A Room of One’s Own

Me: Are you making room for grief?
Friend: Grief makes its own room, I don’t have to worry about that.

And like that, we’re off!

My brain started putting together correlations like a supercomputer. If there’s anything at Alert Logic that I wished came in a direct-to-brain model it’s the Log Manager, and here’s why.

There’s a search function in our portal that allows you to search by aggregated message type. What if you could do that with your emotions? You could check on a daily basis how many messages you got that contained grief… or joy… or shame… etc, etc, etc. You would get everything in a carefully formatted list.

Actually, I can turn Threat Manager into a thing, as well. What if you had an appliance in your brain that could receive your incoming threats and be able to analyze them according to past threats and tell you if you need to worry about it or not?

My coworkers will read this and fall over laughing. Yes, some of my coworkers read my work, because it’s my personal life. I’m ALLOWED to have it. I don’t talk about work except for things that would never in a million years be construed as negative, because THAT’S HOW MY DAYS ACTUALLY ARE. If you find a company that feeds your need for the creative *and* the structured, you’ll thrive as I have. I love my coworkers to the ends of the earth, and if you don’t have that job, find it. It will make your life so much easier. I often work 10 and 12 hour days just because I want to. Beat that with a stick. I like being here, and my salary zooms into the ridiculous during overtime. It’s a win-win situation for sure.

Back to the topic at hand.

I am fascinated by the idea that grief makes its own room, because in effect, that is exactly what’s happened to me over the last year. As I began getting older and older with all these unresolved issues, grief began whispering that it was important and I ignored it because I thought I had to… and then the bomb dropped on Nagasaki, if you know what I mean.

I became angry about the situation in a whole new way as Dana and I started thinking about having our own children and instead of seeing my situation from my inner child’s point of view, I began to see it from my inner parent’s and the idea that this experience hadn’t been exactly pleasant jumped out at me in the most ugly and violent scene in my mind that I had a panic attack and pretty much fought to keep myself functioning for far longer than I thought was necessary, thank you very much.

I felt the fear that my parents and adult friends must have felt as they watched it happening, and the relief on their faces when she was finally “gone.” Gone is in quotation marks because she was never really gone, just under their noses where she couldn’t *quite* be caught but had more influence than anyone on my life and the directions it might go.

The other part of my grief was acknowledging three things:

  1. It wasn’t my fault. It was entirely hers. She made her own decisions for which I cannot be held responsible.
  2. Even if she wasn’t in love with me and never meant to cross a line, the things for which she is responsible are not entirely tied to seduction. Some of it happened in less time than it takes to snap your fingers. In less than a second, my brain chemistry changed from sweet, innocent kid to homicidal maniac in my dreams. Her abuser put it there. Her abuser gave me nightmares of decapitation… of adrenaline… of anger so pure that even I couldn’t contain it because there were people out there capable of slicing into someone’s heart without remorse.
  3. Once that anger was fully in place, there was no one that was allowed to touch her in my presence. I became a pit bull in the very worst sense of the word… no fucking lipstick required.

So the moment you start thinking that this story is all about revenge and I’m just trying to ruin her, remember that my mission is to destroy abuse itself and to help people recognize when they are going from trusted friend to absolute dumping ground.

Remember that she’s one of the little girls I’m trying to save, too.

Amen.

One thought on “A Room of One’s Own

  1. Pingback: There’s No Crossing Your Own Timeline | Stories That Are All True

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