I wrote about C and the visit with her. I didn’t really write about me. I meant to, but it all gets confused then. Sometimes it feels that life is proceeding on two different tracks, probably because what I am experiencing is sometimes only tangentially related to events. A lot of it is trauma, just as a lot of C’s response to me is trauma based.
I was waiting for her in the hostel, sitting on her bed. I had come early—someone I am not sure I remember correctly gave me a lift up, and I was there maybe ten minutes before they finished evening study. The same man has given me a lift before.
Anyway, I sat on the bed for a while. After a bit, I began to feel something: a calm. It didn’t last that long. When I began to think, “She ought to have come by now,” and she hadn’t, then I lapsed back into paranoia. But there was this while where I sat there, and I had a feeling of calm so strong, it was like I had taken a drug. That is happening to me these days. Not every time I see C, but sometimes. Usually it is after. This time I got it just from sitting there, just from sitting there on her bed. It’s amazing. I sat there with this calm feeling and after a little while I began to feel fear at the same time—calm and fear together. It crossed my mind I feel afraid to feel safe, and I think now that makes sense. Not because the safety doesn’t last, but because safety comes from being with your attachment figure. It comes from the reassurance they give you. I was never allowed to have that. I was never allowed to run to mommy when I felt scared so that I could feel safe again.
It’s tragic. It’s absolutely tragic. I thought of myself at 2 or 3 years old and I thought what would it look it for that to happen? It looks like a parent who is, perhaps, annoyed. Who lacks empathy—for whatever reason, overwhelm with one’s own problems, pure lack of giving a shit. It’s terrible to think about.
I had had that feeling on Saturday, after she left. I don’t know when it hit me exactly, if it was right after she left or some hours after. I felt it again at night on Saturday night. I thought of her having slept in the bed next to me. The beds are against different walls, but the heads meet. A few times, I put my hand on her head when she slept, and it was like being awake. She pushed it away. The last time she slept in my house, I had only one bed. She slept in the bed with me—it’s a narrow bed—and in the night she suddenly moved to put her head on my chest. Now, she has her own bed. Before sleeping, she said, “I will sleep here.” I said, “Yes, it is your bed.” I wonder what she thought about that—if it felt like she had a C-sized space in my life, or if she felt like I had pushed her away. Probably both at the same time.
Anyway, the night after that, I thought of all of this, and I remembered her lying there, and it gave me that calm feeling again.
Sunday was different. Then I missed her. It hurt. It hurt when I woke up again also. She wasn’t there and I missed her.
On Sunday, at the hostel, I got that feeling later. C was sitting on the bed, being Angry Child again, trying to get me to leave and seeming worryingly more agitated as I didn’t. Even five minutes more seemed to be too much to cope with. I did leave because of that—I don’t know if I should have. She wanted so badly for me both to stay and to leave at the same time. It felt that way. But I was sitting there, next to her while she did this, and I had the feeling of being so calm I felt drugged.
This is safe. This is what safe feels like. It’s okay to feel safe.
That is for the little parts, who feel scared to feel safe.
At the moment, writing this, they are vaccinating the kindergartners. The children are silent, but the adults are yelling like someone is bleeding to death. I love Country X. I hate the yelling. It is so hard to cope with all the panic all the time. I don’t know how they cope with their own internal states. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they are all dissociated. I have no idea.