continued writing until I couldn’t write anything more.
The anger is still inside of me, but it’s not anger about feminism. It’s anger about my mother and her treatment of me and my father. It’s all the anger I was never able to express as a child and as a teenager, still there, bottled up inside of me.
The fact that I’ve never turned to violence, drugs or alcohol in my life has been nothing short of amazing.
I feel like I was punished as a child for everything I did that caused irritation or annoyance to my mum. I know that those feelings are probably exaggerations, and that I probably remember the worst of things while having forgotten the best of things. But the worst of things were so many, and for so long.
Most children are able to express their feelings while growing up, and are encouraged to do so. And then there’s some children who are punished for expressing their feelings, so that they’re taught that expressing feelings is wrong. and that being emotional or getting angry about something will result in punishment. So they keep it bottled up inside of them instead, because it was the safer option.
That was me, and I never learned a healthy way of expressing those feelings. Until I started writing, that is. In writing I can express my feelings and explore my thoughts, and there’s a healing process going on. I recognise it, and I see it happening.
I’m also aware that I’m going through stages of emotional cleansing with this, and I need to go through them in order to reach compassion, because it’s only with compassion that I’ll really be able to seek out solutions that benefit everyone. Anger just makes me want to complain about the bullshit I see.
In my first paragraph above, I wrote that yesterday’s post brought about a strong emotional reaction that I last felt on the day of my wedding. Let me tell you a story about what happened.
A very good friend of mine, Kath, was visiting and staying with me for my wedding. I’ve known her for about 17 years. She’s an exceptional kinesiologist.
Kinesiology encompasses holistic health disciplines which use the gentle art of muscle monitoring to access information about a person’s well being. Originating in the 1970’s, it combines Western techniques and Eastern wisdom to promote physical, emotional,mental and spiritual health. Kinesiology identifies the elements which inhibit the body’s natural internal energies and accessing the life enhancing potential within the individual [link]
So she was giving me a muscle balance on the morning of the wedding, to reduce stress, etc. But something happened neither of us were expecting. I was laying on the floor while she was doing the muscle balancing, but she worked out there was a blockage somewhere which she traced back to when I was 7 years old. She got me to create a safe place in my mind, and then to invite my 7 year old self into that safe place.
I did, and he joined me. He was sitting on the ground, drawing. I used to draw when I was that age. So Kath told me to talk to him, to tell him I’m here to look after him, that he’s not alone, to act as his ‘big brother’, mentor, whatever. He was happy about that.
She told me to give him a gift, so I gave him a glowing white sphere, which was to be a source of strength and power to him, and a connection point between us.
Then Kath said that he should give me a gift too. He gave me a drawing of a spaceship – and that’s when I exploded.
I suddenly started uncontrollably crying. Kath was giving a running commentary because it surprised her. Apparently my face went red, but parts of it went white, which made her think I was releasing a potential future heart attack.
I used to draw – a lot. They were always sci-fi drawings. I would draw spaceships in great technical detail, sometimes including futuristic city scapes, but mostly just technical drawings of spaceships. I’d imagine myself out there in space, either in the spaceships, or viewing the spaceships. It was where I went to get away from my life, to escape the punishments I received for being a child. At least while drawing I wasn’t doing anything to irritate my mum that would result in being punished.
And back to the present – I was crying because of what I’d lost, and what my 7 year old self had reminded me of. I’d been drawing most of my life, doing Art, Design and Technical Drawing in school, and drawing in my spare time up until my early 20’s. But back then, two things happened within a couple of years.
I submitted an application to the South Australian Institute of Design (what it was called back then, if I remember correctly – this was about 23 years ago) to do a Bachelor of Design. I wasn’t accepted. I found out that I was applying to be accepted to a class of 30 people, but there were over 3,000 submissions for that class. I realised there was too much competition, and I just wasn’t good enough. I stopped drawing.
And then shortly after, all of my artwork and designs that I had in a huge portfolio folder blew away in the wind when I was moving house. I saw it blow away in the rearview mirror and told my friend, who was driving the ute, to stop so I could grab it. But he didn’t care, and didn’t stop. I can’t remember what he said, but he blew it off just like the wind did. I never saw my drawings again.
And I never drew again after that.
My 7 year old self reminded me of what I’d given up on, so many years ago, and the emotional reaction I had to this on the morning of my wedding was obviously something I needed to release.
In the same way, I’m aware that any anger I have about my mum, and about feminism, is an emotional stage I’m going through as I work towards releasing it all, to find resolution on the other side.
This is going to be an awesome journey.
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