ENOUGH!
... was me.
That detail, concerning the subservient side of the prepubescent child whom I’d become (circa 1953) leads me to ask this next question, which still riddles my think tank, today (circa 2011): How tightly constrained must a child’s self restraint be to rein in coils of electrified tension, which, proving as volatile as TNT, are so apt to explode that this youngster’s desperation to maintain a self disciplined stance empowers her brain to over-ride the red hot potency of impassioned emotionality by redirecting the forceful hose of denial toward dousing flames of humiliation within the brief expanse of time that it takes for me to leap out of the van and land within the safety net of my home where, following a shudder of rabbit-like relief, I know without so much as a shadow of doubt that those bullies will never insult me, again, based in this vow: Over my dead body will my vulnerability ever submit to a feeding frenzy in that sardine tin where saber-toothed sharks feel need to devour my spirit alive—and with that vow imprinted deeply into the conscious portion of my mind, my processor slips back into denial freeing my persona to stride into the kitchen where I greet my family sporting a smile.I mean, think about it: Once the repressed nature of embroiled emotionality spontaneously ignites, where might all of that combustible volatility hide out till nightfall when subconscious furies, gagged and tied into tight little knots, spring back to life just like caged gerbils, which, being nocturnal, awaken to run on wheels that go no where fast. Seriously, those tightly coiled, unidentified furies, gnawing through my skin in the still of each night, deviled my peace of mind until sunrise when utter exhaustion saw the raw state of my deeply repressed angst collapse back into a fitful sleep as per my pattern.
Once the child, who’d smiled by day, grew into a patterned adult who’d not yet identified subconscious angst that continued to bottle up, my cork was bound to pop, releasing those furies to devil my peace of mind, night and day. Even so, as long as these furies remained unnamed, I could not fathom my brain’s many layered emotional depths until something flew in from out of the blue, inspiring me to spend years mustering the courage necessary to actively gather detailed clues concerning childhood experiences, which may have silenced the self assertive portion of my voice from freely expressing inner tension itching to be released in words. However, words must travel through our processors before exiting from our mouths, and since certain childhood furies remain in an unprocessed state, they remain subconsciously distressed to this very day (circa 2019), and thus, in order to heal my peace of mind from feeling need to wrestle with latent angst, forever, my emotional intelligence compelled the adult I've grown to be to find a Walden Pond of my own where my soulful quest for relief from yesteryear’s unprocessed anxiety continues to deepen in solitude so as not to rage all over anyone’s parade inclusive of my own ... you see—
As I continue to seek out and absorb knowledge concerning the complex workings of my brain, the less apt am I to dive so deeply into denial as to deceive myself about my need to acknowledge and accept life’s painful realities.
Though all people internalize emotional reactions to some degree, we often dismiss the distress of others as being over reactive when, in truth, we have no clue as to when a storehouse of deeply coiled negative energy that has layered up, over time, can't help but blast through cracks in our walls of denial so spontaneously (think camels and last straws or head on collisions between vehicles carrying TNT.) as to shock any observer who mistakenly believes to know himself, herself or you or me, through and through.
The fact that I'd been a child whose sunny spirit smiled by day while repressed angst awakened to thrash about throughout the dark of night as though itching to scratch through the surface of my skin till blood was actually drawn leads me to ask: Why doth the injured psyche of a little lost lamb feel need to dive so blindly into denial as to develop a smile-sporting persona rather than bleating aloud while seeking asylum within the safely sheltering presence of the shepherd’s loving embrace? In short, what had caused me to mask emotional misery from myself? What had stopped me from confiding in my parents, who’d loved me deeply?
I also find it of interest to note that as recently as 2011, the origin of 'this' lamb’s on-going need to deny the depths of her emotional distress to herself continued to mystify me. And knowing the importance of origins, I'd vowed to continue to quest ever more soulfully within my psyche till this puzzle piece was conscientiously retrieved, because—well—I’ve seriously absorbed these next words of wisdom expressed with the elegant eloquence of Maya Angelou’s exquisite intelligence:
“I have great respect for the past. If you don't know where you've come from, you don't know where you're going. I have respect for the past, but I'm a person of the moment. I'm here, and I do my best to be completely centered at the place I'm at, then I go forward to the next place.”
Whenever I feel too confounded to feel completely centered, I stop to ask myself which of my perceptions may be a distortion in need of readjustment. For example: I’d felt both socially respected and well liked, early on. However each time I'd faced rejection at the hands of half grown men, who’d deviled my sense of personal safety by threatening my physical presence with their distainful show of dominance over that which had historically been an all male lair, my spirit’s self-respect dried up quick as a hypnotist’s fingers go—snap! I mean, these boys were soon to be men, and back then, our patriarchal society had crowned men King of the mountain for eons. So though I'd misperceived of my self esteem as being socially secure with both genders, my spontaneous, shrinking submission to mean minded bullying suggests otherwise.
As my next story plans to showcase layers of insecurity stacking up, I'm eager to leap ahead.
However, before FIRST KISS is ready to rock and roll, BULLY FOR ME has need to wind down. I mean in addition to showing you how I wiggled out of riding in that van—ever again, I'll reveal the last bitter straw, which made me declare—
NEVER AGAIN!
(If not aloud, at least within the dark side of my active mind where my blood rushes round and round certain memories, which play hide and seek with my intelligence to this very day!)
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