BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—(end2)BULLY FOR ME Part 11 UGLY DUCKLING

2011
Oh my God!
I can't believe what just happened!
I mean truly—only moments ago!
I sat down, ready to write B.F.M. (end2)  Part 11 when
I heard something big cRaSh! to the floor!
So leaping to my feet, I dashed out of my office into
The living room where, much to my surprise, a huge piece of art
(4'X4' square) encased in plexiglass was seen standing
Upright, completely intact on the Italian ceramic tiled floor!
As this sight was so shocking as to render me speechless
Moments passed while I stood there collecting my wits before
The sight before me offered my processor as much reason to feel
Relieved as stunned to see the plexiglass frame and floor tiles
Unharmed at which time, I returned to my office, feeling inspired to
Pen this next train of thought, which felt worthy of tracking as soon as
I sensed it chugging out of the conscious portion of my mind:

Who's to say when two things (or people), seemingly connected, like a painting securely attached to a wall, unexpectedly separate—suggesting that the undetected process of growing apart has been crumbling their intimate connection, little by little, for quite awhile.  Reminds me of relationships, which seem solidly secure on the surface while, in truth, a pair of interwoven hearts have been moving through the slo-mo process of parting ways.

So let's see—where was I before a valuable artifact slipped from wall to floor?  Oh yes, in review—I'd left you hanging onto the voice-of-authority raging away while every boy and one girl sat gawking in silence, still as statues, fingers gripping tightly to edges of wooden benches, eyes glued to the apoplectic expression of fury, contorting every feature of the bus driver's face while authority’s voice of frustration is winding down.

In the silence following authority’s lightening quick flash of fury, hypnotic tension, zinging tautly, back and forth through the air, holds every processor in the van spellbound as though fearing a time bomb exploding if so much as a shudder of a sound shatters the silence until—a snicker is released, and lo and behold—

Pandemonium busts loose freeing the braying of donkeys to ricochet off ceiling, floor, windows and walls spraying a hellish display of hilarity pointedly at every nerve in my body, stimulating my anxiety to spike as humiliation, piercing straight through my persona, strikes my conscious awareness so deeply—rat-a-tat-rat-a-tat—as if imprinting my self image with the painful permanence of this tattoo:

LAUGHING STOCK! UGLY DUCKLING! OUTCAST!  ANNIE THIS IS YOU!

Now it's the bus driver's turn to gawk in astonishment while his well-meant admonishments are trampled to death by the riotous uproar of this uncaged zoo.  Upon firing off one last flaring glare at his mutinous charges, seen leaping gleefully off wooden benches into life boats, the captain, succumbing to defeat, sinks back down into his seat while I, watching his spirit deflate, feel mine refusing to passively go down with the ship, and thus do I choose to deflect male rejection by walking the plank, sealing my spirit’s fate to drown humiliation in a turbulent tidal wave of subconscious angst, which runs much too deep for the mind of a child to fathom for decades to come.

Upon reflection, I imagine depths of frustration with which 'my friend' shoves the pedal to the metal while making a beeline straight toward my house.  And though my protector alters his route to get me home in record time, let’s...

Imagine my anxiety skyrocketing beyond denial's ability to numb humiliation 

Imagine my body pressed stiffly up against non-stop laughter piercing every nerve with agony too unbearable for denial to numb as that van (every bit as white as the hide of the good knight’s galloping steed) careens toward my house

Imagine my head pounding with need to escape so as to fly free of ridicule’s evil spell long before the bus driver pulls up to the curb and slams on the brakes

Imagine how this final rocky ride home from the house of God will portend for the future whenever a male hip draws too near to my own ...

Imagine preteen me desperate to separate from that hormonal pack of
Laughing hyenas, who’d not stopped needling my budding sensuality for so much as a second ...

Imagine me sitting here, decades later ...
Pounding emotion, long repressed, into my keyboard while
An overwhelming sense of yesteryear's pressurized angst
Quickens the palpitating beat of my heart, releasing latent
Spikes of anxiety, which had shanghied my processor whenever
The ghostlike presence of yesteryear’s subconscious fear of
Male rejection arose to numb all conscious awareness of
My self-empowered sensuality titulating
The magnetic arousal of male sexual excitement

Imagine the ghostlike presence of those bullies heckling
My sense of security if I gain so little as one pound, today—Jeez Louise—
Someone save me from reliving pain-ridden moments, long past, forever!
Uhhhh—hold the phone—
How easy it is to forget that ...

