Mother, May I Have a Door
On rooms and doors and sharing as a survivor
The other day, my husband (I think I’ll just call him E) casually mentioned that when we visit his extended family after Christmas, there wouldn’t be a separate room for us. We — me, E and our son — would have to sleep on a blow up mattress in the lounge room, sharing that space with other members of his family doing the same.
This set off an instant whole-body alarm system: my heart started pounding, my chest constricted, I felt like I was trapped in a crevice between immovable rocks. I tried to calm myself, repeating my mantra this is not an emergency, and managed to say, ‘I don’t think that will work for me.’ Only it came out all jerky and monotone, because a much louder voice in my head was screaming, at the same time, are you fucking kidding me?! Why would you want to put me and our son in immediate danger? What is wrong with you? Can I even trust you anymore? and telling me to start packing my bags, take my son and slip silently into the night to a faraway place where we would never have to share with family ever again.
***
My father had his own mantra: it’s safe to share love with family. Sharing, in my family, was synonymous with giving-away, with what’s-yours-is-mine : sharing meant no boundaries, material or otherwise. When I was little, all eight of us slept in an open mezzanine (my eldest sister was thirteen at the time). Then, when I got my own room, I had no door for many years, only a curtain hanging in a hole in the wall. A curtain could not offer me protection, nor even a semblance of privacy. It would only shudder slightly, like the fear down my spine, when someone chose to enter my room. I begged for a door, but it was seen as unnecessary, frivolous — almost suspicious: what do you have to hide? What do you have that you aren’t willing to share?
When I finally got a door, there was no lock; in fact, there were never locks on any of the doors in our house, including bathrooms and toilets. We have nothing to hide here.
***
After I got those words out, there was a fraction of a pause before E said, ‘Ok, we’ll work something out.’
In that pause my internal pole swung, with whiplash speed, in the opposite direction. I felt the shame of being a burden, of making things difficult and weird yet again, of not being chill and enjoying things that normal people would. Because yes, time and again my trauma makes things complicated, awkward, difficult. Especially since becoming a mother. Being a mother has triggered my trauma a million times over, and also, I am a mother who is actually aware of the very real risks most normal people don’t think about, which allows them to be chill. And so I’m always working incredibly hard on facing and releasing old patterns and beliefs so that they don’t run my life or negatively impact others, while also not allowing myself to sink into the passivity of victimhood that makes me ignore my intuition and my own boundaries out of hopelessness or attempts to appease others. In almost every situation (particularly when my son is involved) I am trying to strike an impossible balance — trying to figure out, is this my trauma speaking, or is this a real, present-day concern/threat?
And sometimes I mess up. I ignore a gut instinct because I tell myself it’s just trauma paranoia; or, I have an enormous, fiery blow up or set a razor-wire topped boundary over something minor and feel terrible afterwards when I’m regulated and realise the response was completely out of context — that is, if viewed outside of my PTSD lens. Normal things don’t come easily to me; everyday situations send me spiralling, and can tip my nervous system (already on high alert) into full blown fight/flight/freeze mode. And yet I feel so responsible for owning my trauma, for trying to navigate it all as ethically and responsibly as I can. This is partly healthy, but also partly driven by fear of abandonment, a defensive urge to manage it all myself so that people won’t leave, so that I can say, yes I’m messed up but I never let it affect you!
It is exhausting. The constant trying, the relentless press press press of it all. Some days, it’s too much. Sometimes, I might have an out of place PTSD response that comes from the most wounded part of me, and still it deserves to be listened to and acted upon and protected — to be gently tended to and cared for by myself and my loved ones. Even if it’s not logical, even if it’s only so that part of me can rest like she never got to rest, so she can feel at peace in the way she never felt at peace. She deserves it.
At no time is this more clear to me, than when I’ve come through another cluster of flashbacks, and feel deeply connected to that little girl — most of the time, she exists as a sort of exiled part of me, a ghost hovering on the margins that I wish would get over it and leave me alone, stop messing up my life with her tragedy and paranoia and rage. But then, when I am really present with her, when she brings my life to a grinding halt and I must stop and face her, I truly see her. I see how deeply brave she is, how funny and kind and wonderful despite everything she’s been through. I see how she is the reason I am alive: her courage, her intelligence and resilience, and yes, even the protection of her hyper-vigilance that I fight now because it causes complications in my life, but that was once life-saving. God, how I love her, that fierce little gremlin, wound tight as a spring: smart-as-a-whip, cunning as a starveling wolf, lightning fast and still as the face of the moon. Precious girl, I am in awe of her. At these moments I would gladly die for her — I’d fight til my last breath to protect her, to defend her right to privacy, and peace; to space and sleep and YES, even her own fucking bedroom. Preferably with a door.
I grew up in a home where my "room" was a den with only 3 walls. What would have been the 4th was the pathway to pass from one end of the house to another. One of those walls had a open window from the kitchen. Everyone else had their privacy. Apparently I didn't need that. Once I got old enough, I built a treehouse. Some of our inner children love the way you describe your inner child in that last paragraph. (Imagine warm fuzzy happy feelings behind a crooked little smile.) So much of this post describes our own inner experience. The overreaction to perceived but technically non-existent in the moment threats are embarrassing for us. And yes, you/she absolutely deserve soothing comfort at such times. We're so glad you have someone to stand with you. Even if the threat isn't now, the impact is still very much real! Thank you for sharing this, ISA!
My childhood home was totally open, except for my parents' bedroom (which we weren't allowed in) and the bathroom. I had recurring dreams for years about being busted in on while in the bathroom until a therapist stumbled upon it (I casually mentioned recurring dreams and they asked for more info). They interpreted it as what they called an intrusion dream. I hadn't at that point yet pieced together my mother's and my ex's abuse, but that session got the ball rolling. I'm still healing. It's a long road. I'm glad to have found your work. Thank you.