Revisiting trauma

Edited: Now with less salt

Over the Christmas holidays, I experienced something that I’m not used to—something innocuous triggered a well of vivid memories of things that happened a decade ago. It was the worst few years of my life, looking back, but it reached its nadir in 2014.

Central to it was my long-term boyfriend at the time. Although we parted on good terms, I suppose there was too much hurt, lost respect, and what felt like irreparable damage for us to ever reconnect again as friends.

Which sucks, because he was a monumental part of my life, my formative years, and was my first mentor who motivated me to succeed at school. When I look back, I regard him a mixture of fondness, resentment, and regret.

Ben, ever so wise, caring, and helpful, listened to me and helped me work through the tangle of emotions, thoughts, and mood swings that had arrested me up until this week.

He was the first to mention the word ‘trauma’. I admit I was skeptical at first. The word has been thrown around so much in social media that I never truly bothered to comprehend its meaning. But it was simple—it’s a negative emotional response caused by a distressing event, or a period of distressing events.

Because the problem is mental in nature, Ben and I tackled it in terms of mental health. He helped me take proactive steps to address what I was feeling, making sense of my ruminations, and one obvious step that would have added value was to contact my ex directly. I would have loved to have had an earnest talk with him, to ask him how he processed our breakup, or whether he regarded me with anger, or how he handled the aftermath.

My ex let me down gently with a well-considered response (it took him three days to mull over it)—that he is truly happy, our breakup was a long time ago, and he wished me well.

Which annoyed me. The bastard had the gall to be magnanimous. Honestly, even Ben couldn’t fault his response.

But it was enough to help me with my recovery.

I mulled over my irritation, and I think I found, at the core, is that I was in a really bad place during those years, and I hated—really hated—who I was then.

The other emotions—of guilt, of needing validation, or wanting redemption, of reminiscing the past, of wanting to do over—stemmed as a secondary response from the core.

I choose to write this post as a clear mental exercise, going piece by piece, of all the tangles that resulted in my restlessness at present. I hope it’s vague enough to protect people’s privacy, but tangible enough for anyone to relate.


So, let me go over my faults:

I was ambivalent, indiscreet, and manipulable

Chalk it up to being young and inexperienced. A big crisis I had, midway through uni, was finding myself growing infatuated with my peers. My boyfriend at the time had just graduated, and had started working, so our dynamic changed. We saw each other less frequently, and our day-to-day lives and experiences became different.

I took my feelings seriously, never once considering that these fleeting crushes would pass. I did something my boyfriend never suspected me capable of: I broke up with him.

He did not accept it. In our culture of courtship and gender roles, he simply took it as his come-to-Jesus moment, and resolved to be a better boyfriend, and to court me all over again.

It didn’t help my flustered heart. It just left me more confused. I found that growing close to a boy was enough to tilt my heart in their direction. And I wore my heart on my sleeve.

In hindsight, it annoys me so much that I was so obliging towards boys who weren’t really serious about me: the repressed Catholic schoolboy who just wanted to know how it felt to have a physical relationship (it never really reached any lewdness or even a kiss, but it felt scandalous enough to not be platonic); the clueless, socially awkward nerd who was so ambiguous that I lost interest by the time he became earnest; the depressive quasi-suicidal coworker who just wanted to get laid, and was clever enough to manipulate me in small ways, all the way to his bed (he admitted as much, later).

In all those cases I saw them for what they were, saw all the defects, the red flags, and so on; but infuriatingly, my mind made concessions for them, pardoned their faults, and built up strength and virtue where there were gaps. In all those cases, I told myself it was a harmless crush, but I toed the line of plausible deniability, enough for people to notice, enough for people to talk about me, enough to be seen plain as day.

All the while, my ex-boyfriend was relentlessly pursuing me, showing up for me, and sending the entire world the wrong signals—that I was cheating on him.

I was insecure, dishonest, and went against my own principles

The university environment was cutthroat. I excelled in most of my subjects. But I let myself get carried away by people I looked up to, who in hindsight, did not really deserve my reverence.

I was told I needed to beef up my resume with extracurricular activities. I needed to hold key positions in school clubs (called college orgs). So I applied for industry-savvy clubs. The preeminent, popular ones where my goal was to network and build my resume. I did not really exist in those spaces because I enjoyed it or connected with my peers. I couldn’t compete with the resources and social graces of my peers who went to prestigious private schools and drove their own cars. I wasn’t popular and didn’t jive with most, because my desire for position, influence, and clout was so stilted, and came so unnaturally to me.

I became overly concerned with my internship and job prospects, not caring about the fit, or considering what I liked to do, and instead focussed on the company name and how much they purportedly offered the best and the brightest of the year’s graduates.

I signed a contract for an unpaid internship with a bank. Later, I got a phone screening from a distribution centre that was known to pay their interns handsomely. I lied to the bank and got my contract cancelled, just for a shot at the distribution centre. It did not pan out for me. An instructor whom I admired, whom I was friends with, knew about my deceit, and I think I irrevocably lost his respect.

