It’s 10:36 p.m. on a Wednesday and I just got home from watching the Phillies lose to the Mets tonight and their season is now over. They suck balls. They scored one run. ONE RUN!! Their starting pitching was great but the bullpen sucked, the defense sucked and the offense sucked worse than a broken Dyson. Philly teams don’t do well unless they’re underdogs.
Typical let down. Us Philly fans are used to it.
At least I don’t have to go out Friday and watch a game 5. Two straight days of peace headed my way aka being home alone. Don’t get me wrong, it’s fun to go out and watch your favorite sports team and cheer them on with your friends while letting loose with a few (a lot) of drinks. But nowadays, to do that two out of three days in a row sounds exhausting.
Socially exhausting that is.
Years ago a three hour sports game would have been just an appetizer for me in a multi-course night that would usually turn into “what do you mean it’s last call already?” followed by a half-dranken last nightcap on my coffee table as I’d pass out on the couch.
How did all that change? The evaporation of youthful energy? The inevitable consequence of aging?
(QuoteFancy.com)
“Whoever can stay out the longest and be the most outrageous wins”.
I was good at winning.
I thought I was outrageous, partying like a college kid way into my mid-40s. Granted, I didn’t start until my mid-20s. Yeah, I’m a late bloomer. I liked being thought of as fun. A complete 180 from the younger wallflower-me that clung to corners like a toddler clings to their parent’s leg.
Why did I party like it was 1999 all the way into the 2020s? Not because of immaturity, irresponsibility or outright stupidity (okay, maybe a little).
It was because I was avoiding triggers.
The biggest trigger of all–my own thoughts.
Going out all the time, talking, socializing, flirting, being someone different than that quiet mouse I was in school was all a giant avoidance tactic. One that I used for many, many years.
Because it worked.
You don’t have time to let intrusive thoughts seep in and prick at deep, painful emotions when you’re too busy working, partying and putting up walls. Not even necessarily walls to keep people out but walls to keep the emotions locked in, behind a giant Do Not Disturb sign.
And then one day you wake up and decide that you’re tired of it all. Tired of hiding behind the facade, tired of running away from your own emotions, tired of constantly checking to make sure that Do Not Disturb sign isn’t crooked.
I got tired of being tired of myself.
And that’s when I found writing.
That fortuitous ton of bricks fell on me one day and I decided the emotions had been locked up long enough so I started journaling. And journaling turned into more journaling, then organized essays and now this blog.
All the triggers I may have come across in a day, could be a person, an errant word, a familiar scent–things that would turn on the reel of movie clips of bad memories in my mind, I started to write them all down. So instead of pretending my trauma, pain and guilt didn’t exist, I put it all down on paper so I could stare it straight in the face.
Writing–the medicine I didn’t even know I needed.
For an affliction I knew I had–Afraidofyourownthoughtsitis
Is it possible to not be afraid of your own thoughts?
Not possible I used to say. I deserve to hate myself, I used to say. A plague of my own doing I used to say. My suit of armor against triggers, protects me it does. Talk like Yoda, hard not to do it is.
It’s 10:54 p.m. My neighbor’s cat just stopped by for a visit. We had cats when I was little. They got left behind after the divorce when we moved. To say I was crushingly devastated is putting it mildly. I don’t know what happened to those cats. I blamed myself. Yes, I blamed 11-year-old me for something that wasn’t even in my control.
And now 51-year-old me is sitting here crying about it.
And that’s how in about 45 seconds I can be triggered. And I won’t just remember the painful time, I’ll make myself feel responsible for the painful time. I take the trigger and agonizingly point it right at myself.
Hell, give me five more minutes to really do a deep dive into the year 1984 and I’ll need a Life Alert necklace because I’ll be on the ground sobbing myself out of breath. My neighbor’s cat opened the door of the DeLorean and said hop on in, back to that place in time we go, back to the shit feelings that go along with it.
Photo by Roger Ce on Unsplash
That’s what trauma does. It never leaves you.
You may have processed it, acknowledged it, worked through it, accepted it, but it will never leave you. And triggers just open the door to that pain, whether you like it or not.
Unless you’re out and about and the door starts to open but your friend sitting next to you slams it shut with “hey, want another shot?”
Whack! I’m zoomed back to the present. I sure fucking do want another shot! Gotta keep that door closed.
This kind of shit used to happen to me often. One thought could send me into a tear-filled spiral, especially if there wasn’t alcohol around to shut the door.
I actually hate the term “trigger”. First of all, it’s way overused. Everyone and their mother these days nonchalantly says they’re triggered by something. Oh you saw a spider once when you were five and got scared so now you say you’re “triggered” by seeing a spider?
Gimme a break. Okay, if you got bit by a brown recluse and needed half of your leg resected, I get it. But everything seems to trigger everyone these days.
I stepped on a crack once when I was eight. My mother’s back didn’t break but my friend’s did five years ago. If I see a crack now should I be triggered? Should I use that as an excuse to take a few days off of work just to be sure?
Gimme another break. Trigger this.
I hate fakers, trigger happy people because that’s the popular term to use these days. I hate fake anything really. I used to fake it, aka drink it away. Maybe I wasn’t so much fake as I was deflecting, evading, pretending. Pretending to be the balls-to-the-wall fun, carefree, put-everything-on-red kinda gal I wanted to be. A gal whose psyche wasn’t mangled by trauma.
I was an avoider.
Avoiding what I”m doing at this exact moment–expressing my emotions.
So here I sit, triggered by a cat, but writing to you instead of burying my head in a bottle of Jameson.
Everyone does have actual triggers. It’s how you handle them that counts. You can only avoid them for so long until you get tired of pushing against that gale force wind that wants to push that door, and you, wide open.
Let the emotions out, feel them, yell at them, cry for them.
Or write them.
Somehow acknowledge them.
Acknowledgement helps ease the symptoms of triggeritis.
Time to go feed this sweet cat some treats.
❤️
CM
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10/9/24
(I know, I know, it’s 10/30/24 and I actually just got around to posting this. Some things will never change.)way
