Dark Emotions - Am I a Stranger to Myself?

Dark emotions

I'm reading Healing Through the Dark Emotions by Miriam Greenspan, for me a fiercely compelling book, because it's so evident that my troubles with addiction find their roots in not allowing the dark emotions of grief, fear, and despair into my life since early childhood. The author, a psychotherapist, believes that these three emotions (grief, fear, and despair) are the mother emotions (my term), the emotions at the bottom of the heap, under anger, under depression, under actions such as addiction, suicide, and aggression.

We are taught, she says, by our family and culture to suffer in silence, or to deny suffering exists at all, taught to suppress the dark emotions, especially in public, in any but the most intimate personal relationships, taught to compose ourselves, taught that display of authentic sorrow is bad form, a sign of emotional weakness. We feel guilty and abnormal, criticizing ourselves as "over-sensitive" for expressing the dark emotions, even for fleeting moments. These teachings carry on generation to generation. My mother, learning from her family not to cry, taught it to me by ignoring me whenever I cried, or discounting my grief by telling me to stop crying because everything was going to be OK. If I had any children, doubtless I would have taught them the same lessons, because until now, I did not know that I could heal my grief and despair by feeling it, by crying, by allowing it a legitimate place in my being.

Am I a stranger to myself, not even aware of my fears, grief, and despair, numbing myself with food, playing solitaire on my computer, and compulsively working? What can I remember from childhood about the teachings I received? How have I suppressed dark emotions in the past few days? I believe these are important questions to consider, important enough to spend time painting the answers with words.

Childhood teachings

Sadness, grief, and despair were certainly not approved. I know this because I was always told by my mother and grandmother "don't cry." I recall my grandmother making waffles, allowing me to fill all the holes with maple syrup, wait until the syrup seeped into the waffle, and then fill them again. "See," she'd say, "now it's all better." Fill the holes with sugar. Don't cry. Eat and be merry. I lived with my grandmother from age 5 to 7, two years of learning how to grieve my father's death and my mother's absence with food, especially sugar, to not talk about Daddy or Mommy, to stifle my angst, my sadness, my fears and despair.

From my mother, it was a slightly different teaching, although she also practiced self-medication with sugar, never crying, never voicing her own grief and despair about her husband's death, about her mother's death, about the cold war, about anything. Her primary method of dealing with any of my expressed dark emotions was to ignore me. I'd go in my room, wailing, in torment about being slighted by a neighborhood kid, flopping over my bed, suffering loudly, wanting her to come to me, hold me, rock me, comfort me. But she would not come. And when I finally composed myself enough to rejoin the family, it was as if nothing had happened at all. Grief and despair were thus discounted, as being unworthy of parental attention or discussion. I don't blame my mother. When Mom was only 11 years old, her mother died. She too was not allowed by her father or paternal grandmother to grieve.

Fear? I'm not sure about fear. I do not recall voicing fears during childhood at all, although I do remember having them. For example, being tall, the tallest girl in all my grade school classes, taller than most boys, when we had nuclear attack drills, not fitting under the desk, my legs sticking out, unprotected, I feared when the bombs dropped, my legs would be ripped off. I'd become a cripple, unable to walk. I'm certain I never voiced that fear to anybody.

More importantly, back when I was 5 and 6, I'm sure I was afraid my mother would never return to "rescue" me from my grandmother. I don't recall asking anybody if she would return. Maybe I did. Maybe my grandmother discounted my fear by telling me, "Don't be a silly old goose... of course she'll come," thus teaching me that expressing fears means I am a silly goose, definitely not OK.

Fear

Fear might be the mother dark emotion for me. If I express it at all, it's as an instant flash of hot, viscous anger, striking out verbally, especially at those close to me, like my husband in recent years, like my brother, like my parents when I was a teenager. In the moment of expression, I'm not aware, even in the slightest, that my anger is fear-based. It takes a lot of working though my angry emotions and actions to find the under-lying fear.

I can think of many examples of this. Here's an incident that happened more than 10 years ago, one that I didn't realize was fear-based until just this moment.

