Ah, to be 13 years old again....NOT

"Just when you thought it was safe to go in the water...." [cue ominous music]

Last time I wrote, I mused on the end of my divorce proceedings. However, the proceedings have not actually ended. I thought they would be, but no. Maybe this week.

And of course, the non-ending of my divorce has afforded me new opportunities for self-reflection. Which I despise.

Actually, what has afforded me new opportunities for self-reflection is the realization that, soon, I WILL be complete with the divorce, and it is time (finally) to get on with life, in all its glory.

And by "glory," I mean angst. Here I thought, "wow, the divorce will be done, I can get on with things, and life can return to some [mythical] cheery, problem-free existence." Right! In fact, new crap has already surfaced, much to my chagrin (but to much delight to my therapist, whose untiring effort to create the Susan Jane Martin Full Employment Act has come to fruition).

After 15 years of marriage, and as I quickly approach the half-century mark, I am faced with the completely weird experience of feeling like I am 13 years old again. I feel like a pimply-faced, hormonally-challenged teenager who has not a single clue how to be in the world. I feel all my emotions on such a raw, vulnerable level, unclear how to share that without scaring the shit out of others.

Fifteen years ago -- maybe longer -- I made a decision (unconsciously) to take that vulnerability and shove it where the sun don't shine, out of fear of humiliation, whatever. <-- In writing this last sentence, it occurs to me that this habit of shoving vulnerability somewhere unseen is actually something very old, from childhood. It's just that who I was in my marriage reconfirmed the need to repeat this mistake.

Reflecting on my youth, I recall so many moments where the tender-hearted, vulnerable me was ridiculed and/or misunderstood. Some were inflicted by unthinking teachers, some by my dysfunctional parents, some by the natural cruelty of other children -- but all left their mark on me. I was so, SO sensitive as a youth, and hid it well from people, mostly by becoming the class clown, the best friend to others, the helpful one, the one who could make a papier mache rock needed at the last minute for the high school musical.

It didn't help that I was also miles taller than others my age, even in high school. I have been my present height since 7th grade, and if you have seen some of my posts on Facebook, including the pictures, you will know what I am talking about. How better to deflect from sensitivity, awkwardness, and vulnerability than to be the one person everyone could count on. "Nope, no needs here! I have set aside my needs to make YOU happy!"

So, in therapy, I recently declared that I want to face my new life differently, by reclaiming the vulnerable, sensitive person I have always been but have hidden away. I want to share the part of me that has needs. I want not to fix others, but just me.

All nice and dandy in theory, but let us just say that as the rubber hits the road, friends, it SUCKS. It SUCKS MAGNIFICENTLY. I felt such pain yesterday, for example, that I wanted to fucking crawl under a rock and die. Just like when I was 13 years old, telling my bestest friend that I loved her (not romantically, I thought, as I wasn't aware of such feelings then) and having her look at me with such disgust.

The interesting thing, however, is that unlike the 13-year-old, I just FELT like withdrawing; I didn't actually do it. I just hung out with the feelings and thought, "well, this mightily sucks!" It was an odd experience, to have the feelings of pain and vulnerability and be able to identify them as such. The shift between observing and experiencing was exhausting, but instructive.

I suppose that progress is being made; at least that's how I have to hold it. Otherwise, I might just go back to making papier mache rocks.