Suppression
During my high school years, I lived in states of dissociation and suppression. I dissociated to avoid thinking about the trauma I had experienced from a childhood sexual assault and the sexual abuse I endured by a martial arts instructor.
I suppressed all of my emotions so that I could simply survive home life and daily living. It was not easy growing up in a household with narcissistic parents. My father was very demanding, and my mother was covertly ruthless. They were quite the match.
Their style of parenting was one that I told myself I never wanted to copy for the future. They were from a generation which required one to just pick up their sad feelings and make the best of life. They were not for wallowing in emotions.
Yet, I did not actually wallow in my emotions, however. I sat with them to try to understand them, but because I was not allowed to express them, I stuffed them down somewhere deep within me. I suppressed them, and I protected them. I even suppressed my facial expressions in an attempt to hide my emotions.
I mainly kept a poker face because my parents would always chastise me for showing any emotion that seemed to upstage or challenge them. A display of emotions from children within my household were viewed as red flags for my parents. Displayed emotions challenged their authority to be right, to be harsh, and to be relentless dictators.
After the stress of dealing with outsiders who ridiculed my every move regarding the accusations I proclaimed against a sexual predator, I sank even deeper with my suppressed emotions into an abyss of dissociation and depression. I do not know how, but I turned off all of my emotions and simply coasted along as a mute. I only responded to stimuli when absolutely necessary.
The only other emotion that could be found beyond the feelings of numbness was anger, and I fought hard to keep it from leaking out of me. I suppressed anger enough to the point no one could detect that it even existed just beyond the surface. What most people saw was my expressionless face. They would tell me that they did not know how to read me and that I needed to smile more often.
I would occasionally rehearse my smile in a mirror. I only knew how to smile when I felt genuinely happy or if I found something funny. There was nothing to really smile about at home. Smiles were frequently wiped off of my face – sometimes by the force of words from one of my parents. Despite my not being a happy person, I did not think either of my parents were happy people either. Happiness was a faked emotion, but when there were moments, the entire household seemed to quickly grab those moments because they were short-lived.
While at school, I lived with more expression, however. School was my happy place. It was the place I was most content. I loved school, and I enjoyed learning. I threw myself whole-heartedly into my studies and became almost “one” with the content. I enjoyed dissociating back in time through history. I matched energy with the themes I learned. I danced with numbers and mathematical formulas with newfound joy.
My experiences in high school were all comparatively different than my experiences in primary school and middle school. I hated school during my primary and middle school years. I literally daydreamed my way through those years. More than half the time, I was not mentally present. I was mainly focused on survival. I fought my way through a series of bullying situations, finagled my way through menstrual mishaps, and barely slid my way past grade levels while battling trauma.
It was no wonder that I skipped a class or two by hiding out in areas around the school. Sometimes I skipped school altogether in favor of hanging out alone … hiding in an empty ball field or wondering around a deserted cemetery reading captions from gravestones while imagining about the lived lives of the dead. I would most rather be anywhere but school during those years, and sometimes I would rather be anywhere but alive.
For a time, school was not for me. I even hated kindergarten, but high school was effectively different. I think I turned myself onto learning because I finally realized school could become my escape. I did not go to school to even socialize with friends even though I managed to make a few friends. I barely hung out with anyone during breaks or lunch – often opting to go hang out in the library to read and focus on assignments.
I literally looked forward to learning, reading, and writing my way through it all. Amazingly, I went from an underperforming student who failed out of a lot of classes to an overachieving student who exceeded all academic expectations of me. I shocked everyone when I, the often mute one, graduated within the top five percent of the senior class, but no one was more surprised than my parents.
Despite my dad saying he knew I could do anything I set my mind to doing, I did not believe this about myself for a long time. For a lot of years, the state of my mind was in great dissociation and suppression. I felt dumb because I could not think or focus. I did not seemingly take in information when I was in school, but I could certainly take a lot in on my own time.
I am thankful that high school gave me a chance to be a little free. It was as if my mind opened right up to absorbing tons of information. Maybe that is because I had a goal to get out and away from narcissistic abuse. I do not know, but it was also cool to have some great teachers who encouraged me and believed in my potential. I am especially glad to have had a librarian who saw my sensitivities and saw me as a person in need of nurturing. I am forever grateful to her.
Yet, despite all of the good things that happened through my high school years, I suppressed my emotions until one day I could suppress them no more. At some point, I grew tired of the abuse, the lies, and the secrets. One day, I exploded, and it was the beginning of the end of me, and I spiraled out of control.
Find out what happened in the next post.
My Voice Unchained 