My parents had moved into an assisted living facility. The eldest of my brothers and I had flown to St. Paul to help prepare their house to sell, to facilitate a garage sale of their down-sized belongings, and to dispose of what couldn't be sold or given away. Tensions grew between the two of us, until a few days after arriving I blew up at him, starting an ugly verbal fight that ended with us not speaking to each other for the remainder of our stay. He was this; he was that; he did this; he did that; he was one bad dude, and my anger was justified, even after it diminished and we returned to our "get along sibling" mode. That's what I thought until just now.

What was under all that fault, blame, anger, and isolation? Fear! It was my fear about my parents. Were they going to die soon? Did moving to assisted living spell their imminent demise? Would I be abandoned again? Would I ever see them again? I was afraid. And my poor brother suffered the consequences. Maybe he was afraid too. Most men, taught early in childhood how it's not OK to be a "scaredy-cat," deny their fears entirely. Maybe his fear manifests in anger too. When we could have supported and comforted each other, instead we had an enormously damaging fight, all because we didn't even realize we were simply afraid.

I could, and probably should, write about many such events in my life, shouting and cursing in anger, not aware that it's really fear I am feeling. Can I change? Can I think "fear," allowing myself to feel fear before I throw flames of anger? I have a lot of shame around my outbursts of anger. Wouldn't it be wonderful to have less shame and anger?!

Grief

Dictionary definition: deep or intense sorrow or distress, especially at the death of someone.

I've tried to acknowledge and work through the grief I must have felt when my father died (when I was just turning 5 years old), and the abandonment by my mother when she immediately returned to college, leaving my brother and me with our paternal grandparents. I've journaled, written poems, and made artwork (see below). Have I finished feeling my grief? I don't know.

Not one to cry, as you already know, I have to look for other ways to express my grief. When my step father (whom I loved dearly) died, I made spirit dolls from his neckties for each member of the family. When my mother died, I made a collage with pieces of the vests she wore. Journaling visually with bead embroidery, I celebrate the beauty in each of them, and our shared love (here/Mom and here/Dad).

But losing my parents as an adult, I hardly spoke out loud about my sadness, not to anyone, and I only cried once. People sent me cards, and I looked at them like a stranger. To whom were they offering condolences? Does that mean I aborted the grieving process? Silly old goose, won't get caught with tears in her eyes. Years later, am I numbing grief by eating and playing cards? Is there any way to restart grief, to go through it rather than avoid it? I hope reading about the dark emotions will help me.

Despair

Dictionary definition: to be overcome by a sense of futility or defeat - complete loss of hope.

I recognize despair, and feel it knowingly more than I feel fear or grief. I feel it when I read or listen to the news, when I think about politics, when I am greedy myself or see it in others, when somebody discounts me because I am a woman, or old, or fat. I used to feel it quite painfully when I went to a dance. I felt despair in my marriage. I feel despair almost daily, when I am unable to stick to my food plan, when my weight keeps creeping up again.

Talking about despairing feelings is easier than talking about grief or fear, since somehow it was more acceptable in my family to despair, especially about politics, world population growth, violence, and human-caused harm to nature. Still, I wonder if I don't try to numb myself to it most of the time?

This is good

It feels really good to be writing this, to be facing the dark emotions, not yet fully embracing them, not yet understanding their healing powers, but ready to become less of a stranger to myself.

Last weekend, I attended 16 wonderful documentary films at a local film festival, some of them very sad, some full of despair and fear, some of them offering spirituality and hope, some not. Swallowing hard, a big lump in my throat, shutting my eyes, thinking about what I would eat between films, I managed not to cry, just barely. I did not allow myself to speak to anybody about Luna (The Whale), because I knew I could not utter one word without choking up, without my eyes welling with tears. Silly old goose. Thou shalt not cry.

Isn't it time to allow myself to grieve? It's good to be taking a few baby steps in this direction!

Exploring My Need to Win

I recall feeling virtuous, even brilliant, back in my college days, playing whist and pinochle with "the big boys," older boys who had learned to play cards in the service and were returned, going to college on the GI bill. I was proud of myself, holding my own with them, drinking and playing cards long into the night, studies forgotten, every cell in my brain focused on winning, counting and remembering what cards had been played.

