It’s Time to Let Go

I was over at my beloved Some Talk of You and Me last week, writing about realizations, visualizations, and lightbulb moments that had been a long time coming.

If I was vulnerable enough to submit and publish it there, I might as well do the same here…..right…??


It’s Time to Let Go, originally posted on Some Talk of You and Me (edited and formatted by the wonderful Brandie Smith, who continuously gives my words space to be heard):

“This is a perfect example,” I told him.

“I’m fine. My mood is fine, I’m not crying, we’re having a perfectly fine morning. But I feel tight and low in my chest.”

You know how something can happen a million times, but it only clicks when it’s ready?

That’s what happened today. I was on my way to a yoga class and before going into the studio, I took out my phone to type in my thoughts before I lost them.

“Makes me think maybe the heaviness isn’t my mood, doesn’t dictate my mood. Maybe the heaviness isn’t depression. Maybe it’s just all that little kid stuff, that fight or flight, that panic, that decision to stop talking and keep it all in. Maybe I need to talk to it and nurture it.

Tell it,

“I know what you are. It’s okay. You don’t have to be here. I’m taking care of me this time around. You don’t have to hold it in. You’re free to go. I promise.”

This makes me cry.

Maybe so many of the tears are about just that—relief at finally being soothed, relief at not keeping it in, shock over how intense the feelings are that I’ve buried down for months and years and decades.”

During an appointment on Friday, we were discussing the physical feelings of the emotions.

I had been so focused on the emotions themselves—the panic, the fear, the shame, the guilt, the despair—but she had been gently encouraging me to go beyond that.

“Where do you feel it in your body?” she asked.

I quickly scanned my body, but knew exactly what I’d fine, knew what I always find:

“Pressure behind my eyes, tightness in my throat, a heavy constriction around my chest, and a pit in my stomach.”

She encouraged me to focus on the tightness in my throat.

“What happens if you focus on it, if you pay attention to it? What purpose do you think it’s serving?”

“It gets worse when I pay attention to it.” I replied.

I thought some more, and then added,

“I think….it’s about fight or flight. It’s the panic, the wanting to fight. I’m a talker and a problem-solver. I like to find solutions right away. But there were no solutions, nothing I could do, or nothing I perceived I could do, so I think the tightness is the words trying to get out—but there are no words. So, it’s some sort of being trapped by silence.”

She suggested I tune into that feeling. I used one of my visualizations—the sparkly white light that clears away murkiness, and tried to clear it away from my throat.

And promptly started crying.

“I have no idea why I’m crying,” I said.

A few moments later, I added,

“It makes me feel young. I mean. I don’t know how to explain it. Um…so, when I imagined the white light coming into clear it away, it felt soothing, like the light was comforting the tightness, telling it that it was free to go, that the light would help, that the tightness didn’t need to hold the burden of solving all of these problems.

And that makes me feel like I would’ve as a little kid.

If I had talked about things, and allowed myself to be soothed and comforted. But, I usually didn’t.

Because, well, bodies didn’t contain emotions for me. Someone else’s feelings just moved right through their body and into mine, and I was maybe even more hypersensitive than I am today. And I had no idea what it was, I was just a little kid, all I knew was that I felt so much all of the time and it made it hard to breathe.

And if I told someone I was sad or upset or having a hard time, I felt their empathy, and it’s good that they felt empathy, because it meant they cared, but then I felt it in addition to my own feelings, and it was too much and hurt even worse than if I hadn’t said anything in the first place.

And so, consciously or subconsciously, probably subconsciously, I decided to stop sharing, to stop reaching out. And I just feel sad about that.

I see the little kids that I work with and I can’t even bear to imagine that one of them would just decide to hold everything in from then on, because they viewed that as the only possible option.”

I paused and took a breath.

“Wow,” she said. “It sounds like maybe you’re grieving. Feeling sadness and grief for the silence you felt you had to undertake.”

So, I sat outside the studio and I typed those thoughts into my phone, and I talked to the tightness in my throat like I would to one of my students, and I told it,

It’s okay. You can go. I’ve got this. I’m taking care of me. You don’t have to stay. I know what you are. You are panic and fear and wanting to scream and wanting to run and silence. I know. You can go. It’s okay. I promise.

And slowly, tentatively, it left.

And slowly, tentatively, I allowed it to go.

Author
Speech-Language Pathologist. Nature-loving, book-reading, coffee-drinking, mismatched-socks-wearing, Autism-Awesomeness-finder, sensitive-soul Bostonian.

4 comments

  1. Wow. I can’t quite formulate what I want to say just now, because my mind is cloudy with stirred up dust from a long-forgotten space which your words just found and, like fingers brushing the top of an old bureau left untouched for years in a dark corner of an attic, exposed the weathered wooden surface. Faded, cracked and splintered in places, damaged from years of neglect, yet somehow still exquisite in its timeless beauty. Unsettling, but I can see that when the dust settles, I will haul that heavy bureau down from the attic, sand the rough edges, and find that it perfectly fills that place in the house that has always felt kind of bare, but everything I tried placing there wasn’t quite right.

    But I wanted to tell you – thank you…for allowing yourself to be vulnerable, and courageous, and sharing your story. Maybe one day I will be brave enough to tell mine too.

    Also, can I get your therapists number? She sounds really good. :)

    1. Beautiful. Thank you for these gorgeous words. You already are brave enough, you just might not be ready. But you will be, one day, I know it. If you ever want to write/share anything, even anonymously, my inbox is always open!

  2. Thank you, Jen. I didn’t intentionally post anonymously, I was just half asleep and slightly incoherent. lol. Reading back over my comment, I have to laugh at myself, as it seems a little melodramatic. But your post truly did resonate with me, and made me think about my own struggle with anxiety in a new light. I suffered panic attacks as young as 7, but only around the age of 32 did I realize what they were, and begin the complex work of learning to cope with anxiety.

    [Someone else’s feelings just moved right through their body and into mine, and I was maybe even more hypersensitive than I am today. And I had no idea what it was, I was just a little kid, all I knew was that I felt so much all of the time and it made it hard to breathe.]

    That. I could have written those exact words. I often feel like I can’t quite get enough breath, and the feeling comes over me out of nowhere. As a kid, this would happen so often at night, and I would run downstairs to my mom, sobbing hysterically, and she would let me lay on the couch with her while she watched tv until I calmed down. Of course in the early 80’s, kids weren’t routinely taken to therapists and diagnosed with conditions like anxiety. I, like you, began at some point to stop talking, to put protective walls up all around me. Reading what you wrote of the mental image of words actually being stuck in your throat, making it hard to breathe, made my head spin because I can visualize thirty years worth of unspoken words stuck in my own throat. And I think that visualization is going to be a very powerful tool as I continue my healing path.

    I now recognize the quality of being an emotional “sponge” in myself and my 11 year old daughter. I struggle with feelings of guilt about passing this trait on to her. I do everything I can to help her recognize, acknowledge, and cope with her anxiety, alongside my own. Her intense capacity for empathy was apparent even as a toddler, and while her spirit is truly beautiful, she pays a steep price for it. She is learning how to embrace her true self and at the same time protect herself from being used up like a doormat. I don’t want her to ever hold her words inside or build up walls like I did. Because it is so much work knocking the walls down, and it is exhausting and painful trying to hold the words in your throat that so desperately need to be released. And I truly believe that we have to allow ourselves to be vulnerable, that that in itself is what requires the most courage but also necessary for living true lives and having meaningful relationships. We are learning together. ♥

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