My therapist asks me how my coworkers would describe me and adds: do they treat you like you’re a child?

A pause for a few seconds to think… I ask myself how I think my coworkers would describe me. Outloud I say: “I think they would describe me as smart and… kind”. Now that I think more on this… the ones who I let into my inner or personal world would also describe me as stubborn and they wouldn’t be wrong. “I don’t think they treat me like a child” I add. “I’m just upset. I have been through so much. I have survived so much. I can take care of myself, even if something happened.” My therapist gently and compassionately reminds me that those around me want me to not be in that position in the first place. I hear her. I know she’s right- but this part doesn’t want to hear it.

One thing about me is that: I am fiercely independent. Like those videos on TikTok where the person is climbing or leaning on something, she shouldn’t be in order to complete a task without help. I have talked in previous posts about my ‘sheer force of will’ as something that has been a part of who I am for as long as I can remember. This ‘sheer force of will’ makes me not like to ask or have help… even… especially, when I need it. I think about if or when I have been hurt physically in the past: I just want to be alone. I want to stop the metaphorical or literal bleeding alone. Please don’t touch me, don’t help me, I am scared and I want to be alone… even if it kills me. This fierce part is both a core part of who I am and something that grew out of the abuse I experienced: I learned that it was safer this way.

One person I speak to about my frustration with others trying to help me be safe says to me: “secretly you like this… when you were younger you didn’t have anyone to look out for your safety and now you do”. I start by hearing: “secretly you like this…” not in this person’s voice, but in Alex’s. It only takes me a moment to pull myself back to the original point of this statement and hear the words again: as they are intended.

I want to scream: “I don’t need to be protected, I’m fine, I have taken care of myself this long…” I know what I’m doing even as I think these words: I am pushing this person away. I am thankful for those who look out for me and, again, I know this person was right: I didn’t hate having others care about me. But hearing those words I wanted to say:

“when I say I can take care of myself, I don’t mean that I believe myself to be invincible or strong enough to fend off someone intending to hurt me… what I mean is: I know I will survive the hurt. There’s always a risk, even as an adult, whether I am running, going to a grocery store, or in my job: there is always a chance I will be hurt. I know and accept the risks… consciously”.

Maybe this would be upsetting to others: to know that I have considered the possibility of being hurt in almost all areas of my life… but I can’t help it: it’s a part of surviving what I have been through to consider that it might happen again or worse.

I don’t look over my shoulder much anymore. I don’t look for Alex in the silhouettes of tall men in uniform, or when I walk into the courthouse. I don’t look for him in each cop. I don’t look for him in each car that has followed me for just a little too long. Though the uniform alone, some days, is enough to make me flinch and even a person’s phrasing can remind me of Alex… I have stopped looking for him. I’m afraid of going back to that mindset: where I am looking for danger in every stranger or even in friends or family. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to fear my family, friends, strangers, or clients.

I don’t know if this particular blog post is totally coherent or has an appropriate flow to it, but it does a good job of showing what I am struggling with right now: I don’t like to have others dictate or suggest or remind me that I could be in danger. I appreciate that they care about me and my safety. I don’t know where the balance is. I hope I can be more accepting of their kindness, expertise, guidance, and in some cases: orders.

It is weird to be loved in this way. It is weird to be cared for, as an adult, in a way I wasn’t cared for as a child. Maybe I am just grieving what I didn’t have when I was younger? Tonight I will try to channel my therapist’s attempt to convey to me: “they just don’t want me to be in that position in the first place” and I’ll try to sit in thankfulness for this, even if it doesn’t sit easily, yet.

So: thank you, to those who look out for me, I appreciate your persistence and understanding.