The only one who can free my psyche’s distorted self image of latent pain crushing my spirit, today, is—ME!

After walking that plank, I (like a caged gerbil running on a wheel) was fated to swim in circles for decades until, thank goodness, the subconscious portion of my brain stopped rock’n roll’n round that shipwrecked moment just long enough for my processor to gain insight into my need to gain the courage to remove my blindfold so as to dive, repeatedly, eyes open wide into the deep end of my mind so as to mine forgotten details by seeking out an astute helpline whenever subconscious aspects of latent emotionality get to feeling like a series of whirlpools, spinning my awareness from ‘this is now to that was then’ too swiftly to keep my head above water in hopes of saving my psyche from drowning in rapids of repressed fears that surface as spikes of unidentified anxiety whenever any sensation of yesteryear's unresolved angst has been stimulated to geyser up, unexpectedly—interminably!

*BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—(end 1)BULLY FOR ME Part 10 GODDAMMIT!

2011 in Annie’s own words:
By Jove!  I think I've got it!
I'm relieved to tell you that an Aha! moment awakened me at 5AM.

The fact that I remember struggling to douse every last burning ember of deeply enflamed humiliation which, likened to a red hot poker, had consciously branded me 'outcast' during this MOST embarrassing moment of my youth, proves to be a highly significant detail.

It's not as though I've never told the end of this story before.  I've unlocked the door to that dungeon while facilitating seminars concerning self esteem.  However, each time this story was told, I was dispassionately numbed to yesteryear’s unresolved pain—as though the main character had been anyone but me.

For as long as I can remember, baring the end of this story (while leading seminars) did not unseat my personal sense of safety, whereas exposing that moment to you feels like sitting myself in the hot seat where an expressionless jury might decree the depth of Miss Piggy's humiliation as 'no biggy'.

Need I add that:
Along with societal dictates, experiences during prepubescent development influence our future relationships with the opposite sex ...

If you were to ask:  Well, Annie, why could you, as an adult, sit yourself in the hot seat 'in person' but not in your blog?  I'd answer with humility intact: I'm practiced at public speaking, meaning I can feel when my listeners are rallying round with safety nets, befriending and supporting my human vulnerabilities on mental wave lengths, pulsing with positively focused energy.  And when the heart of my audience beats as one with mine, I feel free to leap toward self-trust based in mutual respect.

On the other hand, while penning this blog, I need to pump up that rising crest of self trust by myself, within myself.  For days, I focused on strengthening my processor’s positively-charged mental wave length. That's not to say I sat down on a mat where, with eyes closed, my heart/spirit/brain connection engaged in mental yoga for hours, every day.  What I mean to say is that while going about my day, I’d consciously patiently steadied my mind until a well balanced, self confident position of peaceful repose had clearly and wholly permeated my attitude with a host of inner strengths necessary to forge courageously ahead—naturally.

Upon awakening today, I’d felt readied to expel that horrendous memory from my psyche—without reigniting embers of residual pain, which had seared ever so deeply into my self esteem when bullying had clamored so cruelly throughout the van that our driver couldn't stand those mean-minded taunts branding me outcast anymore than I could—So here it comes—that red hot detail, which, until today, had felt too excruciatingly painful to post, catalyzing my decision to never sit myself down in the hot seat on a bench, where the self assertive voice of my spirit, quaking with fear, felt squished half to death between two sweaty, insensitive half grown men brandishing pokers, ever again ...

So, I’m sitting on a bench, hips lambasted on both sides by guys whose voices feel utterly free to spew insults at my body when in utter outrage the bus driver’s fist slams against the top of the steering column as though to release the masterful voice of authority to bust through the on-going harangue with a hugely shocking—GODDAMNIT!—as he spins the steering wheel so sharply curbside as to stun every brain aboard into silence ...

