When the Past Comes Back, Uninvited!

by Martin Mcleish

I should be angry, I think. Instead, I am experiencing a huge upwelling of grief. My younger brother and I had been estranged for some seven years. Two weeks ago, I suddenly had contact from him on Whatsapp.

I decided to bury the hatchet, and I responded. The conversation started haltingly. I then re-sent him my story of my recovery from alcohol addiction and a story of a wild dolphin that interacted with me whilst I was suffering from a pituitary tumour.

Two days later I got a phone call from him. He started crying as he answered the phone. He told me he was shocked by the story I had sent him. He had no idea! That started me crying too. Repair between us was effected and completed.

Three days ago, I asked him if he remembered an incident that occurred some seventy years ago. He said he only had vague memories of what occurred. I reminded him of the incident.

Some years ago, our family was about to move from South Africa to a mining town in the then Rhodesia. My father was to become the local GP. The mining town could be described as rough.

My mother had delusions of grandeur and considered herself part of Johannesburg’s high society. Johannesburg was not convinced, and the mining town of Hwange had no doubt at all. Mother was ostracised within weeks. I was five at the time, and my younger brother was four.

Mother decided that we were to go to the local school wearing girls’ hats. There was a difference in the boys’ and girls’ styles. Girls’ hats were round; boys’ hats were Stetson-like. She did not want us looking like those “little thugs.” Dear God!

At first break, we were surrounded by kids in the playground demanding to know why were wearing girls’ hats. “What’s wrong with you?” demanded Hazel, a large eight-year-old daughter of Irish immigrants. Drenched in shame and terror, I told her they were not girls’ hats. Her response was to pick up a largish stone, which she threw at me. It hit me on my inner knee and dropped me. I started crying, which was the fuel the mob had been waiting for. They closed in, shouting “Sissy boys, go back where you came from, wearing girls’ hats! What is wrong with you?”

People, I can tell you that I dont know of a more traumatising experience, at that age, than having the tribe you are part of tell you that you don’t belong! Providence took pity on my brother and me in the form of Mrs Johnson, English teacher. She came striding out of the staff room, shouting “Leave these boys alone.” She marched my brother and me back to the classroom. “Stay in here till the end of break,” she said. She asked “Son, why are you both wearing girls’ hats?” I had no answer for her. That was the first instance of trauma I remember from childhood.

Two days later, after recounting this incident to my brother, I started reacting to what happened so long ago. When the feelings started coming up, I expected anger. The truth of the matter is I dealt with the anger a long time ago.

What was coming up for me was raw, unprocessed grief: volcanic, almost projectile grief coming from my solar plexus area. This was the sort of energy I dont ask “What is this about?” I just have the emotions, and, in this case, there was only one way to honour and release the energy. Tears—hot, healing tears—and let them run till they are done!

Now it’s day two after recounting the story, and I am starting to understand what they are about. They are about the start of a very harsh and damaging period of isolation from family and even society. They were about my later addiction to alcohol and what went with the addiction. This included an inability to form one-on-one relationships, or any close relationships, and an inability to stay in one place for any length of time, which definitely impacted my earning ability.

There was zero self-pity in what unfolded. It was rather a deep sense of sorrow at the senseless tragedy that followed—at how what could and should have been was lost.

It is day three now, and the grief is being replaced by a quite different feeling. The feeling includes deep connection with and deep feelings of respect and love towards . . . Moi.

I started this work forty-two years ago when I broke my addiction to alcohol. Had I had any inkling of the pain that would occur during my recovery, I might have said “I will start next month.” There have been periods of intense emotional pain, but I refused to run.

I recognized that “what I resist persists,” and on that basis, I attempt to experience fully whatever arises and learn the lessons I need to learn. This might not lessen the intensity of the experiences, but it does shorten them. If I ignore stuff as it surfaces, I can guarantee it will come back till I deal with it.

I have also lost a lot during my period of recovery. These would include, my anxiety, my black-dog depression, and perhaps most importantly, my toxic shame and self-hate. Gains have included periods of pure joy, bliss even? Yeah! A pretty strong feeling of awe about who I have become and an ability to bond with men. Perhaps that will occur with females too at some stage. The gains are grown and developed by ongoing work of self compassion/kindness, and this is no hardship.

My hope is that the preceding story does not come across as some whiney tale of hardship, rather as a testament to what occurs when you do the work as it presents. Don’t think about doing the work. Don’t talk about doing the work. Just fucking do it! It is very scary when the feelings start to come up if you have not had your feelings in the past.

I have been as open and honest about what happened to me as I can. There are a couple of reasons for this. The first is the fact that being open and honest about what went on is cathartic and healing for me.

There is another reason, as well. By sharing my experiences, I have had people contact me saying “Thank you for talking about what happened to you. The same happened to me, and I have never spoken about it to anyone. I will now start dealing with the past.”

Instances like that are pure gold for me and contribute to further healing. I have heard some people do “Warrior Weekends.” Good job! I have done Warrior Decades. Would I do it all again? In a heartbeat!

May you all be well. May you all be happy. May you all abide in love, peace, and prosperity.