A year later, after I graduated, I signed a contract with a pharmaceutical company. Afterwards, I got a job offer from a telecommunications vendor for a role I did not care for, but it paid considerably more. So I once more backed out of a contract (it wasn’t legally enforceable), and took the better offer.

I fancied that I was just being shrewd, looking after myself, and making all the right decisions.

I don’t ever want to be that person again.

I was bitter and unkind

I don’t think I ever did it consciously, but I tore other people down in order to make myself feel better.

I was very much wanting, and resented my peers who had healthy social lives, healthy pastimes, and blithely socialised and shared schoolwork in coffee shops and their beautiful homes. I felt sure in myself that they did not deserve their successes, because they never had to worry about laundry, or whether their rucksack or shoes would last the current semester, and not disintegrate with the next typhoon. I thought, ostensibly, that I worked much harder than they ever did, and so I deserved much more.

I spoke so plainly about my distaste in many things, not once thinking about how I affected the people I talked to, or how I came across. I fancied myself to be genuine, brutally honest, and the kind of person who called a spade a spade.

I had dysfunctional anger patterns, that I now know was a product of my upbringing. What I thought were normal and acceptable patterns of behaviour were in fact, toxic, hurtful, and destructive.

I’ve forgotten about this, but I read my old college diary, and I referenced my then-boyfriend telling me that he hates talking with me on the phone, because it always devolved into my getting angry at him. I think he also used to call me out on using him as my ’emotional punching bag’.

It’s appalling to me to think that, looking back, I didn’t consider myself to be a bad person. I even thought I was good and that the world was unkind to me, because I cared about my sisters, or shepherded my friends when it came to group assignments, or doted on the boys I liked.

It also wasn’t until well into my career, before a manager floated the notion that I might be lacking in emotional intelligence.


On the other hand, I’d like to give myself some grace, because looking back…

I was going through so many life changes that I couldn’t process

In 2008, my mother left for a new life in the States. In 2010, my father’s partner died, leaving an already-blended family reeling and confused. My older sister, who lived with me in a tiny studio, went back to our hometown to help with the family business. In 2012, I graduated, and saw myself taking on the world at large. I made enough money to be able to unburden my father, telling him that he could stop sending me rent, tuition, and my weekly allowance, as my paycheck covered more than enough. My two youngest sisters, who kept me motivated and kind, also left for the States, leaving me wondering who was left at home to look forward to during the holidays.

Finally, in 2013, my other younger sister, the one I’m closest to, the one I had a bond with, because she also attended the same university I did, also left for the States.

I never realised it then, but I was depressed. I became obsessed with improving my life, and wondering what drastic change I needed to do to get to a state of happiness, of fulfilment. I think I sent my ex mixed signals. I told him I was ready to get back together with him. Then told him later that year that it just wasn’t working, and I wanted us to break up for good. Still, he persevered, and clung to me harder.

I had undiagnosed problems

Today, I am aware of my issues—I have generalised anxiety disorder. I also have symptoms of OCD. It’s never really how pop psychology portrays it. I’m prone to ruminations and negative thought traps. Every so often, I lay in bed late at night, thinking on my mortality, and wondering when and how I will lose all the people in my life whom I love.

What my husband is keenly familiar with—I have a continual thread of anxiety that is present with me, every day, especially when I’m idle. It’s a compulsion that tells me I’m not good enough, that I’m not doing enough, that I’m wasting my time. I couldn’t relax without kicking myself later for being indolent. Household chores and errands overwhelmed me. On really bad days, Ben could feel my anxiety radiating from across the room, and he walked on eggshells around me.

I’ve since learned to take a lot of proactive steps to manage my issues. Talk therapy, medication, good habits, proven methods—I’m proud of how far I’ve come in this regard.

I had no support system

I felt all alone in the city. My family was far away, my father in the province and my mother and sisters in the States. As is prone to happen when you all graduate, my college friends also started living their lives, moving for work, and making new connections where they were.

That is to say, I spent a lot of my time outside of work in solitude. I have blog posts from that period where I’d say crap like ‘I’m a person who loves Mondays. Work keeps me going. Work is the panacea to my loneliness.’ Looking back, it was quite plain to see that I could just as well have said ‘I have no life and I have nothing going for me’. Which means…

My ex, although well-intentioned, did a lot of harm

Desperate to win back my affection, he wore down all my boundaries, until I no longer knew myself, until I could no longer recognise my own agency. My memory is fuzzy on the timelines of those last years, but we were practically on-again, off-again, in a pseudo-relationship without labels, sleeping together on occasion, and talking openly about all my struggles—with him, with my life, with all the boys I thought I loved.

Because I didn’t hate him, and cared about him still, I couldn’t say ‘no’ when he’d ask me out on weekends, or after work, or when he’d offer to pick me up, drive me home, take me out to dinners, buy groceries for me, and run family errands with me.

He was set on loving me until I loved him again, that he appealled to my good sense, to my well-being, and to his pure, unadulterated love, which he assured me, had no strings attached. He knew I was alone, that I was away from my family, and he wanted to fill my days with love, care, and affection. He told me that I needn’t make things harder for myself, if I just wanted to prove a point.