With the van swerving dangerously up against the curb, the driver slams on the brakes, yanks the key from the ignition, leaps out of his seat, and spinning around, emotionality clearly aflame, he looms ominously over a van loaded with children, whose heads (inclusive of mine) swivel upward in his direction while our fingers maintain a white knuckled grip onto edges of bench seats as if clinging to dear life.

At first, this raucous mini mob remains stunned to see the face of authority, splotched purple with fury, leering overhead, too close for comfort.  And as the piercing glare of authority's steely eyes—shooting bullets straight into every pre-teened, slicked down, Brill Creamed, duck-tailed (or crew cut) head—holds each mind rapt throughout this electrifying stare down, tension feels so taut as to have snapped every brain aboard to attention, like troops trapped behind enemy lines awaiting orders to retreat into disgraced defeat or stand strong in readiness to charge the enemy, guns drawn in self defense of virility’s budding manhood.

Though this solid state of suspended apprehension lasts mere seconds, the memory of that which shatters this pregnant pause, sends chills down my spine to this very day.

Empowered by righteous indignation, these words roar out of authority's furious throat—

MY GOD!  SHUT UP!  SHUT UP!  WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, GUYS?  FOR GOD SAKE—LEAVE HER ALONE!  SOME DAY, EVERY ONE OF YOU JERKS IS GOING TO BEG THIS GIRL FOR A DATE!

Upon reflection, it's obvious that my 'friend' meant well—
Unfortunately, this scene does not end well for me, at all ...
Once shock subsides releasing comprehension to sink in—all hell breaks loose throughout the van, grinding the last fragments of my self esteem along with the voice of authority into sand under hysteria’s rising tsunami of maniacal hilarity, which drowns everything standing in the way of prepubescent bedlam reigning supreme ...

*BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 9 SELF DECEPTION

Unfortunately, I am woman hear me roar was not yet a rallying cry sung round the world.  So though I’d felt impassioned emotion explode within my persona from the top of my head to the tips of my preteen toes, the only person in that van who heard my battle cry roar...

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!) 

BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 8 THE FRAGILITY OF MY EGO'S SELF IMAGE

At this point you might ask:  If denial blocks out reality then why didn't your mind just dive deeper, yet?  And here’s why that proves to be an excellent question:  Hindsight suggests that just as with most everything, denial does exist in degrees; however, here's what complicated matters each time I’d claimed a seat in the van:  My defense system split the conscious portion of my memory into two separate parts, one of which was totally numbed to pain, the other part mostly numbed.  How do I know that to be true?

While my mind did record flashes of cruelty imparted by the bullies, those flashes did no more than bounce off me, because I cannot recall my emotional reactions, at all, except for that time when the whole rats nest (including mice as timid as bullies are intimidating) pounced, trouncing my persona so completely as to have freed a tidal wave of humiliation to wash over denial’s wall, and with no shield protecting my emotional vulnerability from the reality of feeling excruciatingly penetrated by mortification, I can’t help but wonder if I’d burst into tears on the spot ...  (In French mort means death.  As in death of my self-confidence with guys)
      

Up until that fateful day, denial had separated my conscious awareness from recalling negatively charged situations too overwhelming for a child's processor to understand, withstand or rise above.  Each time I'd stuffed my voiceless self into that van, I'd had to stuff much more than pain behind denial’s wall.  In addition to numbing my persona to pain that might pierce my false front—confusion and fear had to be stuffed, as well—because otherwise, the person I’d believed was me might cease to be!

And thus do we come to see what a deeply complex little critter denial proves to be.  On one hand, denial serves to keep self image intact while under attack.  On the other hand, denial spins the conscious portion of our processors into a swirling state of confusion, which, over time, dizzies our inner compass to fly so far off center as to leave us feeling unable to regain our well-balanced sense of solidly grounded emotional footing, based in honest self respect.

         
Once my defense system had successfully swept my conscious awareness into Denialand, the inexplicable change in my social status within that van (and then in my new school) continued to confound me for many years.  And even today, my reflections concerning that conundrum makes me ask:  Ah—sweet mystery of life—what might Mother Nature have had in mind?

Well if ...

Denial blocks clarity from recognizing anything that opposes a person's self image then perhaps Mother Nature believes that people can recover self confidence (which differs from self esteem) more quickly if we're confused than would be possible if our spirits had suffered the agony of humiliation's burning defeated retreat.

