As an adult child, my default for romantic relationships is very codependent. One of my biggest issues to overcome was accepting that space during a conflict can be healthy and necessary. At my worst, I would literally place myself in front of moving vehicles in order to prevent my partner from physically leaving. I had no awareness or concern of the danger I was willfully putting myself in. Nor did I have any consideration for the well-being of my partner, no capacity in the state of emotional dysregulation and despair to feel any compassion for my overwhelmed partner, who was simply trying to self-care. My actions were dangerous, my thoughts selfish, and my serenity non-existent.
For the last few years, I have done the deep and difficult work of looking honestly at myself—my character, my values, my behaviors, my thought patterns— in order to better understand how to surrender the parts that don’t align with the person I want to be. This week, I had a powerful realization. For the first time in my life, I can confidently say that I like myself. I actually like myself. And even more, I think I really like the person I am becoming.
Relationship conflict has always been the arena where my wounds make their loudest and most harrowing appearance. Growing up, I never once saw my parents show affection for one another. My parents were in a perpetual fight, and it’s safe to say that they hated each other. They would even argue while one of them was in the shower. As the daughter of an alcoholic father, I grew a strong attachment to hypervigilance because i needed it to feel safe during the evenings when I knew my dad would drink himself into anger and contempt. As the daughter of an emotionally-absent and workaholic mother, I learned to speak to myself critically and to instill a deep sense of shame and guilt in order to cope with a lack of safety and security. Confidence didn’t know me. Self-compassion didn’t know me. And fear was my closest companion.
What have I been afraid of? At the core of all my fears is the fear that I will be abandoned— by those that I love and by God, himself, if he existed. If I am abandoned, what else is there besides endless suffering alone? When conflict or heated disagreements arose in my romantic relationships, internally all the alarms rang telling me the abandonment was about to happen. I would chase resolutions, only to shut the door harder on them. I would try to force solutions, only to watch them dissolve into dust in my hands. I would weep and cry and sob, only to feel muted. In a matter of moments, in between quick, moody glimpses, beneath heavy-breathed sighs, or clasped in tightened grips, I would experience the ground beneath me start to crumble, a cacophony of high-pitched tones as if a million water kettles all boil over at the same time in a steel-plated room where steam blurs my vision and everywhere i inch in my crawling towards stability is searing and peircing my fingertips, knees and elbows with an icy touch, as if I was being frozen. The air I blew out as a spoke and cried out was like hot fire. To hold my tongue was like being told not to breathe. I had to say something. ˆWhat if they leave?”
In other words, I was compelled to act out of survival. Thus, the concept of self-respect or respect in general was allusive because of my fear of abandonment. This had to change. I could not go on living like this. I was powerless over my fear of abandonment. My life was unmanageable.
Today, I have a different experience with relationship conflict. The other day, my loving partner and I had a disagreement. I watched the wall, bracing myself for the impact. “He’s going to leave.”
During conflict like this, it feels like sitting in the drivers seat of a head-on collision about to happen, as if it were fractions of a second away from the crash. The collision is about to happen, that part feels absolutely certain. So what is there for me to do? My automatic response is to grip the steering wheel with all my physical and mental might in an effort to force the car in a different direction. I also consider things I can shout out the window to pedestrians, or maybe the non-existent passengers at my side. I’m processing every variable there is to consider in the millisecond of time that feels like it’s in my control. In a metaphysical sense, I distort my sense of time. Even though I know the crash is about to happen (evidence has only proven this outcome) I hold onto the hope that there is some maneuver I can figure out to save me from dying in this crash. That’s what is feels like… like I’m about to die.
Nowadays I feel something different. It’s not automatic (yet). A pause. Instead of white-knuckling the steering wheel, I think “what if I just sit here?”. This wandering wonder counterposes the compulsion to control. I wait. And I brace. Internally this is still NOT a serene response, but it is a response considering that I’m not acting out of impulse and tendency. Instead, I pause. And I brace.
For today, I think this is a version of surrender that is working for me. I’m not clamming for control of a situation I have no control over. What I do instead is sit. Watch the wall. Stay quiet. Don’t chase, don’t chase, don’t chase. Let the feeling pass. Breathe. And wait.
By doing this, I am able to see clearly the crash never even happens. The car I’m sitting in does not attempt to occupy the same space as the other vehicle I am directed towards. There simply isn’t a crash. Was there ever? I begin to wonder, without a sure answer to give myself.