I went looking for a singlet top this morning and I couldn’t find it. The search was making me irritable and anxious (you know the feeling; you’re set on an outfit and if you have to change you’ll be late for work rah rah rah). I’m making a bit of a noise about it to my girlfriend and getting stressed and then finally I find it and I have this moment where i sense the following:
I feel embarrassed for having gotten irritable. Then I hear negative self talk – it tells me I am disgusting and ugly and I look down on my body and feel so ashamed. I realise, off the back of last nights co dependency anonymous meeting, whereby the topic was about feelings, that the concept of feeling for me is linked to shame. It was okay for me to get shitty and annoyed about not finding my top and potentially being late for work. The irritability passes. But it’s what’s underneath that. It’s what it is tied too – to feel anything strongly means I am going to be hurt, be defiled, am defiled, am vile. Yet this is not true now. It was sad to connect these dots – it felt like a revelation and a good one- but sad nonetheless. It’s deeply disappointing that underneath it all, my daily actions and responses, lives this profound sense of shame and disgust. As though my body is the dirtiest, most ugly thing in the world. That is the mark of what my abusers did. Their footprint. I am starting to observe it more rather than have it take over me. This is progress.