And with that insight in mind, we'll watch my sense of personal safety take refuge in the Land of Make-Believe-Where-All-Is-Fine so that nothing terribly painful could possibly happen to fun-loving-bright-little me.

  
By the way, since denial works its 'magic' in a myriad of ways, it's not unusual for pleasers to become care givers extraordinaire, who summarily dismiss personal exhaustion as no biggie until every drop of energy left in reserve to minister to the needs of others has been wrung dry.  You see, in order for pleasers to achieve their subconscious need to satisfy every need that others cast at their feet, WE, feeling need to take better care of others than we do of ourselves, deny the existence of personal needs until our personas crack up, freeing a storehouse of subconscious neediness to slip through cracks in denial’s walls.  

One reason that pleasers go much farther than the extra yard is because for 'some unidentified reason' it takes very little for ‘these’ sensitive souls to feel guilty of wrongdoing.  In fact, all you need do to scare an exhausted pleaser into running the extra yard for you is to raise one brow in distain.  And if you go so far as to frown—a pleaser will stretch to great lengths in hopes of regaining your smile.  As opposites attract, more about pleasers hooking up with takers, later.)

        
Wow!  Once denial takes control over the conscious portion of our minds, it’s no wonder that problems (and arguments) worsen rather than resolve.  I mean any attempt to problem solve with a mind that's disconnected from reality will create conversations in which two people believe the other is as crazy as a coot.  And if denial helps us all to move through trying times then who's to say which person's connection to clarity is greater than the other?

By the way, if today's string of insights seems as confusing as ‘whose on first’ then just imagine what denial (on both sides) does to dim the clarity of two bright minds.  As the concept of denial is so complex as to be mind-bending, all around, perhaps it's best to offer tidbits of information, concerning that which I've learned in taste tests.

        
In order to repress one's fear of deeper truths within the subconscious portion of our minds, each person's defense system is equipped to create a suit of armor, otherwise known as a false sense of pride.  This false front is dubbed the persona, which depends upon this next pretense layering up so as to crack less easily, over time:  If you and I ‘agree’ to shove our problems under the rug and pretend all is well when nothing could be further from the truth then our friendship will (seemingly) thrive until something HUGE flies in from out of the blue, causing our house of cards to come undone.  And if you ask why opposites need to pretend that their problems aren't that bad, I’d surmise:  Your perception of reality either infuriates me or scares me half to death (and vice a versa)!!!

       
This pretense of shoving problematic deeper truths under the rug holds up for only so long, because in the absence of clarity concerning reality, conflicts exacerbate, molehills become mountains and relationships get crazier by the day.  (BTW, that's often true of one's relationship with—one self.)

         
When I was blind to how often the pretense of my persona took center stage, I could not enlist the help of others, much less take a courageous stance in defense of myself.  Being a pleaser, all I could do was to—bow my head and suppress my confusion by hiding from the truth each time I boarded that bus.  Why?  Because I'd no conscious clue as to how frightened I was of saying or doing anything that might escalate anyone's anger—inclusive of my own.

So ride after ride, this self defeating pattern of ducking from reality forced me to swallow fear, fury, humiliation and tongue-tied knots of tension—until that dreadful moment in time when, without so much as a hint of warning, the entire gang had reason to open fire on me, at once, causing every molten molecule of compressed humiliation to explode forth as a volcanic geyser of agony burst out of my core, and once my conscious connection to piercing pain felt so inflamed at to have passed the point of no return, reality refused to fast-freeze or fade away, and as every crack in my persona's false sense of pride had shattered, Denialand collapsed, and I heard myself scream—

🔥You're killing me!  LET ME OUT OF THIS HELLHOLE, RIGHT NOW!🔥

*BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 7 UNCLOAKING DENIAL IS NO EASY FEAT

Reflection suggests that before we'd moved into Dad's dream house, I'd been a natural leader of my peers, and since my personality had been perky, bouncy and fun, I was shocked to find myself cast as the bullied 'new kid' in that van.  I mean, historically, my friends included both genders, so though I was the only girl squished in with a gang of prepubescent guys, there was no reason to expect my vulnerability to be trounced by a mean-minded passel of pre-teen thugs.

