The Tragedy of My Life

Clarity. Hard earned. Insufficient.

When we’re hurt, our self splits into two: the hurt part that remembers the pain, the protector part that keeps that pain from happening again.

The protector is only as capable as the development we’re in when the hurt happens. That’s why early life trauma is the hardest to heal.

My trauma was preverbal. No story. No coherence. It took me 40 years to translate.

Being beaten bloody by my dad at three. And reinforced by being beaten before that and after that too many times to count.

The terror.

Unprocessed. What can a three year old do with that? Freeze and fawn. And that’s what I’ve been doing my entire life.

Who was that three year old? What was his crime? I remember him better now. He was full of life. He just wanted to play with his dad more than anything. Loved his dad more than anything. Reached for him...

And to this day, the desire to play with others, to be seen, to be known burn brightly in him. And yet every time that becomes available... The protector steps in and freezes the system.

The shock collar. Disconnection. Preventing hurt. Preventing the underlying needs from being met. Depriving me of what I always wanted most. Contact. Belonging.

I’m chipping away at this, slowly. Guiding the three year old in me towards processing the stuck terror. Words help, but it's my body that does the healing: shavasana, movement and touch.

The collar’s batteries are running low. The little boy behind it is becoming visible in higher resolution.

But my nervous system does not have sufficient capacity to complete this work alone. I need the warmth of contact with you to help me finish melting what’s frozen.