Fight or Flight? I'll Take Both, Please!!

Therapy is opening my eyes

I had a hard week a few weeks back.

First of all, my GAD (Generalized Anxiety Disorder) is not well managed. Panic attacks come at random. I can’t turn my brain off. I have to anticipate each need. Everyone’s needs. The cat’s needs. Did I put out birdseed? Have I emailed so and so? When was the last time I texted what’s-her-face? Do I have enough food? Is my husband ok? Which of our friends has not been invited to dinner in a while, and do they feel a way about it? Is my house clean enough? Is my Fibro and ME/CFS really that bad? Am I overdoing it? Am I doing enough? Am I proving my worth? What do other people think? Do I care?

That’s just a taste of it.

Add in two deaths in our family on the same day. A fibromyalgia flare that knocked me off my feet. A panic attack that felt like it lasted for days. Medications that have side effects but no effects on the pain and chronic fatigue. It was a fun week.

And then I felt nothing.

Not. A. Thing.

It was odd, of course. But I continued on my way. But it was perfunctory. Groceries were ordered. The house was straightened. Food was cooked. People were called.

And I was numb to all of it. I still am. The only thing I can pinpoint is wariness and fatigue. But I got no “umph”. No desire to deal with anything. And no desire to fix the numbness.

I’m not completely numb, like I’m washing my body and bits and whatnot, I’m loving on my husband and that dang cat, but I have no desire to leave my house unless necessary. But I’m not avoiding the world.

But I have no desire to extend myself right now. I don’t want to reach out and fix things. I don’t want to be the helper right now. I want to call and chew the fat and not help you with your issue right now. And that is the opposite of who I usually am.

My therapist is a wonderful woman who says I am “multifaceted, perhaps to an extreme degree” (what), and my childhood has trained me to be anxious. My “Fight or Flight” is always on. I realize this is true. Or it was. I feel as though it finally burnt out. Interesting.

You see, in my family, You had my single Parent. Who was very tired and had already lived a lifetime before I came along. For they had 2 other children a decade before they had me. And so, as I was coming into my personhood, around the age of 4, when I started to store my memories and solidify my personality, I was in a house with a “middle aged” parent and two moody teenagers that hated one another. oof.

And so I had to be a different Ashe for each situation. Sister is in a bad mood or just fought with parent? Gotta make her laugh. Brother is doing something he is not supposed to, but he will do it front of me because he “trusts” me not to tattle. So I keep the secrets. ( I should also add that the beginnings of his Bipolar Disorder were starting to emerge, and so he could also be violent, with no consequences-so that was another reason for me to stay quiet, because guess who was my main babysitter—!!!) Parent is frustrated by work and life? Better let them take it out on me, so they can calm down and feel better. Or better yet, make myself scarce, since they don’t really like talking to me ( their words, not mine). OH! Are brother and sister fighting? OH! are the police on the way? OH! Parent is being called home from work?! OH! I, from 7-12 years old, would have to play the peacemaker, yet remember the truth to tell Parent, and the lie to tell the police. Can’t have anyone going to jail because the neutral party didn’t stick to the story!!! Because then the rest of the night would be a passive aggressive discussion of my failure and how to come up with the bail money. Yikes.

I was always on edge, because I had to be ready to change into what was needed, at any given moment. When needed, I would be the baby sister, who was fun and gullible and let you do her hair and practice makeup, or play video games ( had to let brother when or you would be bobbing and weaving from the player one controller). I was the baby girl that would be loved on in public after Parent was told I was the “spitting” image of them.

At the same time, when needed, I would be adultified. My mistakes were not considered childish. No learning curve or growing pains for this kid. My emotional intelligence was mistaken for maturity. I wasn’t “wise beyond my years”. I wasn’t an “old soul.” I was a little girl who felt like it was my responsibility to care for the emotional needs of the adults and pre-adults in my household. I don’t know if it was a conscious thing, but it was a role I fell into that I was allowed to play. It was accepted as is. Perhaps they look at it differently. But I know they don’t look at all.

Once I became a teenager with my own emotional needs, I was cast aside. All I got was disdain or derision. And so my fight response was on. Because how dare you. I had mistaken their emotional vampirism for love, for comradery. I thought it made us close, but once I was bled dry, my husk was left on the burn pile. Bastards.

That disfunction bled into all aspects of my life, even after I fled my Parents home at 19. I had to be useful to people to be worthy. I thought my husband was crazy when we first met. How was he 28 with a good job, good ethics, with no baby mama’s, and thought I was the world. He defended me when people tried to take advantage, or when I was self deprecating. He asked me hard questions, like why did people deserve all my energy. Of course my answers made no sense when I said them out loud. He knew my worth before I did. From the beginning, he was so, so good to me. I wanted to consume his goodness, and he extended his veins. He is still my rock. I don’t care how co-dependent that sounds or if it sounds like a red flag, it’s been my flag for 18 years and I’m gon wave it, sweet baby.

My therapist reasoned that perhaps that week of catastrophe burnt out my fight or flight. I know better now. And even when I fight against it, to return to my old “Strong black woman” habits, my subconscious and body have learned that every fight is not my fight. And it will not give me the adrenaline needed to be all things to all people. It will only give me the energy to make myself smell good, and make it to my favorite chair with a journal or book. (Husband made sure each room has a favorite chair in it.)

“You’re not burnt out or numb,” Therapist says. “You’ve learned your safe space and you realize that you don’t have to fight or flee. Don’t you see? You don’t feel numb, you feel safe. You are comfortable enough to let your found family deal with things on their own because you know they won’t abandon you or hurt you for it. You have used the tools we discussed, and they are working. We are making progress, Ashe!! Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”

I think on this. I realize she is right. I have been so used to being used, to being ready, (to either throw hands or hold hands-) that when I am able to relax, and feel secure, I don’t even recognize it. I’m 41 years old. One of the tools discussed was going no contact as opposed to no contact with some people. I suppose that is a huge part of it.

I am not ready. That’s ok.

I don’t have all the answers. Fine.

I discuss, but I don’t argue. For what? We all know the past.

I can love freely because it is in my nature to love. I now know that that is not a weakness.

My curated people. They love me. And I am worthy of that love.

I am an adult. I deserve respect. Life happens, and I will deal.

Setbacks mean that I am trying.

Here, in my little spot, I am safe.

I am free.