If you’d asked eleven year old me how I’d mustered the courage to stuff myself into that sardine tin—four times each week, my defense system would have answered:  "Oh, it wasn't that bad."  On the other hand, if you direct that same question toward the adult, whom I've grown to be, today, my intelligence, relying upon a wealth of knowledge concerning defensive attitudes, would reply:  My defense mechanism of denial created a persona, which had blocked my memory from retaining more than a smidgin of a conscious clue of feeling tortured each time my self-image was tied into deeply confounded, tight knots of tension suggesting that every time my body climbed into that van, seemingly going through the motions of being present, my psyche remained protectively cocooned within denial's spell-like state of anesthetized numbness to any kind of pain.

Rather than calling forth yesteryear’s budding leadership skills each time my alter ego enters that van, an eleven year old child is actually cowering fearfully behind the pretense of her persona while the subconscious portion of her brain experiences and absorbs the herding nature of gang mentality.  And to complicate my confusion concerning this sudden plunge in my social status even more, the more deeply I shrink back into myself, the more ‘left out’ I feel.

The functionality of the human brain is truly a complex machine, made up of a myriad of moving parts, and the less we understand about our defense mechanisms, the more likely we are to find those moving parts knocking into each other, throwing the compass of our processors so far off center as to direct our think tanks to react more dysfunctional more often than our intelligence would readily believe.  Geez!

Next, you might ask:  If at ten, your peace of mind had sensed the respect and admiration of your peers so as to have empowered the self assertive portion of your voice to ring aloud as clear as a bell then why, at eleven, did you feel so unworthy of self-respect as to duck your head under a broken wing each time your persona climbed into that van where having failed to find a seat on a bench between two guys where your wounded ego might feel safely shielded from suffering torrents of insults zinging through tensely charged air as sharply as arrows aimed straight toward your heart had blocked your terrified vulnerability from feeling mortally wounded—repeatedly? (Whew!)

         
Well, the obvious answer to that question (which had not been obvious back then) suggests this:  Subconsciously, I'd begun to see myself through the beady eyes of THE LORD OF THE FLIES.  I mean how could I see myself otherwise when, much to my dismay, my full-length mirror reflects the cruel truth of those taunts, which, having insulted my body four times, weekly, magnify that which I see in my mirror  (I mean—when had I gotten so fat?)  Thus, in addition to blocking my conscious awareness from ‘hating’ those rats who'd gnaw my self-confidence to shreds on our way to and from the house of God, denial, which binds my sense of safety to my persona, blinds me from the fact that the meek and mousy guys, whose voices fail to speak up in my defense, do not warrant my fear.  In short, once my budding self confidence with prepubescent guys is nipped in the bud, my self esteem feels immersed within a swirl of self conceived disrespect.  In short—feeling too deeply aggrieved by my sudden fall from grace to depend upon clarity to rebalance my sights, I subconsciously agree with the bullies and begin to bully myself.  And though I do not spend 24/7 with them, I do with me, and no way does my persona awaken so as to shield my subconscious from releasing agonizingly deeply painful furies, night after night, which is when unprocessed emotional reactiveness that will not be diagnosed as PTSD for decades to come are freed to devil the eleven year old child, who was fast becoming a stranger to herself.  Bottom line, no one’s brain can deny deeper truths, forever, no matter how deeply our defense systems bury each one within its own hidden pocket inside your mind and mine. 

         
And with that thought stirring up our processors, here comes a piece of the puzzle that spotlights my greatest vulnerability:  As long as denial 'saves' me from feeling the pain of degradation that would have felt far too emotionally debilitating to bare to myself at eleven, here’s what I'll fail to see as the future continues to unfold:  No one will insult me as deeply as I’ll put myself down.

Seriously, if being physically 'ungainly' does not render me speechless when others are in need of my support then what causes my self esteem to feel so insignificant and insecure as to choke on my voice when the indignity of public shame targets—ME?  In short, an eleven year old child has no more clue of this next insight than do most adults: 

My defensive pattern of diving self protectively into denial empowered
Tyranny to prolong the repressed (unprocessed) state of my subconscious misery.
  