Sometimes he wasn’t as well-intentioned as he appeared. It came to a point where I was distrustful of his plans, and he’d preface his plans with ‘no hanky-panky this time’.

Every time I pushed him away, or tried to assert my boundaries, or said ‘no’, he’d find a way to change my mind. At some point, I realised that a sure way to turn him away, was to make myself repulsive. I lashed out at him. I verbally abused him. I kicked him, proverbially, while he was down. I rebelled and openly pursued other boys. The tipping point for him finally came, when I decided to sleep with someone I didn’t love.

Up until that point, he’d often tell me that I was very special to him, that there was possibly no one else, that he was sure he would fall in love with me, over and over again, and given a second, third, fourth chance, he’d take it with me. He even told me I could date other guys, but that when I changed my mind, he would be waiting.

He told me once that he was certain that no one else could love and take care of me as much and as well as he did, that he knew me as well as my circumstances.

And, for a few years after he walked out of my life, I believed him.

I’m only realising this today, but he also managed to condition me to believe that I didn’t deserve him, that I was lucky to even have him. There were a few oddities in hindsight, that I should have paid attention to. One morning, he told me to dress nicely, as we were going out to a posh shopping centre near his workplace. I was in my early twenties, of modest means, and my outfits largely constituted of jeans, assorted fast fashion tops, and cheap dresses from tiangges. As soon as I got in his car, he took one look at me, sighed, and said ‘I told you to dress nicely.’ He was worried that his coworkers would see me while we were out.

On another occasion, he told me to avoid holding his hand, or other displays of affection, lest we bumped into his coworkers, and that if we did, I should introduce myself as his friend and go by my middle name, as they were aware that his girlfriend’s name was ‘Jean’.

It never occured to me that I was ‘inferior’. We attended the same university, took the same degree, and I graduated with honours whereas it took him seven years to finish a five-year program due to a bout of gaming addiction that lasted a few years.

He told me that his father did not like me. Not that the old fellow was discreet. The old man once insulted me to my face, in front of his family, while I was in a position where I couldn’t talk back. Not that I would have. It would have been the height of insolence.

He told me his father saw our relationship as unbalanced. That I was the only one benefiting. That he deserved a partner from whom he could learn, be empowered, and benefit as well. Not done, his father also cautioned him that children of failed marriages were also statistically likely to have failed marriages.

I wonder how much of that had impressed upon him.

In my mind, a scene unfolds of my white knight, remorsefully riding away from my life, into the sunset, without me, the horse’s hooves a gentle trot, leaving no echoes on the cold ground, and leaving me in the enveloping darkness, holding only a box of matches, because I refused the lamp he proffered into my hands, and I, standing there, deserving it all, because I had lost my virtue.

That’s the feeling that I carried through the years—that I lost my prince and it was my fault. And when I saw the error of my ways, I never got a second chance.


Today

So, here I am now, furiously typing on my mechanical keyboard whilst thankful for the dose of clarity I’ve drunk in the last few days. Despondency and longing have given way to anger, and anger in itself isn’t sinful. Anger feels more productive to me right now than wallowing in despair.

I even called my mom to vent. She knew my ex, had met him a few times, and saw how our relationship had come undone.

‘Do you wish that you could change things, because you wanted you and him to be together, or that you wanted the breakup to be less harmful?’

‘The latter,’ I said.

‘Think instead of why you ended things with him.’

My mother understood. She had spent seventeen years loving my dad. It’s all in the past, now. And thankfully, writing this post helped me remember all the whys.

‘All I remember,’ she told me, ‘was that I didn’t like him at first, because one time, during the holidays, you told me that he told you that you weren’t allowed to call him while he was at home with his family. And I thought, oh, so he’s hiding you.’

I’d forgotten how one-sided our relationship was for the most part. I simply turned the tables.


I’m still salty that, after years of pushing my boundaries, my ex apparently can’t handle a single video conference with me. That’s all I’ve asked for in ten years.

Ben, often rational and annoyingly impartial, reminded me that my ex owed me nothing.

‘Yeah, all right,’ I said with annoyance. ‘It just feels unfair,’

‘Could it be that you’re upset because he rejected you?’

‘Of course I am. It’s so nice that he’s at peace and I’m sitting here still reeling after ten years.’

‘Pride cometh before the fall,’ Ben chided softly.

And then I thought, you know what, my pride can stand to take a hit. After my ex spent a few years humiliating himself for me, I can take this rejection.

My patron saints, St. Therese of Lisieux and St. Josemaria Escriva, both wrote about spiritual mortification, both in the context of the mundane, day-to-day interactions we have with people. I can learn from that, and move on from this.

We can’t really fully control what triggers us, or when our traumas resurface, but I’m satisfied with how I handled this episode. I disagree with my ex. Ten years is not a long time in the grand scheme of things. There are people who carry old wounds. There are traumas that remain in abeyance, only to resurface after decades.

There are insidious ways that people hurt the ones they love, and like a cancer, the wounds continue to spread unless found, addressed, and abated.


To my ex-boyfriend, if you ever stumble upon this, and have read this far, go suck an egg.

And I’m a bit sheepish to admit—I’m still in the process of healing.

The most important step is to acknowledge that the wound is there.

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