Physical and emotional responses

Last night was an interesting experience. I've been working some gruelling shifts and an issue has cropped up at work which has been causing me some concern. I won't go into details as this might compromise confidentialities and besides, it would be irrelevant. However, I had been nursing my concerns when a team-leader had made a decision that had not been thoroughly thought through, resulting in a near-miss incident. I am forever making ill-conceived decisions but I tend to be very intolerant when others do the same. I reacted with disproportionate anger.

This was clearly an example of my residual anger breaching the 'flood defenses'.

Last night I was itching again and tapped on the itch (but not the specific area of my anatomy that was itching...... I've learned that lesson). I think it was four, maybe five rounds before I got rid of the itch. Anne was tapping with me.

"Right." says Anne "I think we better address the nitty-gritty now, don't you?" She was referring to the anger and she was right. I was assuming the root cause of my anger was the episode with Gloucester Social Services. The department had put someone in a serious situation, had cost me my job, my house (as a result of losing my job) and, for a period during the six months I was suspended, a degree of my sanity. It seemed enough for that to be the root cause.

Half way through the second round, it occurred to me that the individuals who had cobbled together the 'kangaroo-court' that saw me silenced and dismissed were just human beings protecting their interests. I quickly realised that I didn't want to confront them and tell them what I thought. I wouldn't invite them to spend Christmas with me but I didn't particularly want to see heads roll. I didn't need to confront them with the truth of the matter because they knew the truth of the matter. It occurred to me that I had resolved this anger. Surely tapping couldn't work that fast, could it?

Well, no. Or rather, I don't know but it hadn't worked that fast on this occasion. I was simply barking up the wrong tree.

My residual anger was well established at the time of the incident with Social Services; hence me blowing my top, phoning the Director of Social Services and telling him that, if anything should happen to the patient or a member of the public as a result of their incompetence, I'd be discussing the situation with the press. I was effectively wrecking my career in a temper tantrum. There were a number of rational approaches I could have taken to address the issue effectively and appropriately. But I'd chosen to throw the baby out with the bath-water.

As always with such issues, the root causes go way back. What do I first recall being angry about? I was pretty angry as a child and I think I need to lay down some of the background here.

My mother had very fixed ideas of how things should be and was very intolerant of any deviations from her rather narrow concepts. She had married a man she could control (my father was possibly the least assertive man I ever knew) and had decided early on that one should have two children: one boy and one girl. Her firstborn (a boy) died of diptheria in infancy. My brother was born a few years later so she had her son. I was born seven years later.

My earliest recollection of feeling inadequate was being told by my mother that she had "prayed to God for two children: a little boy and a little girl." then, with a forced and exaggerated expression of affected joy, she added ".... and the Good Lord sent me two lovely boys."

She had a way of delivering a smack-in-the-face in such a way that she could never be accused of it. She was outwardly telling me how lucky she was to have her "two lovely boys" but the subliminal message was that I had somehow fucked up her plans.

This kind of put-down was a recurring feature of my childhood. If I was hit or bullied by other children, she would outwardly sypathise and comfort me with such assurances that they [the bullies] should have known that I can't stand up for myself and they shouldn't pick on weaker children. If I stood up for myself, she would point out that violence is never a solution to anything and I should have walked away. If I walked away, she would suggest that they'll never leave me alone unless I stand up for myself. I got the overall message early on: if I did it, it was wrong.

I've been drawing for as long as I can remember. When my mother first noticed I had a talent for it, she decided to 'nurture' this talent by teaching me to draw (despite the fact that she didn't possess this ability herself). She went through a phase of telling me (not showing me of course) how a drawing should be constructed and, needless to say, none of my attempts achieved the standards she was trying to set. She eventually gave up declaring that I "wouldn't be told" and that I "never listen".

How come I didn't grow up to be a transvestite with an inferiority complex I'll never know. Something in my genetic makeup made me respond with anger. I think maybe I inherited her intrinsic concept of the self always being right and any disagreement must be wrong. I didn't try to fulfill her impossible ideals, not because I didn't feel I was up to it but because I felt I was right and she was wrong. Consequently, we were always at loggerheads.

Also my father was a valuable, though inverse role-model. He was an example of what happens when one tries to keep the peace and give in to her. Everything he did was wrong in her eyes and so he embraced that identity: "Oh well, you know me. I bugger everything up". I didn't want to live like that. Surrender was Dad's coping strategy, anger was mine.

