The Walking Stick Journal

Stepping Stones of Transformation

 

An Unfolding Manuscript

by

C. D. Baker

 

Chapter Fourteen: Walking Away

Our journeys are leading us toward something as we walk forward. But that means we are also walking away from something else.

And walking away is not easy.

***

July 2021

 

July 1: “Last week I watched a little boy in the ocean with his grandfather,” I said. “The boy was hanging on with both hands and laughing as huge waves crashed over them both.” 

Bill smiled.

“I’m not sure that I ever felt that kind of deep trust.” I feel a pity party coming so I change channels with a chuckle. “My sister says I’m not normal.”

Bill doesn’t laugh. “Children absorb what’s around them. They adapt in lots of ways to survive.”

He’s leading me somewhere.

“Parents create a norm that children internalize before they even know words.” 

“So, my sister isn’t wrong.” I force a grin.

Not smiling, Bill drops a bomb. “As a small child you were denied what you needed and pressed upon for what you couldn’t give. The hard truth, David, is that you are the product of abuse.”

I recoil. No. “Come on, I was never beaten, starved, locked in a closet…”

Bill leans forward. “Over these three years I’ve heard your stories, and I’ve witnessed your symptoms. You’ve experienced forms of neglect and emotional deprivation. That’s abuse.”

I hate the word. “You’re going too far.”

He’s not budging. “You have internalized a great deal and now abuse yourself in order to appease the unseen abuser still at work in your psyche. Your adaptations show up in your perfectionism, your control, your hyper-responsibility…”

Psychobabble.

“You need to walk away from that voice.” 

I dodge his eyes.

Bill sits back. “Why else do you suppose that a little boy would develop patterns of emotional detachment, excessive sacrifice, unnecessary guilt, harsh self-criticism, shame, and the deep sadness that we’ve talked about?”

I squirm. 

“The little boy inside is desperate to please, so he stays loyal even to dysfunction…even now. Look at yourself.”

I blow air out of my cheeks. I’m feeling an anxious sort of anger but can see how my early psyche may have fallen into something of an unintended trap.

Bill continues. “You’ve built an entire inner survival system—your citadel—on this foundation. I repeat: you have held to dysfunctions in your own life to please that voice. But it’s time to walk away from the system you cling to.” He leans in. “And you need to use the word, ‘abuse.’”

 

***

Session over, I head for my truck, struggling. I get that I had to adapt to some excesses. But Bill’s pushing it. Even if he’s right—if things were as he says—it was likely my fault. After all, I was withdrawn, even unreachable, and calculating. No, Bill doesn’t have all the information. The truth is that I failed.

 

***

Sunday. These days have been terrible. I need to be honest about my childhood but am alternating between resisting Bill’s assessment and suspecting that he’s right, at least partly.

This is overwhelming. 

I sat by my creek in the evening and imagined walking away from the voice of abuse. I could only take one step. I then closed my eyes and asked God to take care of him. 

 

Monday. Am beginning to accept some of this. Depressed, anxious, exhausted. I dug out some old pictures and choked. Then memories came.

 

Tuesday. Waking to a new low. Despairing, lost. I closed my eyes and had a pretend conversation with who needed to hear me. “Your intentions were always good. I believe that you loved me, and I did love you back…But I do reject your methods.” 

Eyes opened, I then reconsidered God, carefully. He and I have issues, too.

 

***

July 8. Bill seems troubled. “Feeling afraid to reject your abuser is a natural response. But to say that you failed him is a tragic statement.”

Wait. Reject him? No, I won’t do that, but I get what Bill’s saying.

“I’m sure that he loved you in his own way, but you rarely experienced it. You never trusted him with yourself, but his voice still carries you.”

We both look at each other for a long moment. This suddenly feels like a watershed shift. Bill must sense exactly that because he then says, “Accept the disorientation, it’s not dangerous.”

I’m so tired.

Bill places his palms on his knees. “We’ve landed solidly on truth, and this won’t change.”

He’s probably right; he usually is. I look out the window to my left. Abuser? Sorry, Bill. No. I won’t go that far. Abusive? Maybe sometimes. I’d prefer to think he was unaware. 

Bill’s patiently waiting. 

I take a breath. I understand what Bill’s saying. Good intentions didn’t do much for the little boy. Without the experience of love, little-me had to forge ahead.

I open mouth, but nothing comes out. I want to forgive. Maybe that’s the first step in walking away from the voice and its injurious messages. 

But, yes, I do need to walk away and it’s time.