Two years after finding freedom from Misophonia my healing continues. This is a series of letters I wrote to my "Rage" part after encountering, witnessing, and unburdening this part of me that I now see was completely on my side and misunderstood.
Dear Rage,
I’m so sorry Rage, I can see now that I completely misunderstood you. All this time you were trying to help protect against the seemingly constant attack of certain sounds that pierced my ears and spread through my body—tense muscles attempted to stop or block the torture—but to no avail.
You peered through my eyes, constantly on the lookout for the next source of pain. When it came you tried to speak, but others inside said “you can’t let him out—no one will like you, it’s inappropriate, and it’s not their fault anyway”. Over and over again you were silenced, pushed down, and held back. Shame came in to shackle your limbs—the only force capable of countering your scary desire to destroy the source of agony and release the unbearable.
When I found you, the source of the pain had been gone for an awhile, but still you stood guard—dressed in camo fatigues and armed with weapons to keep the enemy at bay. I stood by you to understand your point of view—high on a hill where you could see the enemy coming from far away. You looked at me, gave me a “sup’” nod and said, “I got you”.
“Is there an enemy still out there?” I asked, joining you in your survey of the vast valley below.
Puzzled, you thought about it and said, “No, I guess not. There hasn’t been an enemy for a while now.”
“Is it safe to relax a bit?" I asked, "Maybe a chance to stand down and just enjoy the view?”
“Yes” you said. “That would be nice.“
Suddenly a comfortable chair appeared and you took a seat, lit a cigar, and sat back, puffing away contentedly, now a retired veteran of a 35 year war...
Dear Veteran,
A few weeks later I came to check on you. You still sat there watching over the valley. You acknowledged me with a nod and a “don’t worry I got your back still”.
I told you how sorry I was that you had worked so hard to protect me and expressed my appreciation. You broke down—sobbing with grief—and I somehow understood the enormity of your burden. For so long you had fought to protect me, to prevent the “sting” that never seemed to cease, but nothing you did helped, nothing you tried worked, and no one understood the frustration of being held back…silenced…powerless.
I cried with you, feeling the pressure release in the form of tears and a shaking body as my presence provided the witnessing needed to sooth the long-held pain. You fell into my arms and I hugged you as your form began to shrink from a hardened soldier to a young boy about 9 or 10 years old.
You looked up at me with a wet face, but you were smiling, appreciating me with the knowledge that you didn’t have to fight or stand guard anymore. You could just be…you.
“Can I go play basketball?” you asked. “Of course!” I said encouragingly, and you scampered off…
“We don’t even like basketball” another part chimed in.
I replied, “Well obviously a part of us does” as memories came to me of times in the past when basketball was fun.
I smiled and walked back down the hill...
To that little part of me that never stopped fighting, THANK YOU.
Thank you for never giving up.
We are fighting in a different way now, and this time,
it’s me that has your back.
Love,
Self
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