I re-read a couple of my emotional abuse/gaslighting posts yesterday. They shocked me. The raw state of my nerves came back in a flash. But I felt I had to remind myself because I have come to recognise a weakness (one of many, I am well aware!) in my psychological make-up: I am inclined to be overly trusting, and I do not always recognise life’s emotional drains and vampires in time.
To put it another way, I am predisposed to receive more gaslighting – and will need to be very careful, especially over the next few months, in order to avoid a repeat of that which I have laboured so hard to escape: A toxic relationship.
I tend to get very over-excited and touched when people are nice to me, and want to be my friends. I do not always weigh new acquaintances up in the balance of cynicism and joy, erring on the latter time after time.
I am vulnerable, as a result, and always have been. And, launched into the beautiful sea of a new life, my little ship is afraid and cautious, yet open to ploughing on through the waves and experiencing everything lost and battened down in recent years.
It is a huge tumult and dilemma, and I do feel wind-and-water-tossed much of the time. Love has been my Achilles Heel time and time again – and I am not here referring just to male/female love; in fact, it would be damn sight easier if I were – since steps can be taken to avoid entanglements with blokes until I am good and ready. No, it is wider love which tends to be my downfall: Love of place and atmosphere and egregore and mystical places. In my own way, I am a hopeless romantic – though this does not always take the perhaps traditional Valentine Line. I romanticise situations – and can already see the potential blindness and danger of falling in love with my new start.
I want to be happy and free – but I also, after so long being silent and imprisoned, am scared of, of perhaps distrustful of, extremes of positivity: I fear that they will be wrenched from my grasp, or that I am viewing, searching for, finding, a series of false grails.
Like Philomel, in ancient Greek legend, my voice was stolen, my tongue metaphorically ripped out – and the fear now is that this renewed nightingale trill of delight will be over-enthusiastic, misplaced and will attract to it those who prey on songbirds and any other creatures suddenly released from captivity.
When I am fully alive and tingling to a new start, I can give off the wrong vibrations; I can so easily hide the hurt and trembling part of my soul and appear more sorted, stronger and far more vibrant than, perhaps, I am.
Or is it the acute terror of my own renewed energy and fire? The understandable fear and worry that I will be consumed, burnt, in it…
Brakes artificially attached to a person’s character vehicle will cause a vertiginous, and terrifying, and exhilarating, plunge once they are removed. My own means of stopping, of halting the speedy descent are not yet strong enough to hold me back, and I tumble in genuine laughing happiness – but with an underlying tremble. The fear going down the Tor the other day was not just about Jumble pulling on the reins; it was about MY fear of losing control, being swept away, being fragile and afraid at the top of a steep slope, of falling to my death.