In graduate school, I recall playing bridge and later duplicate bridge with the same drive to win, the same steady focus of my attention on the cards and reading subtle nuances of my opponents' facial expression. It was all about winning. I needed to win, and win I mostly did.

This eight-year obsession with cards ended as I developed work-place friends who weren't interested in playing. But the need to win stayed with me, and is still with me, as I discovered in the past few weeks.

A friend called, saying she and her sister wanted me to join them for a card game, "Hand & Foot," a version of Canasta. Mostly a game of luck, winning based on the cards you are dealt and draw, it seems to be played as a social thing, something to do, background "music" to a gathering, time to be and talk with friends, while pleasantly engaged in a light-hearted game; at least that's how it seems to be with them.

We played that first time, and I won. Yay! Fun, I thought, this is quite fun. The next time, my luck was down and I didn't do so well. I heard myself complaining whining about my cards, getting grumpier, not enjoying myself as much as the first time. And the third time we played, a couple of days ago, my luck was horrible. I lost miserably, my score only about a third of the winner's score.

Even KNOWING my face and comments showed my displeasure with every card I drew, with every hand I lost, and with every time the scores were read aloud (after each hand), I couldn't stop myself from exuding negativity. Near the end of the last hand it was inevitable that my friend was the hands-down winner. I put my cards down and declared the game over, she the winner. Nope. Wasn't to be. They play to the end, they told me, and count the points. It's only a game, they said, and we finish the game no matter what.

Why? I didn't understand why they wanted to keep playing or add up the scores when the outcome, the winner, was already known. I guess the answer is that winning isn't the objective of the play for them. What is the objective? I should ask them.

I've been thinking about it a lot, recalling opportunities to play games, such as Trivial Pursuits, which I won't play, EVER, because I know I'm no good at remembering facts and would not win, recalling other times when I was a "poor sport," embarrassing myself as I just did with my friends, recalling getting angry and tearful playing board games as a child whenever luck failed me, recalling how gleeful and smart-ass I can be when winning.

What does this tell me about my life, this compulsion to win, to win or not to play at all? What opportunities have I lost by choosing to not play for fear of losing? How can I retrain myself to be a better sport, to let go of winning, playing more light-heartedly? How did I get this way? Why am I such a poor sport about not winning (and sometimes an equally poor sport about winning)?

I am looking far back in my childhood for clues of understanding. I remember being about 4 or 5 years old at a family gathering with grandma, grandpa, and several of the great aunts and uncles. One of the uncles did magic tricks and staged competitions for me, my 2nd cousin, and my brother. He'd give us each a balloon, telling us to blow it up until it popped, offering a new and shiny fifty cent piece (a lot of money in the 1940s) to whichever of us first popped their balloon. Being afraid of the noise and the explosion of the popping balloon, I couldn't do it. Every time there was a family gathering, we played this same game; every time I lost, didn't get the much-desired coin.

That's my earliest memory of a game. I see a vague picture of the two boys, my brother and cousin, huddled together admiring the coin, my uncle beaming at them, maybe a few other relatives standing around to watch the game, smiling at them. Did I feel abandoned, ignored, worthless? Did my immature brain decide then and there to never play a game unless I could win? Did resentment begin to build, resentment that I still carry to a card game with friends, resentment about not being a winner, and therefore not important, not worthwhile, nearly invisible?

Here is the bigger question: Do I see LIFE as a game that must be won? Do I miss life opportunities for fear I won't win? Am I a poor sport when I can't be in control, when life deals me a "bad hand?" Do I cast a cloud of resentment over myself and others whenever I'm in a no-win situation? Do I fear the invisibility of players who do not stand on the winning platform?

I continue to ponder, trying to understand, trying to change.

