I Was Lost

In a previous blog post I wrote about ‘My Backpack’ (click the link to read) My metaphorical backpack is something I’ve been working on recently in therapy. On my first session with my current counsellor my backpack was huge. I imagined it nearly as big as myself, and it was black with lots of zips, locks, and pockets.

When emptying the backpack I realised there was a big mass growing at the bottom: an abusive relationship from my past, and it was killing me.

The fact of this ‘killing me’ was something I knew all along. I knew it when it was happening, and I knew when it came to the end of that relationship, it was a case of either I lose the relationship, or I lose me. The only thing is I naively thought that choosing me was as simple as it sounded.

Spoiler alert: it really wasn’t that easy!

For many years I thought I’d dealt with the relationship and the effects of it, but I hadn’t, I’d just suppressed them, despite talking about it in therapy many times in the past.

One counsellor told me it was my fault; I was asking too much from him.
One counsellor told me it wasn’t my fault; I was asking the bare minimum from him.
And my current counsellor told me; you need to talk about this, you have to talk about this, you really need to talk about this, this is something we need to talk about! And even though I hated her at the time, she was so right.

It wasn’t my fault, the second counsellor was right, and maybe I was asking too much from him, the first counsellor was also right. But what didn’t come up with either of them counsellors was just how much of this I am still carrying around to this day. That’s what was weighing my backpack down and weighing down my life.

I always assumed the shame and guilt I felt about that relationship was solely directed at the relationship, but it wasn’t – it was directed at me. That hatred seeped into all aspects of my life from that time: my hair, my style, my favourite music, and my personality.

Everything that made me who I am, was now covered in a layer of shame.

I accepted it for many years. I resigned to the fact that I would never be able to look at my hair and feel happy while it was dyed black. My purple lipstick was now tainted with guilt, and I’ve been unable to enjoy the band Beartooth ever since, because they were a band I listened to religiously at the time. They were all ‘bad’ things that I needed to get away from.

I accepted it without a thought. Until last week anyway.

Them things belonged to me, but the opinions and shame didn’t; they belonged to him.

And then it clicked in my mind: I had been looking at myself, that relationship and everything from that time, through his eyes. Why? Because at the time I was so certain that his eyes were right, and obviously mine were wrong.

He said I was a liar, so I must be a liar, right? Of course not! If I had been lying, I wouldn’t have been suicidal. If I had been lying, I wouldn’t still be carrying around this rubbish. If I had been lying, I would have been able to enjoy the things I once loved. I wasn’t lying.

Realising I had seen that time in my life through eyes that didn’t belong to me felt like such a relief. It finally made sence.

“So, what are we going to do with the backpack?” My counsellor asked.
“Give it back to him.” I told her as I imaged picking up this huge backpack, swinging it until it gained enough momentum for me to let go of, and send hurtling toward him.

Imagining seeing all that pain and false accusations I held on to being let go of, and being sent back to its rightful owner was amazing. The backpack flying toward him, smashing him in the face, taking him by surprise and making him tumble to the floor. And me walking away like a cool character in a film that walks away from an explosion with a smile on their face.

It was such a relief, and I’m so pleased I was finally able to do it.

I was lost because I was looking through the eyes of another, but I’ve got my own eyes screwed back in now and I can see it all perfectly. Although the black hair dye and Beartooth might still feel painful, it’s a different type of pain; it’s an acknowledgment rather than a life sentence.

That time in my life will always be a scar in my timeline, but I’m not okay with it following me onwards anymore.

It’s okay. I’ve been found, and that shame now subsiding.

I’m no longer in victim mode – I’m in survivor mode.
And let me tell you, it feels bloody great!