Triggered
I’m triggered. Everywhere. I’m triggered. I feel it. It’s uncomfortable.
I almost combusted watching my 7th grader stand on the football field at his game last night and barely play. The week before I held him for over an hour as he cried and said how hard it was not to get played in the game as much as he wanted. How he felt he was as good as the other kids but didn’t understand why he didn’t get to play as much. I sat watching last night and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or rage against the coaches. I did nothing. I just sat there getting more and more anxious.
He was totally fine when he came home. He said he knew he had to work harder, and he planned on it and that he would be happy with the time he got in the game. So, why was I awake in the middle of the night, thinking about it? Turning it over in my head. Wanting to give him feedback, support, coaching. Unable to let it go. Triggered.
I woke up feeling it in my body. All of my clients cancelled today. All of the sudden a storm of insecurity overtook me. Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe I need to work harder. Maybe my success has been a fluke. Maybe I’m going to get sidelined the whole game. Yes, it spirals that quickly at times for me!
I did what I do when the pressure in my body gets to be too much; I went and worked out. HARD. I could barely breathe for 55 minutes. By the time I got home, I was ready to deal with the emotions that had been building up for weeks. The pressure.
I have a ritual when I know it’s time to ‘deal.’ I take a shower. I put my pajamas on. I turn the lights off and I play music. Loudly. I allow the energy to come up. Then it comes out. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s grief. It’s ugly crying. It’s body shaking and a reel of some part of my life playing so I can understand where the deep emotion is coming from. Because trust me when I say this; it is NEVER about today when the intensity is more than a 7 on a scale of 1-10.
I closed my eyes. I instantly began crying. I saw the reel so clearly. I saw myself in seventh grade. We had just moved back to Durham, NC and I was the new kid once again. How awkward it was to try to make friends in junior high. Everyone knew each other. I knew no one. And I didn’t like myself very much. I decided to try sports for the first time and did what all the cool girls seemed to do; try out for cheerleading. I worked so hard on my routine (mind you I had never had a gymnastics class or dance class in my life because we couldn’t afford it) and I went for it.
I imagined what my life would be like as a cheerleader. They seemed so happy. So beautiful. So rich. So together. I wanted that. I wanted to be like them. Needless to say, I did not make the team. I was devastated. But I acted cool about it. I didn’t let anyone see me sad. I stuffed it down and made everyone believe that I was glad I didn’t make it. In fact, until this morning, anytime anyone asked me if I was a cheerleader, I would give this offended look and some sort of response like “No, I was a real athlete.” And I thought I meant it!
But the truth was, I wanted it very much. I wanted to be acknowledged and seen and a part of something. I wanted something or someone to let me know I was ok, and that I wasn’t different because I felt SO. DAMN. DIFFERENT.
As I imagined this twelve year old girl, I just wept for her. No kid deserves to have so much stuff going on inside of them and no one to help or support or teach her how to deal with it. But that was my story and that story is the one I carried with me to my 7th grader’s football game the last three weeks. No wonder I was so triggered.
Watching him stand on the sidelines, wanting to be put into the game, but not getting to be in the way he really wanted to be. Wanting him to be seen, acknowledged and successful. Feeling my own feelings and bringing thirty four years of stored up grief to the situation.
So, yet again, it’s MY work. My coach used to say “there is no one else in the room, Kathryn.” And god was she right. Even when it feels SO MUCH like it’s about my kids…..it just never is. Because now that I have comforted that twelve year old precious pre-teen part of myself, I’m completely fine with whether or not my boy gets played on the football field. It is HIS journey and I trust that I have helped him develop enough that he will handle it ALL. I will walk along side him and support him. His story is NOT mine. It’s his. And I get to let him fill in the pages. The less of my baggage I bring to the party, the better off he will be.
So, friends, if I haven’t said it enough, I’ll say it again; if you really want to be a good parent, do your work. Understand the stuff I’m talking about. STOP feeling feelings for your kids and feel your own feelings. Reflect on where you might have experienced a similar situation that you are feeling angst over in your kiddos lives. See that part of yourself. Let the feelings come up. Let that part of you know whatever you needed at the time. For me, I said, “Oh sweet, beautiful girl. You were always enough. You never had to try. Cheerleader or not, you are loved, you are seen, and you will experience so much success in your lifetime. You. Are. Enough.”
Until next time,
