Tell the Truth or be Dammed

I have explored throughout my blogs over the months how I have an addictive nature and that I have used food, and also compulsive spending habits to “self-medicate” when I am feeling bad, mad, or sad. This has become habitual over many, many years as I became reliant on the “high” that I sought from my compulsions to the extent that even little dips in mood required something that needed to be addressed with my current “drug of choice”. I can seriously become addicted to anything, be it sugar, shopping, Facebook or the drive for success. All the while that I was determined to lose the weight and successfully doing so, that was how I got the thrills I needed. I “got off” on the praise I received from my peers from my success, I greedily drank in the “celebrity” it afforded me. This was how I fed the soul that was severely lacking in something – the need to be validated. I didn’t truly understand that the true nourishment of my soul could only truly come from within, Unfortunately I sought it from outside stimuli- whichever one offered me the greatest “promise” at the time. I am like the ultimate victim of commerce, a sucker for the false claims of the “adverts” offered to me which tell me if I just use this product, or subscribe to that service then all my problems will be fixed and my life will be perfect. What utter bollocks. All the time that I was on the meal replacement diet, when sugar was off the menu, I was able to ignore it. Not because of great “willpower” and “determination” but because I soon found another thing that scratched a particular itch that bugged me. Adulation, praise, and “positive strokes” were a huge motivator. I wanted to impress, to receive the “pat on the head”, I needed and craved the validation that I struggled to give myself. Also I had a massive fear of a failure., not the healthy kind which drives folk to push themselves forward, instead it was, and still is, a terrible overwhelming , dark dread that if I “cocked up” then I would be severely punished and banished to a place from which I could never escape. I am coming to understand the origins of these feelings. I may have mentioned this in previous blogs, but I will say it again. I was raised in a very dysfunctional family with an alcoholic father with what I understand to be Narcissistic Personality Disorder. There was no physical abuse, thank goodness, but the emotional abuse which I, my mother and my brother received was relentless. It is clear to me now that my father, for reasons best known to himself, was a deeply insecure and very unhappy individual and he chose to bury whatever demons he harboured in a sea of alcohol which, most of the time, protected him from his self-loathing. Of course, like any addiction, when the fogs cleared he was left with an even deeper hatred of himself, and, sadly, for him, the easiest outlet was to take it out on those nearest to him, his family. From a young age I came to believe that I was only as worthy as the measure of my achievements. As long as I could succeed in a way that my father could take credit for, be it academically, socially in sport or whatever, then I was free from criticism. If I came home from school with good grades, or returned with some form of certificate which my father could then boast “you get that talent from me” then I would be “safe”. On the days when I didn’t quite measure up, well that was a totally different story – criticism would fall heavily on my head. Scathing words would be directed at me and I would be berated harshly which would result in fear and tears – two emotions that were strictly forbidden in our home. I can see now what was happening. My father, so low in his own self-esteem, used his family as a reflection upon himself. As long as we doing well he could feel happy, but if we weren’t measuring up to the impossible standards that he set then we would be punished. We were accountable for his happiness, as he was unable to find the resources within, therefore we were ultimately held accountable for his unhappiness too. My mother tells me “the worst thing that you ever did to your father was to grow up” and by that I know she means that once I stopped being the adoring, innocent and naïve  daughter who idolised her father  and became aware of the dysfunctions that circled our daily lives then the cat was out of the bag. And my Dad knew it. And that’s when the battle really began to rampage. My father could see the disappointment and disapproval in my eyes reflected right back at him. And you can imagine how that made him feel….I had to work harder to receive the validation and praise that I still needed but it fell short. I was an empty vessel expecting to be filled by another empty vessel. It was never going to work. So I had to find something that plugged that gap, even only temporarily. It was around then that I discovered how sugar gave me a little high to carry me through my darkest moments. I think this originates from the days when my Dad would come home late from the pub, worse for wear and late for dinner. While we waited for him to return the tension and anxiety would mount. My brother and I would be hungry, my mother would be frustrated and angry and amongst us all we held a collective dread of what mood my father would come home in. The key in the door when he eventually came home would be like the first note in the theme tune of an unknown movie. Would it be a horror, a tragedy or an uncomfortable comedy? Our feelings and reactions were entirely dictated by my father’s behaviour. Regardless of those feelings, it was utterly tantamount that, when he returned that we shower him with the adulation that he expected. We were not allowed to be hurt, or cross or disappointed as this would be the reflection he would see in his distorted mirror. So, instead we had to swallow down those dreadful emotions and play “happy families”. I was never very good at this, I needed something to get me through. Ironically, it was my own father who showed me the solution. Sometimes, he would bring home bags full of sweets. This was clearly to hide his own remorse, enabling him to hide behind the “grand gesture” so  he could present himself as the Great Benefactor, thus, bolstering his own fragile ego. Gifts equalled Love in his book, if he brought us enough sweets and presents then we would love him in spite of the terrible way he treated us when the alcohol unleashed his explosive temper. I saw through this gesture immediately, and at first tried to refuse the gifts that were proffered, but that refusal was a further insult and only resulted in more anger so I soon learned to “graciously” accept. Thus, I would grudgingly receive my bounty and, after, a silent and tense dinner, where unexpressed emotions would fester unacknowledged, I would retreat to my room. In my sanctuary I would sadly eat the sugary treats that lay before me, and, soon, neurons began to fire in my brain that masked the suffocating sadness and anxiety that I felt. Sugar was making things better, even temporarily. All the time that the “reward centre” in my head was being fed by this artificial stimuli I was not overwhelmed by inadequacy, hatred, confusion and fear. Sugar made it better. Sugar made it go away. And, so, an addict was born.

