Dissociation

This morning I was going over considerations about some possible consulting work. The people involved can be very difficult, or one could say, impossible, to work with, so there was a lot to thing about. I was pondering fees, and various contract provisions to protect me in case things went sideways. Of course, I have certain reservations about the whole idea, but I could use the money, so it’s worth considering.

Looking at the feelings that were coming up, I noticed one that seemed unusually strong and out of place. When I focused in on it, I could see that it came from the context of being a little boy, and was that mixture of fear and self-reproach that hits you when you realize that your parents have just caught you in something you can’t wriggle out of. I followed that back as far as I could, and I came across a memory from when I was about 5 or 6 years old.

That incident happened before we moved out to California and we were living in suburban Massachusetts. Apparently I had been walking back home, probably from a neighbors’ house, on a route that took me through the backyards of the houses on our street. For those of you that don’t know, neighborhoods from that time and place usually didn’t have fences around the yards, or, if they did, the they were simple, split-rail fences that were easy to climb over or through. Even for a five year old.

On my way, I had passed by a neighbors sandbox and had taken a toy truck, of some kind. When I got home, my parents noticed it and demanded that I tell them where it came from. I refused to tell them. I’m sure I was scared, but, for some reason, I felt like I didn’t recognize their authority in this matter. (I must have been a real brat.) That whole part is vague, but the result was that they put the toy on the top of a tall bookcase and said it would remain there until I told them where it came from. Later that day, when my mom took a nap and everybody else was gone, and I climbed up, got the toy and took it back to where I got it. I have no memory of what happened after that.

I my later years, I was terrified of my father, so why I would refuse to tell him something is completely beyond me. What I can remember is that I felt that it was none of their business, and I would take care of it myself as soon as the left me alone. (That is something that carries over to this day: When I make a mistake or screw something up, I prefer to do whatever it takes to fix it myself rather than admit it before it’s taken care of.) That was odd, but what really caught my attention was the fact that I was completely suppressing my emotions. I mean that my mind was completely blank and cold and I didn’t say, or do, or even think, anything I didn’t absolutely have to. It’s a bit unnerving to realize that I had shut down and completely dissociated at that young an age.

That makes me wonder, what had happened to cause that? I have no memory or hint of memory of anything so traumatic that I needed to wall myself off for protection. The one brother I still have contact hasn’t mentioned anything either. On the other hand, alcoholism runs in my family, as well as a strong tendency to be, shall we say, “relationship challenged,” so I probably should not be surprised at the idea that something was going on in those early years. I noticed before that I have some memories of being a baby and in a crib, and then memoiries from around 5 or 6, but nothing in between.

Whatever happened, it has taken me almost six decades to undo the consequences. Although, like most people, I’m still a work in progress, I can say that I’m way happier, healthier and more satisfied with my life now than at any time before. I really can’t complain, though I will continue to puzzle over what happened back then and why I chose the response I did.