Even up until her death, I could never talk to my mother about anything that moved me or interested me. She would always change the subject by saying: "Let's talk about something nice" as if I'd been talking about sado-masochism or vivisection. Usually, I'd be talking about music or art or how I feel about something or other.

You might get the impression that I detested my mother but I didn't. There were many, many things I detested about her but I still loved her. Such is the unfathomable complexity of emotion. I had long ago stopped wanting to please her but I had never actively wanted to displease her. From adolescence onward, I simply went my way in life. I kept her informed about what I was doing or planning but didn't seek her approval or pay any mind to her inevitable disapproval.

Consequently, the anger went underground. It was pointless ever trying to confront my mother as she was unable to take on board the possibility that she may have been wrong about some things. I would never get my 'day-in-court' in that respect so I just carried on allowing her to be as she was while I continued to be as I was.

Whereas anger was initially my coping strategy for combating the destructive elements of my mother's nature, humour has always been my coping strategy for dealing with the anger. I think, without either of these and definitely without both, I would have been a mess.

As it is, I have been extremely lucky to have effective coping strategies that work to keep things in perspective. However, I do need to deal with this anger.

I know I have inherited certain negative traits from my mother such as my intolerance of anything that disagrees with my own views. However, I try to balance this with reason (not always successfully). I grew up learning to cope with always being wrong so, when I realise that I am wrong, it's no big deal. However, it can take an awful lot of insisting that I'm right before I arrive at this conclusion.

This could be the old procrastination rearing its head (or rather, planning to rear its head as soon as the time is right) again but I think I need to put aside the time to address this. It could raise emotions that I'm going to need time to work through.

Positive result

I'm not sure about how much of this I want to share online but, having given it much thought, I've decided to discuss it in full.

For a number of years now I've had various areas of intense itching which includes a small outbreak of eczema under my left arm. Itching from this can be quite intense and I know I shouldn't scratch but ......ooooooooooh! Such bliss! If there is a pay-off to itching, it's the scratching; the one thing you shouldn't do. Such is life.

Another area of fairly intense itching is around my anus (OK. You're beginning to understand my reticence now..... it gets worse). This is not as bad as it was a few years back. I went to the doctor and described my symptoms (ie; I got an itchy bum, Doc). He nodded sagely and promptly "diagnosed" pruritis ani. Well, I'm not an expert on medical matters but I do have nodding acquaintance with Latin. "Er.... thank you" I replied "But isn't that just my symptoms in Latin?" (pruritis = itching, ani = bum). "It's what your condition is called" he countered. Terrific. I went to a doctor to find out that my itchy bum was called Itchy Bum in Latin as well. Maybe I should have gone to a linguist and found out what it was called in Greek, German, Swahili and Esperanto.

The cream he prescribed helped to some degree but it didn't address the root of the problem and I'm pretty sure I know what that is. In 1995, I lost my job with Gloucester Social Services as a result of trying to address serious failings on the department's side that resulted in a very vulnerable person being put seriously at risk. To be honest, it was threatening to take the issue to the press that clinched it but the result was that Old Ron was ejected from the department and the patient in question remained at risk. Needless to say, I was extremely angry about that. I was suspended for six months before I was finally spat out and, during this time, I developed my itchy bum. I have been scritching at various parts of my anatomy ever since.

The itch is my residual anger and this is something I clearly need to address. It's not just my bum and my armpit but my testicles are also prone to intense itching (I told you it gets worse).

Scratching one's armpit in public is one thing but people really get uncomfortable around someone who is constantly clawing at his rectum and testicles so I tend to grit my teeth throughout the day and have an orgy of scratching when I get home.

Sunday evening I had a real Jerry (Jerry Lee Lewis as in "Great Balls of Fire"). It was unbearable! Scratching is only blissful until you reach the point at which it is painful to touch. Tap on it I thought to myself and as soon as the thought occurred to me, I began tapping (maybe I'm getting somewhere about my procrastination after all).

Although I have this intense itching in my testicles, I completely accept and love myself exactly as I am........

My balls are really itchy......
My cobblers are on fire.......

And on it went for three, maybe four rounds. My SUDS began at ten and quickly came down to zero. That night, my itching was so intense, I couldn't sleep. My armpit, my bum, my arms, my legs....... I think even my pillow was itching at one point. The one thing that was definitely not itching was my balls. OK. We do need to be specific but maybe it helps to be inclusive in some circumstances. More to the point: what I obviously need to be tapping on is my anger not the itching. The problem is that, over the past 12 years, I've learned to suppress my anger, making a SUDS evaluation rather difficult. When I think about the episode now, I'm not aware of any feelings of anger.