Bottom line, if I’d had the natural gumption to stand up to gang mentality in defense of the underdog before (and after) our move to the suburbs, then something must have silenced MY SELF ASSERTIVE VOICE from turning those riptides away from pounding against my self esteem each time the bully's taunts rallied his troops to smite down my waining sense of self respect—again and again.  However, since that specific puzzle piece remains vague inside my mind, you may feel relieved to know at least as much as is clear to me, today (circa 2011):

One day, the bullying looms so large that my ire rises up just enough to feel painfully aware of insults targeting my physicality.  You see, on this day, something utterly unexpected flies in from out of the blue!  And as this unexpected 'something' is HUGE, an explosion of raucous laughter ignites throughout the van, which my cloak of denial cannot withstand, meaning that my persona is suddenly engulfed within flames of humiliation, which burn so deep into my core that every ridiculed atom of repressed anger inside me screams clearly and consciously—Finally! 

* BOOK ONE CHAPTER 2—BULLY FOR ME Part 6 RESPECTING BRAIN FREEZE

DO YOU HAVE A CLUE AS TO WHAT CONSTITUTES BRAIN FREEZE?

Though much of what you’re about to read was originally penned in 2011, certain insights, added in 2019, will hopefully simplify my description of a deeply complex mental block concerning a secret that I’d kept from myself, over most of my life

2011
Hmmm.  I just sat down to write and was surprised to find subconscious Furies, repressed in an unidentifiable state during childhood, grabbing control over my peace of mind, and here’s how I know that’s true:  I sat down to write reflectively over times long past, several times.  And each time, anxiety rose another notch.

Anxiety is one way that my defense system signals my conscious awareness of personal vulnerabilities, which are feeling fearfully exposed as though a near and present danger is about to close in.  So if, while writing about a past event, anxiety strikes causing my memory to lock then it’s a good bet that the 'danger' that seems to be threatening my current peace of mind is latent in nature, meaning that today's anxiety is based in a fearsome experience, long passed, which, having been partially (if not wholly) repressed in a painfully unresolved state, has never yet been consciously processed, and with this description of a mental block in mind, we come to see why any attempt to force my thought processor to release unprocessed details concerning night furies, which had deviled me in the dark at the age of eleven, arouses a latent sense of anxiety that makes my head ache with worry of danger that’s not really closing in, today.  In fact, anything that feels the least bit similar to that earlier experience will arouse repressed anxiety to strike anew as if a fast ball, which had been purposely pitched to whiz so close to my head as to have grazed my ear during childhood, continues to haunt my peace of mind, today.

In short, rather than reflecting over specific memories, which refuse to surface naturally, today, my defense system is releasing latent anxiety so long repressed in an unprocessed state as to suggest that some aspect of a horrific childhood experience has remained unhealed to this very day, which is why anything that pricks at a secreted detail concerning this specific childhood trauma (which having been painfully buried alive, will continue to provoke anxiety to spike as if to say:  Danger, detour away from the rawness of this unprocessed detail, ASAP—because just as a strike of lightening knocks our brains unconscious—this sudden strike of spiking anxiety denies your intelligence the clarity necessary to offer a detailed description of a terrifying aspect of a childhood event, which had felt too traumatizing for an inexperienced brain to process, and thus do we come to understand why a detailed description of an experience, which had felt so complex as to overwhelm an eleven year old inexperienced mind left me feeling so stunned as to incapacitate my processor from absorbing anything other than the fear of mortal danger closing in, and that's why naught but subconscious Furies were set free to devil this terrified child after ‘lights out’, night after night.  And now that I’ve clarified why nothing but unidentified furies will surface, today, the complex nature of this train of thought (which was far from easy to pen) has (hopefully) carried your intelligence and mine toward readying our think tanks to absorb this next insight:  We can’t describe a detailed picture of any experience, which had originally felt too overwhelmingly complex for our brains to process based in the fact that emotionality proved so great that clarity was not intact during or immediately after the mind blowing event.  And now we know why ...
         

I feel as though a little voice, residing between my subconscious and conscious mind is saying:  Annie—STOP laboring to force childhood’s Furies to resurface prematurely, because you've not yet done the mental work necessary to fortify your inner strengths to readily reveal (relive?) a clearly detailed account of this dreadful experience, even though it’s long past.  If you relax your mind so as to allow this unprocessed memory to remain cocooned until your intuitive intellect has 'researched' the portion of this memory that still strikes your connection to clarity down with fear of pain attacking your peace of mind, today, your processor may release this memory so naturally as to feel pain free, as the future unfolds. 