I Just Ate Compulsively

I've been feeling blue all day. I found no solace at the OA meeting this morning, which is surprising, as generally there's at least one pearl offered and received. I found no excitement in quilting this afternoon. I went to a Contra dance, after having not danced for 15 years, and sat out half of the numbers. There were about 10 more women there than men, and I was an unknown entity. So I guess it was a given that I would find myself in that awkward wall-flower position, smile pasted on my face, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. When I got home this evening, I realized that my bra straps must have been showing all evening.... that sinking "spinach on the teeth" feeling.... the "I'm no good" feeling... the blues closing in on me.

And so, I got out a bag of dried coconut and started binging. It never even crossed my mind that "the answer is not in the bag of coconut." The driving force, the need to comfort myself, just took over. All that I've learned in OA was invisible until I ate so much coconut that I felt physical discomfort.

Isn't that ironic? I'm seeking comfort, in my old, compulsive way, and end up with greater discomfort. Right now, at this moment, I understand people who purge. I can imagine the relief. I've never purged, and most likely never will because I super hate throwing up.

Last night, when I couldn't sleep, I got out the "Big Book" of Alcoholics Anonymous. Flipping through the stories at the end of the book, #15 caught my eye. It starts out like this:

When I had been in A.A. only a short while, an oldtimer told me something that has affected my life ever since. "A.A. does not teach us how to handle our drinking," he said. "It teaches us how to handle sobriety."

Because I eat compulsively when I experience discomfort (due to fear, boredom, loneliness, whatever), it's important for me to learn other ways to handle discomfort. OA has taught me some tricks. But tonight they were simply not in my consciousness at all. I hope, like the author of #15, that by persevering with OA, and all it offers, I will learn how to handle sobriety (in the sense of not compulsively overeating).

Eye Surgery Fears > Chocolate Cravings

In 535 days of chocolate abstinence, especially the past 500 or so of them, I've been relatively free from obsessive thoughts about chocolate. Sometimes I see something, a candy shop window, an ad on TV, or an array of chocolate in a store, which triggers a momentary craving. But, for the most part, I'm blessed in my abstinence program with quick recovery after these stirrings.

Not true right now. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a little display of Lindt chocolate bunnies near the checkout stand at our local grocery store. I'm always drawn to bunnies anyway, and so picked one up to examine it more closely. Immediately I noticed it was not milk chocolate, which I never liked much and only ate in desperation, but dark! I noticed it was weighty, a goodly amount of chocolate. It's totally adorable with it's little, brown, crinkle-ribbon bow, and golden bell.

Adorable as the bunny may be, I could so easily chomp off its ears, devour it's nose, and scarf down all the remains of its plump little body in less than 5 minutes flat. I've been obsessing about Lindt bunnies ever since. Every time I go to the store, I can't take my attention away from them. I wake up thinking about them. After Easter, they will be gone, thank heavens, but until then, it's tough business.

Today, I'm asking why. Why am I obsessing about dark chocolate? Why is chocolate haunting me, calling my name, pleading with me to give up my abstinence, just this one time?

I have to think it's fear. Either that or the fact that my mom died 1 year ago today. She's been on my mind a lot these past few weeks. I am missing her and feeling the loneliness of not having a mom or dad any more. However, chocolate wasn't a problem for me around the time of her death. So why now? I'm back to looking at fear.

Oh ho, a thought just came to me... maybe it's both Mom and fear! In the next two months, I will be having eye surgery in both eyes, cataracts, stage 3. Yes, I've been doing the research and understand it's a common and relatively easy procedure these days. Plus it's almost 100% guaranteed to improve my vision, which has been deteriorating quickly. That's the logical, adult, reasonable way to look at it.

The little kid in me remembers Mom, when she had cataract surgeries many years ago. Mom wasn't one to complain about pain or inconvenience. She endured child births and surgeries without any sign of fear or complaint. But when she told me about her cataract surgery, her description sounded like the worst nightmare you can imagine. She told about the horror of her eye being clamped open, and being able to see the knife coming at her eye. I recall her saying she wanted to die then, and would rather be blind than ever have to go through that again.

Her surgery story has always stuck with me, as my worst daymare. So yep, memories of Mom, extra strong right now on the anniversary of her passing AND my own fears of the surgeries ahead. That's what is under the chocolate cravings. What to do about it? I don't know.

