Touched by an Angel

I heard this the other day, and it gave me porch twin feels: https://www.reddit.com/r/entitledparents/comments/b1t0iv/ When I do LI work in practice I imagine someone eventually helping me, after whatever bullshit I’m crying about happened. Someone helping me feel better instead of worse after I was hurt. And it helps some. I lets me be less afraid and ashamed. I lets me tell a story about how what happened to me was wrong and not my fault. But my brain still wants someone to save me. Still wants someone who actually cares to show up and take me away, like in this fairie tale-like Reddit post where eventually the poster is rescued and taken away. I imagine that what I really need is someone to free me from the place I’m trapped. Eventually I learned to be so alone that I could not be trapped anymore; I did not need to be freed because I could not be restrained. But it’s a skill that only works for survival, not for being a happy human. I am finally free to have blankets and shoes but to get here I convinced myself that I don’t need them. That I don’t need you, and that needing you would put me back in the place where I am trapped. Tell me a story about belonging, because I don’t know any good ones. Not any that I believe could apply to me.

In actual LI this week I worked on the class of things that I have repressed into thinking that I am not only currently bad at but also incapable of learning. Things that I will hurt people if I attempt. This is somewhat distinct from other things I think I’m bad at, or things I feel like I shouldn’t want because wanting things is bad. It’s things that I know for a fact I have done in the past but my brain thinks I could never do again, even with training and practice. Things I can’t believe I ever did even when I have evidence to the contrary. Things I don’t want to believe I did because I’m so sure that me trying would hurt people. Child rearing is on this list. So is sewing. I realize today music is too. And so many other things.

The actual feel I chased – the situation that I identified as relevant to this – happens when I’m maybe 6. Kindergarten at the latest. I’m watching a movie with Mother ¹Something on VHS in like 1987. I poked for a minute to see if I could figure out what but I can’t name a title. If I had to guess I’d say something with a femme angel as a lead character (and presumably sex object) but I couldn’t say what or describe the plot. And I never knew the title.. As we watch she becomes upset with me. She can tell that I am paying the wrong kind of attention to the femme lead. I argue this point, because I don’t think I feel what she says. Because I don’t want to think that I’m hurting anyone. But she knows that I’m lying – or so I am told – she can tell that I am watching this movie wrong. I am having sexual feelings about this movie character, and should be ashamed. Ashamed for feeling the thing she accuses me of, and ashamed to pay attention in a way that makes me have this feeling. I am hurting Mother, hurting the actress, and shaming myself.

I, of course, do not feel the way Mother tells me I do. I am 6 and am only having sexual feelings to the degree that other people project them onto me. I don’t understand what it is she claims I am doing, but I know that it’s somehow shameful. I can tell that she thinks I’m a monster, that I’m hurting someone by doing a thing I don’t even know how to detect let alone control. I shouldn’t have feelings and shouldn’t pay attention. Paying attention leads to feelings, and me having feelings hurts people. Even if this would be okay for real humans it’s not okay for me.

I learned that I can’t be trusted to know my own feelings or desires. And that me paying attention is burden on people, even in contexts like movies. If I am engaged in any way it means I’m doing something bad.

There’s spillover too, from the weird lies that were shouted at me while this happened – plot points to support the story she’s telling about how I’m bad. A story about the way she can “tell” when I’m lying, and since she knows I’m a liar it follows that my motivation is shameful. So one of the things I learned is that pretty people were hurt if I looked at them. Her basic objection to the movie is that it contained pretty people and that made her feel bad. Jealous, probably, but it doesn’t really matter. The important thing is that I am a liar and I am making her feel this way, and if I would just stop looking at the screen and noticing the people there she could finally feel better.

I know many of you imagine a similar situation – one where if you merely did the right thing it would finally let someone else feel better. One where you’re holding them back, forcing them to be unhappy by not doing whatever thing it is they are sure will finally change their feelings. The thing where you make changes to your life because you hope it will change how someone else feels. Where you prioritize managing someone else’s feelings and where you believe their claim that your behavior is what makes them feel bad.

It’s not true of course. You can’t change their emotions by looking or not looking at the screen. They don’t want you to. This task is supposed to fail. Their actual goal is to just not think about the thing. They want you to stop “making” them think about it, but you make them think about it just by existing or having human needs. They can’t regulate their own emotions until you stop provoking them by paying attention.

I have lots more to say about this. And potato survival feels. And all the M feels, which have had my eyebrows all over the place. But I need to learn to make these more serial, and to let the story develop over days instead of horading it until I think I know the answer. I want to see the story I find by accumulating incremental pieces, not just the end result. I like everyone else’s process art – I should like mine too.

ZiB

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Sent from a phone.