I have never been a particularly emotive person, at least not in public. My family was not a repressive one. We were never shamed for feeling what we did, and my mother used to tell us that we can’t help the way we feel, so don’t try. But medical issues have a funny way of messing with any attempt at being well adjusted.
My early experience being in a wheelchair gave me a visceral hatred of being the center of attention and the emotional swings associated with the medication I was taking then were a problem. They made me cry for no reason, which confused me, and I started to try not to cry ever. I made myself not care what people thought of me. And so began the foundation of what would become fairly impenetrable defensive emotional walls.
If you watch HGTV, you may know that after the foundation comes framing. I framed out my walls at the onset of my chronic conditions. Even if I had been the perfect patient, I would have felt the loss of control, even as I was supposed to be coming into a more independent life. As such, I was allowed to make my own decisions regarding my diabetes. It didn’t go well, but I am not sure any other path would have turned out better. Not to be obvious, but my deliberate lack of control amplified feelings of being on a runaway roller coaster. Knowing that I was doing it to myself added complexity, but it didn’t make it any less scary and frustrating. Maybe it made it scarier. I had never been in charge of something so consequential and had never had to take responsibility for the outcome. So, while I was pushing the boundaries of my own mortality, the construction of my walls was on overdrive.
After framing, you inspect what you’ve done. Not a step I took even though I was in therapy. I went right to wrapping my walls to keep out anything that might damage my defenses. It was a destructive, messed up version of “fake it ‘til you make it”. If I allowed myself to feel just enough to react as expected and eliminated the depth of the feelings, I could get away with only dealing with the physical consequences of my actions. I could put off the emotional consequences. And off and off and off. I really hindered my ability to have healthy relationships. I had my family, of course, but I am lucky that I was able to develop any friendships. The ones I ended up with – and that I value so highly – came about mainly because they stuck with me. My youngest relationship with a close friend is almost 20 years old.
Even when I was back in control of my physical self, I continued to develop chronic conditions and repress my feelings. Luckily, I never made it to the final step, enclosing my home, but I was stuck with these walls I had built and an emotional vise I couldn’t loosen. It was so bad that, after my mom died, I had to practice saying “I love you” so I could say it to my dad and my brother because I knew it was important. It was so hard and took so much practice, I accidentally let it slip out when I was on the phone with a friend. I do love her; she is one of those friends who stuck with me. But I had never said so, and I could tell she was surprised. So was I. And embarrassed, but it passed.
I let it sit that way for a long time. It was an effort to get to a point where I could say to my therapist that I maybe even thought I was ready to start disassembling my walls. Which I did. Slowly and repetitively letting all those feelings I repressed out into the light. Unfortunately, they don’t come out one at a time or in any kind of controlled fashion. That would be too easy. It’s a mix – a mess. The best description I have ever heard of this was on a Golden Girls episode. Blanche had been spending time with Dorothy’s ex-husband and Dorothy was upset but didn’t know exactly why. When they sat down and talked about it, Blanche said, “Magenta. That's what I call it when I get that way. All kinds of feelings tumbling all over themselves. Well, you know, you're not quite blue because you're not really sad and although you're a little jealous, you wouldn't say you're green with envy, and every now and then you realize you're kinda scared but you'd hardly call yourself yellow. I hate that feeling. I just hate it. And I hate the color magenta. That's why I named it that. Magenta.”
Even now, as I let my emotions out, I try to control how. It’s automatic, and I am going to do everything in my power not to do that in front of people. Once, I was caught out at a movie that triggered me unexpectedly. The friend I was with wasn’t one I was close to, and I was forced to sit there crying while everyone shuffled out of the movie theater. My friend didn’t know what to do. Even my subconscious knows that’s never going to happen again. So, they come out at the weirdest times -- watching tv, at the grocery store, driving somewhere. That last one is the weirdest. Tearing up behind the wheel on a highway is less than ideal, so how do you find a line between letting your emotions out and safe driving?
I’ve been working on this for a few years now. I’m not sure I will ever be rid of the walls completely, but I will keep trying. Because who wants to live in a magenta house?