Wind Scares Me

Skunk Cabbage, picture taken last week

 Our weather has been somewhere between January blizzard and March winds... some snow, quite cold, dreary, and the worst part for me... high winds. We are surrounded by tall trees, Doug Fir mostly, and live on the top of a ridge. The winds sweep up the ridge, gathering momentum it seems, and slam into our house, actually moving it and making horrendous noises. Eeeek. I have trouble sleeping when it's like this.

Must be age-related. I recall as a kid loving storms, the more violent, the more fun. We lived in MN during my school years. Tornadoes and thunder/lightening storms were not uncommon. Once, during college, I was visiting a friend who lived on a farm. We were out in the fields when a tornado suddenly developed. We hit the ditch none too soon, as it thundered over us in one exciting whoosh. Later that afternoon, we saw a large motor boat (6 passenger) wedged in the fork of an oak tree about 8 feet up. Still, I wasn't scared then, only excited and in awe of nature's force.

Same Skunk Cabbage, 3 days later

Seems fears have little by little been creeping into my life as I face turning 70 in 6 months. One of them is wind. Not breezes, mind you, but near gale force winds. And we've had a lavish of them lately. My walking partner and I walked in moderate gale winds today. The trees - alder, fir, hemlock, madrona, and maple - were cracking and creaking. Branches (ok, mostly not very large ones) were strewn everywhere along the road, and one good sized tree was down. Never was I so glad to get home, although with all the trees around our home, many of them a good 200' tall, it doesn't feel very safe inside either.

Skunk Cabbage in a creek

I'm writing about fear because experiencing it makes me want to eat, eat, eat... Comfort food... need comfort food, which to me is peanut butter and honey on toast or a big bowl of granola. Have not given in to it. Just for today, I'm acting as if everything is going to be OK. Just for today I'm writing about fear rather than eating about fear.

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Gratitude for the day: at time of post, all trees around house are still standing; time to write; fabric; internet; walking partner; DB

Down, Up, Down

First, I have to say how surprised and grateful I am to be receiving comments, especially such helpful and supportive ones, when I'm not even visiting other blogs right now. The comments to yesterday's post gave me lots to ponder, especially the reminder that under resentments there is usually fear.

So I've been thinking about that. What are the fears, and under them, what is my deepest fear? How can my husband's displeasure with me have such a profound affect on me? I balk at writing anything.... afraid to look at it or honestly not knowing what it is? OK, what MIGHT it be. Ten things I might be afraid of when I feel resentment and anger toward my husband:

1. I am in prison, controlled by a somewhat benevolent jailor.
2. I am incapable of pleasing him.
3. If he is not pleased with me, then I am not OK as a person.
4. I do not perceive he cares about me; therefore I am not worthy of kindness.
5. I do not perceive he respects me; therefore I am not worthy of respect.
   
6. I made a mistake when I hooked up with this man.
7. I am not capable of maintaining a healthy marriage.
8. I am not free; I am under his control.
9. I don't know how to maintain boundaries.
10. I don't know how to get what I need and want in this marriage.

That's a pretty serious list of fears. Now what? There are probably more fears involved and possibly the fear that's under the list is something to do with being abandoned. Maybe it's that if I took myself out of jail by setting and maintaining boundaries, he would abandon me. I'm confused by this thought, because it seems he's already, long ago, abandoned me emotionally, maybe never was there emotionally, never was really interested in me as a person, except in what I can do for him. That's how it feels. Maybe it's not true. I don't really know anything right now, except that I feel scared, resentful, angry, hurt and forsaken in this time of need.

The oddest thing of all is that he'd probably say the same thing about me... that I abandon him and forsake him in his time of need.

Well, no light bulbs tonight. That's the way it goes sometimes...

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Gratitude for the day: some decent book progress today, lunch with a friend, women friends in general, writing, amazing digital cameras (little things that don't cost much and take really good pictures)

Size 10 and Stuff

Size 10

A little over a year ago, I looked like an overstuffed sausage in my size 18 jeans. Today, I finally got my nerve readied to try on a pair of size 10 jeans. I've actually been thinking my 12s are a bit baggy for a while now. But it frightened me to try on 10s.

