It’s not often that I go back to pick over my old pieces of writing, but I’ve been picking over a lot of bones recently, and this one felt ripe for a revisit.
The original version of this post appeared on my Substack, when I’d had the thought that ALL my writing would live there… It’s now spread all over the place, as chaotic as the mind that writes it…
If you want to read the original article, it’s here… I suggest you do, if you’ve not already.
So why am I going back for round two on this?
There isn’t an answer to that, at least one that doesn’t make me look like some weak and feeble shell of a human; but at this point in my life I don’t really care what most people think.
At the end of Black, I wrote that:
The lesson has not been learned, and there are many more stars in the sky. But this year, I have a feeling it is time to change the script. I am looking at EMDR, and perhaps finally I will stop searing… because the stars will always shine, won’t they?
I have been merrily processing my trauma; there have been distinct key topics that I’ve covered, abusive relationships figure heavily, and I thought I’d been doing really well.
Then Sometimes by James came on the radio, on the A34 heading back towards the M60, and I cried. Not just a little trickle of tears either – big, fat, snotty crying – which, unsurprisingly, has returned now.
Why the tears? Why go back to this old blog?
Because both Sometimes and Black sit in two places in my memory. Two distinct relationships, separated by decades but very much a case of history repeating itself.
I am OK with that for the most part; the relationships I have entered into in the recent past have been consensual, and I have no shame in that. However, they were only ‘allowed’ to exist as relationships (and when I use the word relationships here, we’re not just talking about romantic; we’re talking about all types of relationships) because I had not dealt with some of my trauma. Also, throw in a hefty dose of limerence, and you’re looking at a recipe for disaster.
For those of you not familiar with limerence, it’s an interesting place to be, and I only recently realised that a number of my adult relationships may have co-existed in this space rather than being balanced and healthy.
If you have a neurodivergent brain, then limerence is a form of infatuation. There’s no other way to describe it. You become obsessed with someone to the point where you’re essentially existing in a fantasy that will never really come to pass. You idealise that person so much that you no longer see their red flags. For me, this wasn’t always a bad place to be. I spend a lot of time in my own head (by choice), and I can build worlds where I feel safe, so to be in a state of limerence with someone isn’t a bad thing. I am just getting someone else in on the act!
This is also not to say that you don’t care about the person; I did. It’s just that the level of interest is so much more intense and the vision more clouded than if you were not in the state of limerence.
The downside is that all of this is future-based thinking; it’s not living in the present, and the present I existed in suffered as a result. Add to that the grief of losing my dad; it’s the perfect storm.
The further issue with this is what happens when it ends? What happens when the object of your limerence disappears without a trace? You’re left grieving… And that is what I have come to realise, with the help of EMDR, is that I have never really grieved for these relationships… for decades!
So on the A34 yesterday, when Tim Booth et al. sang
(Sometimes) sometimes
(I look in your eyes, I see your soul) and meet your soul
(Sometimes) sometimes
(I look in your eyes, I see your soul) and reach your soul
(Sometimes) sometimes
(I look in your eyes, I see your soul) we can touch your soul
(Sometimes) sometimes
(I look in your eyes, I see your soul) we can reach your soul
We can reach your soul
They really did reach my soul, and for a moment, I allowed myself to mourn the death of something that I genuinely did feel was going to be forever.
Not Middle Aged 