Actually, as I am writing this, it has just occurred to me that I could approach this slightly differently. I was trying to locate my anger while typing the paragraph above and I instinctively visualised myself in a room with those responsible both for the neglect of the patient and the treatment of yours truly. What would I have to say? A foaming diatribe, that's what! That is clearly the hook. The foaming diatribe could be described as a ten and, presumably, passing the time of day with my adversaries and talking about the weather could safely be regarded as a zero.

Now I have things to do so I'm going to have to publish this and get on but more on this later.

First tappings

Yes yes! I know! The 24th came and went without tapping. That’s us procrastinators for you. So it’s been a fairly long time since my last entry on 24th (I’d thought at the time that it was the 23rd but, by the time I’d posted it, it was well past midnight) which may not be a long time in blogging terms but longer than the following day as I’d intended.

However, I finally tapped on my inclination to procrastinate. It was quite spontaneous (Well, OK. Spontaneity can take a while with me) ––– that is to say that I hadn’t planned it. In fact, if I had have planned it, it would be on the cards for tomorrow.... then something else would turn up and...... well anyway, it just sort of happened.

I was taking my dog for a walk. It had been an unseasonably pleasant day and even warm enough for me to remove the coat I’d put on more because I’m English than because I was cold. One wears a coat in November in England. Normally the weather ensures this is a wise precaution but the weather was in a particularly unpatriotic mood today.

Fudge (that’s the dog) was happily snuffling around the teasels and chasing imaginary rabbits while real rabbits looked on in confusion. Some even hopped off and returned with other rabbits to enjoy the spectacle. Fudge is a singularly unobservant dog. Throw her a stick and she’ll come back with an old boot but I digress yet again. Maybe something else to add to my ever growing tapping list.

I took the opportunity to sit down and watch Fudge leaping around terrorising the teasels while bemused rabbits looked to me for an explanation. I don’t speak rabbit and even if I did, my dog’s behaviour is none of their damn business. It occurred to me that this would be a good time to begin tapping.

I can’t say it was a particularly enlightening experience but I’m sure this will develop over time....... I hope so anyway. However, focusing on my thoughts brought on that curious condition when you gaze at the whole scene before you without visually focusing on anything. You reach a point when you are seeing everything in equal emphasis which never occurs in the normal course of looking. This tends to confuse the visual cortex which is better suited to homing in on specific details and seeing the rest only in the periphery. This creates a shift in the lighting: the foreground became darker and the evening sky became brighter. I managed about two rounds of tapping when I think I drifted off into some kind of meditative state. Anne insists this was a result of tapping but I’m more inclined to think it was a result of allowing my otherwise fidgety mind to become still for a moment.

I don’t know how long I had remained like this but I thought it had become quite dark and, as soon as I had become aware of this, the lighting shifted back to normal and it was actually lighter than I’d thought. My eyes had simply been on the wrong F-stop, so to speak. When my vision had flipped back to normal, I suddenly became aware of a small insect that caught the low angled light from the setting sun in startling, iridescent brilliance. Everything was so still. I rolled a cigarette and watched as the first cloud of smoke I puffed out –– the wasted puff I immediately eject on lighting a cigarette –– as it drifted slowly across the fields holding its form in the still air.

I’d been reading about the Law of Attraction (or rather, I’d been paying uncharacteristic attention while my wife read it to me. She ought to be in advertising; she really knows how to push a product) and I found myself wondering whether the stillness I was experiencing was attributable to the stillness of my environment or vice versa. It seemed a ridiculous idea but then, why should my mind be less still if it had been windier? Does the wind actually blow my thoughts around? This is an equally ridiculous notion. Perhaps nothing is truly ridiculous...... just misunderstood.

I’d been meaning to ‘phone my brother who has been unwell for some time. It seemed that every time I thought about ‘phoning him, it was either too early in the morning or too late at night. I work unsocial shifts but the truth is that I have had ample opportunities to ring him but had still left it until the days became weeks and suddenly it’s two months since I’d called to see how he was. I phoned him when we got back (he’s fine, thanks) and I can’t honestly say whether this was because I had tapped on my procrastination or simply because it had entered my mind quite early on a Saturday evening when there was no reason not to do so. I had also intended to put up a towel rail in the bathroom which has now been relegated to what has always been my favourite day for doing things –––– mañana.

Well, small steps at a time. I’d finally got around to actually tapping and calling my brother. If I get that towel rail up tomorrow, I’ll really be on a roll!