As the driver opens the door of the van, I dash from the curb to my front door seeking asylum from all conscious awareness of trauma, and so relieved am I to wrap my wounded vulnerabilities within the sheltering sanctuary of family life that denial, acting like a safety shield separating my psyche from the mean-minded cruelties of the outside world, locks every traumatizing detail of past events out of the conscious portion of my mind, except for one—Never Again will I consent to getting into that van.
If you're wondering whether my voice sings aloud in testimony of denial’s most recent take over: Hi Mom! I'm home! What's for dinner? I'm starved! Your guess is as good as mine.
What I can tell you is this: My memory offered no clue that my ego had suffered a series of ‘heart’ attacks until my chest felt painfully short of breath every time I sat down to pen the end of BULLY FOR ME, over these past few days.
In hindsight, I could not force the wounds of my ego to get naked in the presence of a fully clothed audience without anxiety spiking until the self assured side of my brain had rebalanced the sum of my character traits as a whole. And thus have I worked, day by day, to peel layers of self protective armor away while pounding this story into my keyboard so as to outfit my vulnerabilities with inner strengths necessary to consciously bear a wound, which had felt too raw to bare to you, until today.
Whew! Peeling denial's layers away from deeper truth is tough work but worth the effort because:
The only person who can strip away self protective layers of denial so as to coax my subconscious to reveal details fearfully secreted from my conscious comprehension is me. On the other hand, experience has taught me that stripping away at defensive layers of denial, based in trauma, can prove so anxiety provoking as to feel nearly impossible to achieve without the calming presence of astutely compassionate professional guidance.
So hopefully, now that I’ve laid soothing hands of compassion upon this specific aspect of my battered ego's repressed (and thus unhealed) wounds, this short circuit, which imprisoned my self image to remain stuck in a traumatized place ever since I was eleven, has been rewired. As always, time will tell if healing this subconscious pain is complete or not
What I can say for certain, right now, is this: Upon awakening each morning for years, every fiber of my being has felt magnetically drawn toward the computer, and hopefully, you’re getting the gist as to why my processor feels so hot to consider (and reconsider) every string of insights detailing repressed angst that spills readily into the conscious portion of my mind. As emergent trains of thought naturally couple up, one after another, highly personal stories seemingly pen themselves in such a well-organized fashion as to end every chapter of my life with the beginning of the next, suggesting why it's no wonder that my processor’s pattern of operation has come to embrace the virtue of patience as a necessary inner strength when growth in emotional intelligence proves to be an on-going personal goal.
In truth, the path of virtue offers each of us countless personal trials, and as one of my trials proves to be condensing my thoughts (as anyone who knows me well will verify), the editing process is not my forte, suggesting why I feel eager to say that BULLY FOR ME is almost but not quite finis ...
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