Russian Dolls
I was always fascinated with Russian Dolls. The element of surprise; how many there were, unseen; how much smaller until the tiniest one would be revealed.
I never had one when I was a child.
I was never a child when I was a child.
My therapist showed me that I was. And she showed me how to listen to that child. She showed me that I am the Russian doll, only I have a Yorkshire accent, and I have a better waist. She didn’t tell me that. I’m just telling you that because imagery is everything. We all have our inner child. We grow, evolve, and become the adults that live the best way that we can. I imagine, like me, others have their own tool kits, fighting off the demons they face.
As you read this, you might be visualising your tools, sharp and deadly, or even nucleic. One day, I couldn’t find my tool kit. This was the day I reached out to my counsellor for the first time
An accredited therapist with a background in childhood trauma, working with inner child therapy, her credentials were listed in the directory of counsellors on the internet. I didn’t know she would be “the one”. If you ever reach out for therapy and, as I have heard from so many people, including my patients, say “it’s not for me” or “I couldn’t open up”, you may just have the wrong “fit”. Remember you are inviting some of the youngest parts of yourself out of the shadows to finally speak, and they may feel frightened, helpless and mute.
The 6-year-old me was frozen in that deep freezer. She needed someone to trust if we were to get her to room temperature and start trusting. From my experience, having cPTSD indicates prolonged and repeated exposure to trauma, so I often had group therapy. However, it was just the therapist and me in the room. Yet, there were so many different parts of me lined up on the couch, looking down, turning away, or silently screaming.
I spent 46 years silencing all of that pain. But the pain doesn’t need me to acknowledge it. The pain finds so many creative ways to invade my present.
If a tree falls in a forest with nobody there, does it still make a sound…?
In 2021, I wasn’t in the forest, but I started to hear the trees falling. But for a long time, I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.
The first Russian doll was 46. I was experiencing some unwanted attention at work. Male. The trigger that, unbeknownst to me, ignited something much deeper, buried under the rubble of concrete, where bridge jumps took place, the crackle of drug blisters, the dank smell of a maternal alcohol breath. I started the session and continued for many sessions, talking through my lack of boundaries, my shame, my inability to say no.
These are all excellent coping mechanisms, she said, saving me in childhood, where making myself small and unseen was probably my saviour. That saying no might lead to punishment, or consequences, which I didn’t understand were empty threats as a child.
For example, the boyfriend of our mother who came into our bedrooms would, by day, lock us out from morning until tea, explaining calmly that “mummy is poorly, and if you disturb us, she will have to go away again”. I did exactly as I was told; she did go away once (9 months is forever in a six-year-old mind).
I was re-enacting something familiar, at work, with this person. They wanted something. I knew I could lose my job forever if I denied them. I recognised it was wrong; I did not want it. But my nervous system had no hesitation. It was like pressing the autopilot to land the plane. But the plane had no wings, and I had no parachute.
We explored small steps. Ways in which I could create a sense of safety for younger Grace. She needed to know she was safe now. That I was here, and I am the adult. I can take care of her, my counsellor showed me. She also showed me how to let shame go. Another emotion, one which, like a high-interest bank account, I was making huge deposits of well-used survival skills.
But like an old rotting fence, unless you maintain its upkeep, the odd lick of paint and rust/wood protection, like your boundaries, it will not weather the harsh seasons of life, it will not protect all the flowers in your garden. I needed to reset my boundaries, and as my therapist taught me, I didn’t just want my garden to survive; I wanted it to thrive.
I have survived all my life. You all, reading this, have survived every single thing that has be thrown your way. But where is the joy in surviving? It is honourable, there is such bravery. There are medals for those whose survival has taken them through world wars. There are annual parades, Remembrance Day, and poppies to represent the fallen and brave. But a medal can be heavy, and you may prick your finger on its hinge, and the November chill may nip at your toes as you bear witness to the bravery. Survival must lead somewhere, otherwise, aren’t we just weathering the storm, permanently?
Without therapy, that is exactly what my fate would have been. Wearing the thickest of coats, eye mask, scarf and waterproof gloves, I would navigate through life surviving every storm. But my gloved fingers would miss the gentle touch of a branch, my face the warm kiss of the sun, my body not the gentle whisper of the breeze. True bravery is removing the armour and staring directly into the storm. It will stare right back. And show you what you have been ignoring.
