posted a few days after the fact
I just came down from what was, for me, a rather significant freak-out.
It was kind of surreal, since I'm used to being the calm one. I'm the person you want if you break a bone or something; I don't panic. Or at least, I hadn't come across a situation where I'd panic in quite some time. I'm VERY good at squashing any emotions whatsoever when I know that other people are going to be panicking around me.
It's just a plumbing problem, and I didn't even realize I was panicking until I found myself hiding in the kitchen leaving Emily to take care of it. I couldn't understand at first why I just couldn't go back and help out. I tried, several times, and each time I watched myself end up back in the kitchen, trying hard not to shake. And I couldn't figure out why.
I'm feeling horribly guilty and also disappointed in myself for not sticking to my self-imposed "Zana quietly and calmly to the rescue!" style I'm accustomed to, and even a little proud of, in myself.
I finally realized what part of the problem was: I didn't understand why no one else was panicking. My subconscious was bracing itself for there to be yelling and recriminations and guilt-tripping but most of all yelling. I didn't expect anyone else to be quiet and calm; I expected to have to be quiet and calm in response to an out-of-control anger.
Damn, the issues we can blame on our parents.
But even when I realized that Emily was not going to yell, berate, or do anything else that is patently not in her character, I still couldn't shake myself out of it. For me it's never been "fight or flight"; it's always been stay very still in a corner, make yourself as small as possible, do not make eye contact, and above all, do not say anything. Removing myself from the premises, if this can be done without future screaming incurred, is a good way to go.
And what the fuck is that, anyway? It's not like I was ever beaten or hit or physically harmed in any way after I outgrew spanking. My father never laid a hand on me in anger, and only once on my brother. It's all just words, and I don't even remember them now. Sticks and fucking stones. Words you can't fight back against, but fuck. that. It's not like I was abused. My parents loved me, and that was never in doubt.
So how come I came out so scarred?
That's not what love is supposed to do, is it?
It was kind of surreal, since I'm used to being the calm one. I'm the person you want if you break a bone or something; I don't panic. Or at least, I hadn't come across a situation where I'd panic in quite some time. I'm VERY good at squashing any emotions whatsoever when I know that other people are going to be panicking around me.
It's just a plumbing problem, and I didn't even realize I was panicking until I found myself hiding in the kitchen leaving Emily to take care of it. I couldn't understand at first why I just couldn't go back and help out. I tried, several times, and each time I watched myself end up back in the kitchen, trying hard not to shake. And I couldn't figure out why.
I'm feeling horribly guilty and also disappointed in myself for not sticking to my self-imposed "Zana quietly and calmly to the rescue!" style I'm accustomed to, and even a little proud of, in myself.
I finally realized what part of the problem was: I didn't understand why no one else was panicking. My subconscious was bracing itself for there to be yelling and recriminations and guilt-tripping but most of all yelling. I didn't expect anyone else to be quiet and calm; I expected to have to be quiet and calm in response to an out-of-control anger.
Damn, the issues we can blame on our parents.
But even when I realized that Emily was not going to yell, berate, or do anything else that is patently not in her character, I still couldn't shake myself out of it. For me it's never been "fight or flight"; it's always been stay very still in a corner, make yourself as small as possible, do not make eye contact, and above all, do not say anything. Removing myself from the premises, if this can be done without future screaming incurred, is a good way to go.
And what the fuck is that, anyway? It's not like I was ever beaten or hit or physically harmed in any way after I outgrew spanking. My father never laid a hand on me in anger, and only once on my brother. It's all just words, and I don't even remember them now. Sticks and fucking stones. Words you can't fight back against, but fuck. that. It's not like I was abused. My parents loved me, and that was never in doubt.
So how come I came out so scarred?
That's not what love is supposed to do, is it?