Raspberry Iced M

I got into a texting argument with someone last night.

I try not to do that, because it’s never satisfying, and no one “wins.”

But last night, I was intentionally triggered in such a way that my emotions got the best of me. And I fought back. Not in a way that shifted blame. But in a way that essentially took the lowest part of a high road.

This person said something to me that she’d been dying – for YEARS – to say. And last night, when I set a boundary, she loosened her grip on that thing she’d been holding onto…

…as if I don’t know my own past. As if I don’t currently sit in the consequences of my poor choices.

She just needed to let me know that she knows I’m awful – and the evidence to back it up came in a flood of text messages from a high horse no one except Jesus Himself should be riding.

My first instinct was to shrink. Making myself small is only humility in disguise. In reality, not using my voice – when appropriate – and cowering – is just as unhealthy as fighting. As I’ve written in other posts, we have to examine the motivation behind an action before we can decide if that action is done out of fear or wisdom. I maintain that silence is best in some situations.

But in others, we need to speak up.

I’ve known for a long time that this person does not believe I am good mom. From my perspective, any decision I make is condemned.

If I purchase a gift for my son, I’m “buying his love.” If I don’t, I’m “not providing.”
If I ask to be included, logistically, in my son’s medical care during his dad’s weeks, I’m overstepping. If I don’t, I’m uninvolved.
If I ask to switch custody days, I’m not respecting the court order. But if I don’t bend to his dad’s requests for trades, I’m being difficult and not coparenting affectively and hurting my son.

I can’t win…no matter the choice.

Back in February, my son’s insurance plan changed, and since then, I have asked several times for a copy of his new insurance card. After repeated avoidance, I finally stopped asking.

My son just turned 17 and just got his driver’s license. I paid for the class, the test, and the license. He received a “driver’s ed completion certificate,” which is required in our state, to add someone new to an auto insurance plan.

I woke up yesterday morning to a really busy work schedule. Mondays are usually busy, but I had three different meetings, 6 calls, and 35 emails waiting on me.

(No, I’m not exaggerating.)

At 10:14, my son’s dad texted asking for a copy of the driver’s ed certificate.

Many, many times, as I’ve just mentioned, I have asked for documents, and those requests have been ignored.

But that’s not what I was thinking when I got that text. I saw it. I made a mental note. And I continued working, having every intention of sending the certificate when my workday was complete. And I thought to myself, “Sure, no biggie, doesn’t seem like an emergency, and I’m super busy right now. I am allowed to prioritize my day in such a way that I do not have to do THIS right now.”

No such luck.

At 3:00, my son calls in a panic about the certificate.

“Mom, I’ve got to come to the house and get something. They’re getting on my nerves.”

Less than 5 hours after I’d received his dad’s text. And – reminder – in the middle of my workday. I was actually on the phone with a fire expert when my son called the first time.

I was so confused.

“Brother, I got your dad’s text. I’ve been really busy. I’ll send it when I get off of work.“

The call ends, and at that point, I felt compelled to respond to his dad’s message:

I am working. I have been working all day. I’ll send the driver’s ed certificate when I get off of work. It is not necessary to involve [son] in adult/coparenting issues.

…and that’s how the fight started.

Not between dad and me, but between his wife and me, because that’s just how it’s been for the last five years.

I saw both sides then, and I see both sides now.

From her perspective, this was something that needed to get done, and since they hadn’t heard from me, Jameson was the next person to ask. He’s 17, and he can be responsible for retrieving the certificate, because he needs it to be added to their insurance.

Got it.

From my perspective, it’s not an emergency, and since I am forced to wait for a response to my texts, postponing a response is within my right because I have a job to do. My son’s dad knows my schedule, and at 10:14 a.m., on a weekday, it can always be assumed that I am working.

But it doesn’t matter, because that’s how the fight started.

I won’t provide details, but I will say that this woman has been dangling a particular piece of my past over my head, just waiting for the appropriate time to trigger me. And last night, she had the opportunity.

And honestly – I don’t care that she felt like she had to “one up” me or that she even knows about that part of my past. But she was going to know that her attempts to make me feel small were futile.

My response?

Pointing out my mistakes and trying to shame me might make you feel better, or feel like you’ve “won,” but it’s not effective, because I remain accountable. I am responsible for what I did, but I am not responsible for proving to you that I’ve changed. You will only ever see me based on the narrative you have conjured up in your mind about the person I am. Opinions have value, but they are not always accurate. The Lord has given me the same grace that He has given you, and it is not up for debate.

That’s not verbatim, but that covers the gist.

What started off as a simple request to not use my son as a work around to obtain information suddenly became an attack on my character.

No bueno.

I told her I didn’t receive it. And I told her that I will not make it my mission to prove her (or anyone else) wrong. I told her that people are allowed to feel how they feel about me and treat me accordingly.

