Freeing My Mind
My first encounter with a bully happened in my own home; he lived there. I had this epiphany the other night while talking with a friend. Our meandering conversation started with him telling me about recent developments in his personal life while I was simultaneously swatting away a nincompoop, pretty expertly I might add, on social media. This was all set against the backdrop of my grief over the previous day’s election results. We continued to yammer away about proactive steps that might help him mitigate a recurrent nuisance in his life. It has all the hallmarks of unhealthy manipulation. And as we were talking something struck me, like being hit by a bolt of lightning.
I’m going to be purposely vague in the following depictions to protect the innocent. The guilty, however, will receive no such consideration. In what can only be described as a rapid-fire delivery courtesy of my stream of conscious ramblings, I recounted the travails of the past year to my friend. Last winter found me scheduling a couple of therapy sessions to unravel disparate and unsettling circumstances thrust upon me earlier that fall. Those challenges had become a disruptor in my life and triggered a childhood recollection that I had put to bed decades ago. Sounds like fun! Not.
As a proud member of Generation X, the word triggered is not typically part of my vernacular. But it aptly describes how the present-day incident summoned a disturbing nightmare from my past. They were different experiences, but they both had an eerily similar undercurrent of unease resulting in environments I didn’t feel emotionally safe in. If you know anything about me, I pretty much live my life like an open book. So, to have to, on the daily, reign my authentic self in, not share my genuine feelings, all in service to protect myself, it’s antithetical to how I’ve led most my adult life.
Remember at the top I mentioned that bully in my house? It was my stepfather. He conned his way into my mother’s life after her divorce. I was nine years old at the time they married. I don’t need to go into too much detail, but he was shrewd about how he manipulated people. He didn’t elect to outright intimidate me; he gained my trust and confidence. That tactic is part and parcel of a calculating con artist’s playbook. They’re insidious. At home he openly spoke about others with disparagement. My father was an obvious target for him. As was my mother’s family. He would frequently rant about the government. He played people against one another. We would often walk on eggshells in hopes of not attracting his ire.
Fortunately, his presence in our lives lessened as we grew up and busied ourselves with school, extracurricular activities, part-time jobs, and active social lives. My mother passed away when I was twenty and by the next year, we had a spectacular falling out with my stepfather. I say spectacular because it provided me the glorious opportunity to speak truth to his imagined power, turn the page, and never look back. I’ve never had an ounce of regret or one iota of struggle over that decision. It expeditiously brought me closure.
Speaking with a counselor last winter helped me make the connection between this past traumatic experience and the challenges of last fall. I understand that period of time from my early life came forward because it was a similar, emotionally speaking, unsafe space for me. Figuring that out had helped me move on from it last year. The revelatory talk with my friend last night, however, helped me put a button on the whole saga and figuratively tie it up with a bow.
I don’t like when people are manipulative and take advantage of others. I routinely speak out and authentically use my voice because I abhor injustice. These are noble causes of course, my parents instilled in me a great moral compass. But I also discovered that the genesis of my advocacy for others also lies in my early encounters with that bully in my house.
Had I not been engaging in spirited conversation with my friend last night I’m not sure I would’ve had that epiphany. It’s part of how I process. Reading helps enlighten me, meaningful conversations help sort things out, and writing helps refine my thoughts. There is a myriad of ways to practice introspection. Process, process, process; it helps free me.