Trigger warning: domestic violence.

Yesterday was weird and difficult, although I never figured out why I was so fragile and irritable (yesterday). I definitely was, though, and it was definitely me. My Traveling Partner had helped set up the day so I could paint, or decorate the tree, but my irritability quickly made painting unlikely; I don’t like the work I produce from that headspace. Then, after another load of Thanksgiving dishes were done (almost finished with all that!), we started discussing the Giftmas plan, and the placement of the tree (conveniently already in the car), and realized the one we have has too big a “footprint” and doesn’t give my partner enough room to get around (a temporary condition, but a thing we’ve got to account for this year).

We measured. We talked. We shopped (online – no way was I eager to go out into the world the Friday after Thanksgiving). We finally found a tree that met our shared needs well. Later we figured out a better place for it, too. Somehow, as successful as all that was, it didn’t improve my irritability, which continued to lurk in the background. Sure enough, I eventually lost my temper, and it was predictably enough over feeling both micromanaged and also unsupported. Rough. I’m not even sure I was “wrong”, though I definitely did an absolutely crappy job of communicating my feelings and my needs, before, during, and after. Shit.

(It wasn’t about any of that.)

We got past it. I never did stop feeling irritable, but I succeeded (if it can be called a success) in keeping it to myself for the rest of the evening. It sucked, and somehow I still have yet more dishes to do.  My Traveling Partner suggested I ask the Anxious Adventurer for help with the dishes. Honestly, while I’d love the help (and appreciate it any time he does the dishes), what I want is for him to do the dishes because they need to be done, and he lives here, and he’s part of the family, and it matters for our shared quality of life, and he’s a responsible fucking adult. I don’t want to have to ask. I loathe the assumption that it’s somehow “my job”. I’m neither his mother, nor am I the g’damned maid. But that feels like a discussion for another time, and I squelch it, again, and let it go.

(It wasn’t about that either.)

I left the house early, this morning, and noticed the neighbors had taken their trash cans to the curb, so I put ours out too. (Sometimes it’s hard to figure out holiday trash pickup.)

I had the highway to myself on the way to the trailhead, which felt like a luxury, and my latent irritability began to dissolve. It got me thinking about what life would be like entirely alone. An interesting thought exercise… We are social creatures by nature. We form families, tribes, communities, and societies. We gather in groups and build cities. We distribute labor for sustained efficiency. A solitary human being alone in the world would be at much greater risk. How would one human being be able to know enough? To do enough? A primitive life would probably be the best one human being could do alone, and without the shared skills and effort of a group, the risk of some small misadventure becoming a fatality is pretty significant. Bitten by a snake or a dog in our modern social connected world? Go to a hospital or call 911, or rely on bystanders for aid. You’ll likely survive. Alone in a solitary world, you’re probably more likely to die. We rely on each other so much. Even our precious solitude and solitary experiences are supported in some way by the fact that other people exist. Think about it awhile. Solo hike through the wilderness? Okay – how about the car that got you to the trailhead? The gear and provisions you carry? Or what about being “magically alone” in some great beautiful library? Who wrote the books? Where does the light to read by come from? What will you eat and drink?

I drive on thinking about interdependence, interconnectedness, and my fondness for solitude in spite of how much I truly rely on others. Eventually my thoughts bring me again and again to the safety and risk reduction inherent in family… and how damaging the trauma of domestic violence really is. That damage lasts. Is that what all of this has been? My PTSD? It’s the fucking dishes triggering me?? G’damn it.

It’s been many decades since I lived in terror within my home environment – that’s the nightmare of domestic violence; home is not safe. (It wasn’t then, it is now.) My brain and chemistry were altered by those experiences, perhaps permanently. I still sometimes struggle to feel safe in the one context where my safety should feel most secure, at home with my family. I still have nightmares. I still deal with the chaos and damage. I still bear the emotional and physical scars of that violence, although it was more than 30 years ago. I still lose my shit over the fucking dishes in the sink out of a fear of harm I don’t even detect because it has become part of the noise in the background of my consciousness. Nearly a lifetime between me and that nightmare, and I still deal with the damage done, and still crave the seeming safety of solitude. Worse, I’m aware that my broken brain and lingering chaos and damage inflict new wounds on those dear to me now. That’s shitty – and seeking solitude doesn’t prevent it, or heal the damage done.

… Dishes in the sink still cause me intense stress and a fear reaction that hides in the background of my consciousness…

G’damn, fuck that violent psychopath and the damage he’s done. Sometimes it’s hard to forgive and move on. I earnestly hope he rots in his own vision of hell for an eternity that the human mind can’t fathom. I hope he gains real understanding of the damage he did and has to live with the awareness of it until his dying day, with regret that never eases, and guilt like an itch he can’t scratch.

… And I hope I learn to forgive myself for how hard it is to heal, and the damage I’ve done to everyone who has ever loved me since then. I know it’s a lot. Every now and then it takes me by surprise and I have to face it all over again. Healing takes time and it’s a long journey. It can feel too long, sometimes. I sigh quietly. I breathe, exhale, and relax. My Traveling Partner is right; it’s important to be vulnerable, to trust, to communicate. If I don’t say how some of these experiences affect me the way they do, I just look like a headcase and hurt the people around me needlessly. They aren’t mind readers. They weren’t there then.

… And I’m not there, then, now. I’m here, and I’m safe, and it’s okay to trust love and feel safe at home. It just needs more practice. I’ve got to begin again.

I walk down the trail thinking about how safe I am at home with my Traveling Partner. I think about his enduring love and patience. I think about how much he cares and how horrified he is, himself, over what I’ve been through – and how angry. I let myself take comfort in his anger at the man (men) who mistreated me and did so much damage. I let myself feel wrapped in the protection and safety of his love. I think about our cozy home together. The charm of the holidays. Who we are together when my chaos and damage don’t rise to the surface. I breathe, exhale, and relax. I keep walking. It’s a journey. The journey is the destination. Ancient pain and trauma are in the past. Love is now. I’m okay now.

We become what we practice.