Over the years, I had “moments of clarity” that made me realise that the more sugar I ate, the fatter I got. I didn’t like being fat, I doubt anyone does, so I took action and gave up the sugar. I got less fat. But I hadn’t fixed the issues that the sugar was masking and I soon discovered, to my horror, that the floodgates were opening, and all the negative feelings, and hurt emotions that I had pushed away were heading towards me like a rushing torrent, threatening to wash me away. I had to build a dam, and I had to build it fast. This dam took many incarnations over the years, sometimes  in the form of buying “stuff” and getting into debt because it made me feel happy to possess things and I got a thrill out of measuring myself by the amount of “lovely things” that I owned. As I handed over my already maxed-out credit card, I would fantasise about the admiration I would receive from others for the beautiful item of clothing I was wearing or the unique ornament that graced my home. I was seeking validation, buying things that would make me feel like I was loved. Much like my father. All this seems to stem from one fundamental belief that was enforced and perpetuated throughout all of my formative years: “Bad Feelings are Bad and Must Be Avoided at all costs”. The Family Commandment was “Thou Shalt Not Express Negative Emotions”. And much like the vengeful God depicted in the Old Testament my father smote his wrath upon those that did not adhere to his rules. It is clear now that, he, too, lived in fear of the torrent that he believed would overwhelm him should he allow himself to feel and so he, too, built his own dams. Who knows why?  I just wish that he had not met our sadness with anger, even though it was obviously a misdirected anger at himself. If it wasn’t anger, there was – nothing. Equally destructive, a huge void of confusion, a vast fog of pain and bewilderment. I experienced this at age 10, when my grandmother, my father’s mother passed away. My overwhelming memory was that nobody cried, nobody really hugged, and certainly nobody acknowledged the huge that had befallen my family. I remember when the news was received, that my father emerged from the bathroom, slightly red-eyed, pushed past me and headed out of the door to the pub. And that was it. No discussion, no explanation. Just a massive void where somebody I loved used to be. I see now that my Dad could not handle the emotions that he felt on losing a mother that he frankly adored. Instead he boxed it away, filed it under “Gin” and gave out the clear message that none of us were permitted to behave in a way that would remind him just how much pain he must have felt. We were to be the staunch enablers in the pretence that “everything was ok”.  I was 10, I had never experienced bereavement before, not even a family pet. I didn’t know what I supposed to feel so I did what only a child could. I followed my family’s lead and chose to feel nothing. Except I didn’t feel nothing. Nasty, uncomfortable, negative emotions kept threatening to emerge. Emotions which were not permitted. So I pushed them away with sugar and any other coping mechanisms I could find. I made inappropriate friendships in my teen years with people who tried to exploit me, all because I was desperately craving the validation that I wanted, no matter how cheaply it was sold to me. I am very fortunate that I didn’t get into a lot more trouble than I actually did. This blog may read as a “woe is me” diatribe about my dreadful childhood but that is not my intention. I am all too aware that many people have suffered far worse than me. But this does not negate nor belittle how I felt when I experienced what I did. And for me, it is incredibly important to acknowledge and even honour those memories so that I can understand what took me to where I was and where I am now. I cannot change the past but I must also accept it for what it was. I can also try to learn from it. So where do I go from here? Well, forward is the obvious answer. Or is it? Maybe it is time for me to stand still. I certainly can’t go back, as behind me the waters of my angst and terror are swirling, held back only by a weakening dam. Those waters terrify me, inside me cries a little voice saying “whatever you do, don’t breach that dam. You will drown”. However, another little voice is starting to pipe up. “Can you not swim? What would happen if the tidal wave came crashing through but, instead of fighting it and standing against it, you turned your back, raised your arms and allowed yourself to be carried by the tide?”  “Are you insane?” I retort “I’ll be dragged out to sea into a whirlpool and killed”. “Why do you think that? It is only one wave, and all waves subside. Perhaps it will carry you to a tranquil pool further down the river” “Yes, but riding waves is scary, you are out of control, being carried out of yout comfort zone". "Everything is scary, but what is scarier, risking the wave or facing certain death to a wall of water?" It is only just occurring to me that it is OK to have negative emotions, and if, instead of fighting against them, I can learn to navigate them like waves, let them wash over me or carry me forward. Ironically, the higher I build my dam, the harder the pressure that builds up behind the walls, and the bigger and more potentially destructive the wave that comes when the walls eventually collapses. And building dams is exhausting.  So, maybe it is time to ignore those messages from my childhood. It IS OK to be sad, mad, feel bad. Sounds like a very simple and basic concept, but, for folks like me it is a skill that I have yet to learn.  I am going to have to fight against every instinct that tells me to run and hide in the solace of my addictions. I’m going to have to grit my teeth and close my eyes as the waters spill around me, and trust that I will be carried to where I should be. I’m going to have to stop building those dam and in living fear of the day they will inevitably breach. This is going to take courage. Wish Me Luck.