Nails

Portraying toughness got me through a lot. Do I really need it anymore?

Of all the adjectives that have been used to describe me, “tough” is one that never quite sat right with how I see myself. I used to hate being described as “intense”, but now it doesn’t bother me as much. Some people like that about me, and those who don’t are not my people.

When I hear that I am “tough”, or “scary”, or “intimidating”, it confuses me, because it’s not how I actually am. I’m a squishy little bunny on the inside. I’m painfully sensitive, I love with my whole heart, and I am loyal to a fault.

I performed toughness to protect myself, because no one else was protecting me. I was on my own, and I cocooned the soft, sensitive kid inside me in a shell of forged steel.

As it turns out, that was a pretty lonely place to leave her.

Don’t get me wrong, I can be pretty fierce and tough when I am pushed to it. It usually comes from a place of love. I am never fiercer or tougher when I feel someone I love has been threatened, or mistreated.

The best example of this was when my mother met Rocco.¹

Rocco was a recovering heroin addict, and had been in and out of prison for most of his adult life. Rocco had a Mob-Adjacent quality to him. He had a gold tooth and wore a leather jacket. He was charming, funny, and exactly the sort of dude you do NOT want to fall in love with. They had forged the kind of bond you form in dire situations, and he protected her from some of the bad elements in the hospital.²

My mother decided that he had fallen in love with her, and that this was some Romeo and Juliet shit. At the time, it didn’t bother me that much, as I knew she was miserable in her marriage and figured a crush couldn’t hurt. But as she got more invested, I started to worry. Even at 17, I knew this was a bad idea.

My father had just gone into a 28 day rehab, so it was just my mother, my brother, and me for a while. Friends came by to check on us, including Rocco. The day I met him, we decided to go to the local rec hall and shoot some pool.³

At one point, my mother went to the bathroom, and I decided it was a good time to have a chat with my new friend Rocco. I was palling around and joking with him— I am very good at disarming people — but the second my mother was out of sight, the cute teenage girl was gone and the lioness came out.

I looked at Rocco dead in his face and was like, “My mom likes you, and I’m cool with you guys being friends. But if you hurt her, I’ll fucking kill you”.

His eyes nearly popped out of his head, and even though I saw a laugh starting to form, he stopped himself. He told me he respected my mother and he respected me, and that he would never do anything to hurt us.

I believed him. I truly believed he was a good dude deep down, but I knew that the second he started using again, he wouldn’t be. I had more experience with addicts than I should have at my age. I softened a bit and made some kind of joke, and then my mom came back and the game resumed.

From that day on, Rocco called me “Nails”, as in “tough as nails”. I kind of liked the nickname, even if I knew he thought it was adorable that this teenager came roaring at him like a hissing kitten. But I also think he knew I was serious, even if there was no chance in hell I could actually do anything to him. I think he kind of respected it.

We only saw him a few more times after that. In the end, he did the decent thing. He stopped calling. He stopped coming around.

My mother was crushed. I was relieved. One less problem for me to deal with.

There’s something that happens to me when I feel unsafe or attacked. It’s the most primal feeling I’ve ever known, one that comes from a place so deep that I try to squash it immediately. So when I recently got some information that brought that feeling out, that primal feeling, my immediate impulse was to stop it. To numb it. To disavow it.

To make a long story short, my no-contact with a family member was broken without my knowledge or my consent, and a person I trusted kept this information from me. That’s only a small part of it, as it’s a real Turducken of Triggers, but that’s what made me completely freak out.

I knew that I had to ask for space, because if I said how I actually felt, I would not have taken the high road. I know how I get when I feel cornered. And taking the high road has always been my proof that I am not what my family said I was. That they still believe I am.

What I was feeling wasn’t anxiety, not quite. It also wasn’t sadness. It was that feeling that my world was crumbling down, even though it wasn’t. It was also intense, blistering rage that had nowhere to go. I felt like I was trapped in my body, and all the yoga and meditation on earth wouldn’t get my nervous system to down-regulate.

