I remember asking my counselor if she would hold me. “Touching is a touchy subject in counseling” … pun intended.
No one really held me when I cried when I was younger. In fact, I wasn’t supposed to cry when I was younger. That was a weakness. If I cried, well then I would be yelled at or beat. I preferred the beating. I usually got yelled at. The beating was physical, there were tangible proof, there were bruises. But the yelling, that only left the emotional scars, scars I couldn’t see, that I couldn’t wrap my hands around. Being able to see the proof of the pain is easier to cope with than having to deal with both physical AND emotional abuse.
I couldn’t cry at school. I had to be strong there too. Since my mom was connected at the school, I had no teachers I could confide in. I had no friends I could trust with not only what was going on at home, but the deep depression I was dealing with. I mean what did I expect someone to do if I wanted to kill myself? I would expect them to get me help. Help I didn’t want, but help I desperately needed.
I remember having a particularly hard counseling session one day. I couldn’t even talk. All I could do was hold the pillow the counselor had gotten me. As stupid as it was, holding that pillow protected me. “Would you like me to hold you” … I don’t remember much about the sessions anymore, but I’m not sure I will ever forget that. I answered no, at that point in time I couldn’t handle someone offering support. It’s still hard.
I’m not used to someone offering support. I’m not used to the concept of someone actually caring. I know it sounds crazy, but it actually hurts to accept help. It’s not an arrogance thing. Or maybe it is. Maybe I think myself so perfect that I shouldn’t need help. Maybe I’m afraid of someone seeing me for who I really am.
As soon as I said no, I regretted it. I wanted her to hold me so badly. But I knew that would result in my crying. I never cried in a session. I still don’t. Crying for me is a very private thing. I don’t even let my husband see me crying. I go in the bathroom and lock the door. Or I cry in the car. Or in my office at work when people are gone. Maybe I’m afraid of being yelled at. Or like above, maybe I’m just afraid of someone realizing how horribly weak I am.
I really need someone to hold me now. Now that I’m ready for someone to hold me, no one’s around.