But I don’t have to live there just because they do.

I didn’t attack her or shift blame or try to “win.” I just spoke truth.

And one would think that I’d have left the interaction with a certain amount of peace and sense of accomplishment for not stooping as low as she did.

But in reality, I fell apart. I crumbled into a ball in the bathroom floor and broke down.

Because I know – objectively – that I spoke truth. I know that His grace is just as much for my taking as anyone else. And I know I grip it tightly – every day – because I can’t function without it.

But I also know that the truth I spoke hasn’t fully healed because of the mistake she so eloquently pointed toward when she didn’t like my text’s tone. I have punished myself for a year over that mistake. I carry the shame associated with that bad decision every day – like a bag of nickels over my shoulder – as if that one mistake was somehow the line between “I am given grace” and “I am irredeemable.”

I say all of that to talk about something a little weirder.

I think it is generally assumed that heartbreak lives in the heart.

Metaphorically anyway.

Sadness. Crying. Missing someone. Replaying conversations. Feeling lonely.

But in my experience, emotion moves into the body, too.

I ended up in the bathroom floor last night because I had to jump up from my seat in the livingroom to go vomit.

I know that’s gross. But my emotions became so intense, and her words cut so deeply, that my stomach couldn’t hang in there.

And there have been many moments when my emotional pain felt so heavy that my body responded before my mind could catch up.

A headache. A tight chest. A knot in my throat. Loss of appetite. Fatigue that no nap could fix. Shaking. Numbness.

And it’s unsettling – because I know the pain began emotionally – but my body became determined to participate.

So after therapy this morning (and subsequent meltdown #2), I did a little research.

When something hurt deeply, the body often shifts into “stress mode.” Your mind may think, “I’m sad,” but your body interprets that thought as, “Something is wrong. Stay alert.”

So your heart races. Your muscles tense. Your stomach reacts. Your sleep changes. And you become exhausted from carrying the invisible weight of emotion.

And if all of that is true, scientifically, that must mean this:

Just because pain is invisible doesn’t mean it is not real.

I began reflecting on how often I mistook that physical pain for weakness. And I still judge myself for it. Why am I so tired? Why can’t I focus? Why am I nauseous? Why does it feel like I’ve been hit by a truck?

But heartbreak and grief and fear are all stress, and the body doesn’t always distinguish between emotional danger and physical danger. The two things are not as neatly compartmentalized as I wish they sometimes were.

And I think, for me, one of the hardest parts is that the world keeps moving.

Full breakdown last night, complete with vomit and snot and uncontainable shaking…

…and the emails still come. The laundry still needs folding. The appointments still exist and people still need dinner.

I continue to tote that nickel bag of shame and still need to answer, “Can I have $30 for a new game?”

It makes ordinary things feel impossible. Taking a shower, getting dressed, returning a phone call, making a decision, eating lunch. Small tasks feel enormous because so much of my energy is spent carrying emotions.

I am learning to not make decisions from the peak of pain, but I still struggle. When my body is flooded and when I’m shaking and when I can’t think clearly, the last thing I want to do is send the message or quit the job or end the relationship. I spend a lot of time focused on regulating myself before deciding. Pain creates unnecessary urgency, and wisdom needs a little more times.

So…how do we care for our physical selves at the height of emotional moments?

That’s a good question. And I might not be the right person to give this advice, because I am still at the stage where I allow myself to feel the emotion instead of just burying it, even if feeling causes me to throw up or cry myself into dehydration.

But you can drink water. Eat something, even if you’re not hungry. Take a nap. Step outside for 10 minutes. Take a shower. Move your body. Pray. Write. Breathe.

I wanted healing to look like something dramatic and spiritual. But sometimes it looks like eating a handful of grapes and going to bed.

Sometimes my mind knows I’m going to survive, but my body hasn’t been persuaded. So I have to show it – by keeping my routine and taking care of myself as best I can – without feeding the panic.

Last night was a rough one for me. But today, I remembered that nights like that happen less than they did a year ago. And it didn’t happen all at once – it happened so slowly, in fact, that I had to try to remind myself that, at some point, the waves came less often. And eventually I’d gone a few hours without thinking about it. Then a day. Then longer. The body settled. The appetite returned. Sleep got easier. My chest loosened. And my nervous system stopped sounding the alarm quite so loudly.

But it has taken a year…and I’m nowhere near “there” yet.

Heartbreak is emotional. But it is physical, too. And I think that’s why healing requires more than telling myself to just get over it. When the mind needs truth and the heart needs grief and the body needs care, sometimes the most compassionate thing I can do is stop demanding full functionality, as if nothing happened.

Because something did happen. And it still hurts. And as long as it hurts, there is room for acknowledgement.