By Monday, I felt a little better, but not much. I felt like my armor was failing. My whole body was tensed up in a hypervigilant knot. I had to reassure myself that my reaction was not irrational. I had every reason to be upset, and every reason to be a little messy.

Fortunately, I had an appointment with my shrink after work. She’s not my primary therapist, but I trust her and she knows my history. When we got on the call, I revealed my distress immediately. I told her what happened, told her how it made me feel, and told her that I was really frustrated because I tried to do all the “healthy” things to calm myself down and they didn’t work.

She listened patiently, and then said, “I’m really sorry that happened, I totally understand why you are feeling this way, and as far as your coping methods not working — you don’t have to be an honors student on this one. I think getting a C is perfectly acceptable here”.

I laughed. She was right. I am still trying to figure out how to treat myself with gentleness, to shed myself of perfectionism, and to remind myself that all the therapy on earth doesn’t mean I will avoid being hurt or triggered.

And then she said something I thought about all week.

“You were a parentified child. As an adult, you have had to build your life and your sense of safety from the ground up. You, Adult Kari, realize that you are safe. You understand that they cannot actually hurt you. But your child-self doesn’t feel safe right now. You need to find a way to make Little Kari feel safe before you decide how to respond, if you respond”.

At first, I was like pfffft. Honestly, sometimes I hate the inner child stuff. Child Me is Me. I think its fucking insane how there is this demarcation, as if your Child Self and your Grown Self are two completely separate beings from other planets.

But that’s not the point. The point is that Little Kari didn’t have options, or agency, even though she was expected to deal with grown ass problems. And as Little Kari got older, the adult I was becoming learned to build a fortress to keep her safe, but never actually did the work of showing her that she was safe. I left that poor kid up there for god knows how long.

As the week wore on, I still felt these waves of that horrible feeling. I didn’t turn to faulty coping, I just thought about what my shrink said. And finally, I decided it was time to take my shrink’s advice.

I conjured up Little Kari in my mind, and sat her down.

“Okay, buddy,” I said to myself, “What’s going on?”

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Of what?” I asked.

“That I’m going to get in trouble”.

Oh.

I reassured her that she was not actually in trouble. Then we had a snack.

Many people — especially late diagnosed — with ADHD worry about getting in trouble for their whole lives. Because we are prone to making mistakes, and deal with rejection sensitivity, we’re convinced that we did something we don’t remember, or that people will figure out that we actually suck and everyone secretly hates us. It’s why to this day I still am worried that I’m getting fired anytime my boss calls me into his office. It causes less anxiety now, the feeling usually passes, but it’s the first thought that pops into my head. I worry when people are mad that they’re mad at me, and then I wrack my brain trying to figure out what I did wrong.

In this case, I worry that expressing my anger will result in retribution, or having my own mistakes and my own trauma thrown back in my face. To which I say….so the fuck what? Why do I still care what they think?

I don’t care, but my younger self does, and I have to check in with her more often. All she wants for someone to listen to her. To have someone know that she is hurting, and that she’s not okay. That being tough all the time isn’t what a kid is supposed to do. To let her write, because writing is the only way she can make sense out of any of it. To let her know that she has been heard. To let her know that making a mistake or showing that she’s hurt and angry will not result in her losing everything.

I think she deserves that. And I’m the only one who can give it to her.

Yes, I can be tough. But now, I think I want to demonstrate strength through vulnerability. It’s a really uncomfortable place for me, but growth happens when you’re uncomfortable.

I don’t need to wear the mask of the Tough Chick. I don’t need to pretend that I am strong, because I am strong. I don’t have to perform it. I don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

As for Little Kari, I’m letting her run free, letting her write, and letting her express her pain. And I will listen to what she has to say. I will tell her that she is safe, she is loved, and she is enough — whenever she may need to hear it.

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KBQ

1. Not his real name

2. My mother met him in the psychiatric ward after she tried to attempt suicide when I was 17.

3. Fun fact — I used to be a pretty good pool player. I wasn’t a pro, but I could hold my own. One of the guys I dated taught me, and by the end I was even beating him once in a while.