Why your body still flinches around family (even after you’ve forgiven them)

I saw my mom the other day. Oh, what a mixed bag.

There is the part of me that wants my mother. That misses the version of her who existed in my childhood and teens. Then there is the part of me that braces myself against her. The part that became her therapist, caretaker, fixer. The part that became resentful. The part that was screaming on the inside, “Get up. Get up and fight. Please get up.”

The version of me that braces

The part that judged her for being weak. The part that couldn’t understand where her mom had gone. The part that wanted to protect her, and was exhausted at the same time every time the phone rang. 

I don’t think about this part of my life very much. 

When the body remembers what the mind forgot

But my body remembers. It still flinched when she walked into the restaurant. It still scanned for, “What version of her am I getting today?”

I was relaxed that day heading there, so I wasn’t sure why I found myself talking faster than normal. There was a harder edge to my voice, reminiscent of a past life. 

And there were moments when we laughed, and it felt like the years of trauma never happened.

Then she said something and I rolled my eyes. immediately in my head I chastised, “Vera, don’t roll your eyes at your mother!” I started talking fast again, the fixer coming out to put out the potential fire of…what?

The next morning I reflected on my behaviour. I wasn’t proud of myself. And maybe it hurt more because I thought the healing was done. That we (me and myself) would never have to talk about it again. That we’d put it behind us, wrapped neatly in a beautiful box with a beautiful lock buried beautifully six feet underground.

I could almost hear the cosmic laughter.

The threads in the nervous system

The deeper the hurt, the more it’s threaded through the nervous system. These threads need to be picked out, one by one. We don’t see it til it hurts. Til a familiar reaction is triggered. That voice, that speech pattern, that urge to fix. These are the threads. 

Meeting the protector

I realized that the protector in me will always be there. She is there for me in times when I don’t feel safe. In times when she thinks the soft part of me needs to be shielded. In times when she thinks an incisive tone, sharp words and the warning signs of an anger explosion are needed.

She hasn’t had to work very hard lately. I was pretty sure I’d sent her for a forever retirement, somewhere in the tropics. But she flew out for a special trip that day. “Hey, you called?”

So that morning I thanked her for the visit. “False alarm,” I told her. “We’re good. We’re safe.”

While my body remembers the pain, it also remembers everything else. The part that wants to be held. The part that remembers all the times my mother did keep me safe.

Making peace with the flinch

I know that even at the time when I was judging her most, she was still trying her best. I see that now. 

The nervous system doesn’t respond to one-time decisions. It responds to decisions made, every day. I’d forgiven her, years ago. I realize now that I might have to make this decision again and again, until my body stops flinching when she walks in the room. Until I can tell my protector it’s okay to relax, to stop scanning for threats. That the triggers are false alarms, because I’m not the same person I was. 

The triggers may always be there. Rather than expecting that they won’t, I can make peace with the fact that I won’t always handle them with grace and perfection. But if I’m not caught by surprise - convincing myself that the work is done - then I can stay in the moment of what is.

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The nervous system doesn’t learn by thinking - it learns by practicing. If you’re exhausted from the constant pressure of holding yourself together, book a reset with me.