I’ve always had a temper; it’s just in my younger years, I was really good at reining it in. Like, inhumanly good. I had to be beacuse I was punished for not doing so. Not physically, but emotionally shamed/chastised for it. I was not allowed to show any negative emotion. If I did, I would be screamed at by my father or my mother would give me the “I’m eating a very sour lemon” face while drawing her lips tight.
Only my parents were allowed to show their displeasure. My father either by shouting or being silent for hours whereas my mother would either cry or pull faces while she complained to me about my father (her marriage). It was during these times that I learned to keep a tight lid on my emotions and all my reactions.
It was so bad, that I had to unlearn a lot of coping mechanisms later in life. In Taiji, my teacher taught us chin-na (joint locks) techniques. We would practice them on each other and tap out when the pain was too much. Except, because I had such control over my reactions, I did not react to the techniques. At all. Now, I’m sure you can see why this might be a problem. The chin-na did not do permanent damage if you let go quickly or before you went past the point of reasonable.
Since I could not tell what that point was, I was in danger of having something broken. I wasn’t trying to be tough or to flex; I truly did not feel anything. There’s one where you grab the thumb and jerk it downwards toward the wrist. I can already almost touch my wrist with my thumb, and I would not notice if someone pushed it a few inches further.
My teacher declared that I could only do it with her and even then she had to tell me to tap out when I thought it was a reasonable point of pain.
Additionally, when I got my tattoos, I would fall asleep much of the time. Or I would find it erotic. The only time the pain was more prevalent was when the tattooist was doing my collarbone. That was excruciating. The rest though? Not a problem. I have four tats. One large one on my left boob. One small one above my stomach. One band of thorns and flames on my left forearm. One rather large band of waves and flames around my right upper arm–with a yin-yang as the medallion joining the two sides.
I want to get another, but the tattooist I used to go to left the state a few decades ago. I’m not sure I want to go through the trouble of finding another one. I don’t go out much because of my incredibly shitty immune system, and I’m not sure I really want another tattoo. Or rather, I do, but I’m not sure I want to go through the bother to get one.
If I did, I have two ideas. One is a joke tattoo that the Discord I’m that several members got. It’s small and innocuous, and it would take less than an hour. The other is–wait, no. There are three ideas. The second is one I’ve had for quite some time. It would be a Piece, and it would take many hours. Maybe more than one session. Also, I can now feel pain. Somewhat.
My teacher asked her teacher about it while he was visiting our class and doing it with us. He told me to go up on my toes, and then he did thechin-na technique. My knees immediately buckled, and I neaerly dropped to the floor. He explained that you could not tense more than one muscle at a time, which made sense.
You know what got me to be able to feel my rage? Dying. Twice. Oh, and probably the stroke. I’ve heard that having a stroke can cause problems with anger management, and I think it’s true. I’m not trying to make an excuse, but when the rage bubbles up inside my head and heart, it’s incredibly difficult for me to stuff it back down.
Like, physically difficult. I was having an argument with my mother tonight, and I had to literally talk myself down from snapping. I mean, I was already raisisng my voice and trying to talk over her beacuse she has a bad habit of just contining to talk without regard for the other person. (Pot, kettle, maybe, but she did it way more.)
There reached a moment when I could feel myself about to boil over. I knew if I said one more word, it was going to be incredibly ugly (and many words). The devil on my shoulder was pushing me hard to just say the ugly filth in my head. I wanted to pour out the decades or rage on my eighty-plus year old mother. Which would do absolutely no good. There was no point, especially as my mother would just make it about me somehow.
I literally talked myself down, and then said in a very tightly controlled voice that we should change the subject. I thought she wanted to push it, and I raised my voice a few more decibels to override her. I was tired (hadn’t slept much) and just not in the mood. I had made my peace with Christianity, but it did not mean I wanted to talk about it.
I truly believed that whatever brought someone comfort in this cold and cruel world, that’s a bonus and a plus. As long as I didn’t have to hear about it when it was something that I fundamentally disagreed with. From people whose religion wanted me to not exist. (Sore point. Yes, my mother is anti-queer.)
I was able to keep my grip on my temper–barely–but I had to breathe smoothly and slowly several times in a row. And I had to count again. Not to any specific number, but just count. I almost literally saw red as I tried to keep my voice even. We finally got back on track, but it was touch-and-go for several minutes there.
I hung up the phone feeling absolutely drained and defeated. I don’t mind (much, well, ok, I do, but I’ve accepted it) being my mother’s emotional dumping ground, but I do have my limits. I do NOT want to get into an argument about wars, politics, or religion. Especially not with my mother. As I said to her (quite reasonably, I thought), she was not going to change my mind, and I was not going to change hers. There was no reason for us to keep talking about that particular subject.
I’ll have more to say about it tomorrow.