         
So rather than pushing into yesterday's pain as stubbornness would have demanded of me in the past, I'll choose to listen to my body's anxious attempt to say:  Relax, Annie—with patience intact dreadful memories, detailing night terrors may emerge from within your current mental block once inner strength, fortifying your sense of readiness, melts your resistance to reprocess any memory, which had traumatized your mind during childhood, and thus, not until your self respect has heightened, considerably will the depths of yesteryear's anesthetized pain be revealed without causing you to feel the raw agony, which your defense system is protecting you from re-experiencing, right now.  (Again, much of this train of thought was originally penned and posted in March of 2011 when my blog was brand new, suggesting that my current belief in my brain’s power of intuition had not yet developed to the extent that is true, today (circa 2019).  Thank God, I'd sought help from a therapist, who, back in (2011) was beginning to collect info concerning my experiential history, meaning that she will not yet have gathered details necessary to diagnose my anxious reactions as having been based in PTSD until later on.) 

2011       
As my therapist’s voice of reason makes sense, I choose patience over stubbornness so as to put any memory that feels irretrievable to rest.  And in lieu of anxiety, here I am, writing freely, again, with my sense of peaceful repose restored.

In short, I’ve come to accept this next insight concerning the fact that human nature makes us feel every bit as fearful on one hand as it proves courageous on the other:  There are times when the instinctive portion of my brain sends out a spike of anxiety to act as a cautionary signal of my need to muster the patience necessary to relax my mind of tension so as to offer my thought processor whatever time is needed to identify the true (repressed) reason for subconscious distress to resurface, today.  Otherwise, I might mistakenly believe that anxiety, which proves latent in nature, is being provoked by a current event.

         
Bottom line:  The more deeply my intellect delves into the complex functions of my brain, the more readily my processor 'reads' my instincts correctly, which, in turn, offers me sound reason to consciously honor my growing sense of self respect.  And—

Each time I honor a natural instinct with self respect intact, anxious tensions based in self-doubt relax.

In short, I don't need to know why I feel need to honor emotional reactions that prove natural to my nature.  I just need to believe that each reaction is valid before my smarts have unearthed the underlying reason for subconscious arousal, which has not been identified by the conscious portion of my brain—as of yet.  So rather than laboring painfully to deliver a premie that’s not yet ready to be ‘borne’, I'll place my faith in this belief:  One day that baby will feel ready to slide smoothly out of the subconscious portion of my mind, fully formed.

If you ask what makes me believe that last insight is true, I'll reply:  Recently, I've experienced that very result take place, repeatedly, for this reason:  With patience intact, brain tension lessens freeing my processor to move through the rest of my day feeling peaceably relaxed.  And the more relaxed my mind, the more clearly my brain functions as a whole, suggesting that my defense system cannot easily usurp control over the intelligent portion of my processor.  So if you agree that positive attitude and timing are everything, then your processor, like mine, may begin to muster the patience to feel relaxed while your subconscious sense of readiness to resolve an on-going, mind bending, anxiety producing mystery develops, step by step.

         
As you shall see, my think tank will release many one act plays from memory before the final curtain goes up, revealing the primary reason why Mother Nature directed denial to gain control over the conscious portion of my mind when I was a three year old tot.  

With patience intact, you and I shall see why Mother Nature offers the gift of denial to one and all, to some degree, suggesting that this universal defense mechanism must be a good thing.  On the other hand immersing one's mind in denial, over long, indicates depths of insecurity too painful to consciously acknowledge to oneself, and since my conscious awareness would slip into denial right before entering the van from hell, that detail suggests my need to detect another dreadful experience, which must have injured my budding self esteem, scaring me half out of my wits, when I was younger than eleven—and so ...

        
As instinct refuses to lessen my anxious reaction to re-awakening sleeping Furies, right now, let’s switch tracks so as to examine a memory, which no longer feels so confounding as to needle my peace of mind with residual distress.  In fact, this memory exemplifies my processor's readiness to roar, NEVER AGAIN!