What if they actually fit? Would I have to accept myself the way I am? Would I have to stop thinking of myself as "still having a ways to go?" (That's what I always tell people who say I'm looking really skinny.)

Size 10 jeans and size medium tops... this has been my stated goal for a long time. What if I'm there?

Well, big news... I am! Size 10 in my style of jeans (Lee's classic straight leg) fits me perfectly. I can hardly believe it. I can not wipe the smile off my face. Daaaawgonnnne! Imagination that!

Now I have to consider the above questions. How will I think of myself? What will I say when folks say I'm lookin' good? Maybe just "Thank you!" Will this be a danger point for me in OA, a point of complacency about my food plan? Time will tell.

Me and My Stuff

Two months ago I wrote a post (here, half way down) about hoarding stuff. About that same time, I began to work on a piece of bead embroidery about me and my relationship to my stuff. Here's how it looks (click to enlarge):


This piece totally shocks me. It really does. I expected it to look all ugly and jumbled and messy, just as I feel about having too much stuff. Instead, it's full of life, playfulness, exuberance, fun... How can this be? From writing a poem off this piece, I learned something amazing about me and my stuff, about what it means to me and a lot about why I have so much of it. It's because I'm afraid of forgetting. I wrote about it on my art blog, here.

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Gratitude for today: car wash, size 10 jeans, long days, cool evenings, check marks on my "to do" list!

Chip Alert Level: HIGH

Fear.
Eating out of fear.
Fear as a major root of self destructive behaviors.

Fear is the subject of this post. Not for the faint of heart...

For starters, my husband and I are watching a Great Courses lecture series, Great Minds of the Western Intellectual Tradition. A few nights ago, we learned about Thomas Hobbes, who asserted that people are ruled not by reason but by passions, especially the desire for power and the fear of violent death.

Hobbes' philosophy resonates with me a bit, getting me to think about fear... fear of making a mistake, fear of not being worthwhile, fear of being the first to arrive at the scene of a terrible automobile accident, fear of being alone, fear of falling, fear of terminal illnesses, fear of loss and being lost. This list could go on an on. If Hobbes is right, our fears lead us to seek security. For me, food is a security blanket which can temporarily warm me against the deep chill of fear.

What other defenses do I have?

Thursday night my husband checked MSN.com, seeing the first reports of the tragic events that are still unfolding in Japan. We turned on CNN and watched in dismay as the visual impact of the destruction of life and property by the earthquake and tsunami grew ever more frightening.

After about an hour, I said, "I need some chips." My husband said, "Me too." He brought out a large unopened bag of chips and we both dove into it. Handfuls of chips were stuffed mindlessly into a mouth by a hand that was oddly disassociated... mine, but not mine... and consumed with minimal awareness while I remained glued to the TV screen.

In fact, rarely have chips been a problem food for me. I prefer sweet. But I'm abstinent on sweet. So that night, it was all about me using chips in an attempt to ward off fear.... What was that fear? Wasn't I witnessing our total and complete lack of control over our destiny? So then, is the mother fear, the fear under all the other fears, about not having control? Seems it might be.

Since then, more chips have found their way into my hands. Not a huge amount like the first time, but not on my food plan either. I want to stop my hands and ask their cooperation in exploring fear, to invite fear to expose herself fully to me, to allow fear and lack of control to sift through my body, to feel my feelings.

Back to the question about what other defences I might have against fear. What are some possibilities?

-- prayer, especially the Serenity Prayer
-- actions directly related to the fear
-- writing
-- community
-- shift of focus
-- anti-anxiety meds
-- living in the moment
-- making a bucket list
-- doing things on my bucket list

Well, that list contains more antidotes than I thought might be available to me. I bet there are even more.

Chip alert at the end of writing this post: somewhat lower.

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Today's gratitude: neighbor's chickens, time to sew, OA meetings, human generosity, my sisters-in-law