It is difficult to know where to start on a story that has interlocking pieces. Do you remember those little jigsaw puzzles made for kids? The ones with the cardboard trays that hold nine or twelve puzzle pieces? I suppose this part of the story equates with the tray. It isn't directly part of the story, but it forms the basis for how I relate to people and situations. If not for this, it's possible I would have reacted differently.
For all of my childhood, displaying emotions was highly discouraged. Well, not all emotions. Laughter was always permitted. My father had a great sense of humor. He had to in order to live with my mother. There were always funny stories, jokes, lots of teasing and laughter. I don't want you to think I had a miserable childhood, because that isn't accurate. Showing fear or anger, making unkind remarks, whining and complaining – those things weren't tolerated. And self-pity or crying was absolutely forbidden. Tears for any reason (from about the age of 4) resulted in being sent to my room. There was never any sympathy when I cried, never any hugs. Just banishment.
I learned early on that showing pain, unhappiness. frustration, anger, etc. ended with being banished. I became the poster child for the stiff upper lip. If you couldn't interact pleasantly with people, then you needed to be isolated from them. No one was interested in your problems, so you kept them to yourself. Crying showed weakness and was undignified. So I internalized a lot. And when I did become emotional, I made sure no one else ever saw it.
I always had friends growing up, but I was never comfortable sharing personal things with them. I certainly couldn't share with my mother. My sister was a lot older and married and moved away when I was still young. I grew up not ever feeling free enough to share any personal, emotional issues with anyone. It just wasn't permitted at home, so I didn't feel welcome to talk about myself—period. I was always a bit taken aback by friends who did whine and moan about everything under the sun.
I'm well into middle age, and except for a brief interlude I've had no one to talk to about personal matters for my entire life. My husband had his own issues and didn't invite confidences and certainly not tears. He considered them manipulative. I haven't cried for so long that I wonder if I've forgotten how. It's been at least 15 years, probably 20. I didn't cry when my dad died, a man I adored, or when my husband died. I just don't cry.
An online friend is the closest thing I've ever had to a confidant. But there are things I don't tell him, either. I did discuss the crying thing with him. The few times in my life when I've given in and had a good cry I remember how relieved I felt afterward. I've often wished I had that as an option to relieve stress. But I just can't manage it. Anyway, he is convinced that my desire to be spanked (he knows about that, too) is a subconscious desire for stress relief, that being spanked will give me an excuse to lose control of my emotions and make it okay to cry.
I think he's wrong. I don’t cry when I’m spanked—I have the classic sexual response to a spanking that so many of us have. Besides, the thought of anyone seeing me break down is horrifying. There is a conflict between my intellect telling me that there isn't anything wrong with crying and my conditioning preventing it. In any case, I don’t think that a desire to relieve stress—to cry—is what drives my desire to be spanked.
Controlling my emotions is such a part of me that I seldom consider it a problem. In some ways it's an advantage. It helps me to remain calm and rational when dealing with unpleasant situations. When I was young it lent me an air of greater maturity and resulted in my being offered some opportunities normally not available to someone that young. Overall, it has served me well. So being repressed isn't all bad.
Doc, your audio tapes fascinated me when I listened to them. I wish I felt free enough to let my guard down and just react to a physical stimulus like that. But it is unlikely that will ever happen. The one time when it did, I was as traumatized by the total loss of control as I was by the situation that produced it. And I worry that if I do ever break down again it will be really ugly and all those years of repressed emotions will surface. I don't want to impose that on anyone. It's weird and perhaps irrational, but I feel almost obligated to stay in control.
So, this is who I am - reserved, stoic, uncomfortable about showing emotion, unable to cry, generally able to roll with the punches, more comfortable listening to others’ problems than sharing my own, much harder on myself than I am on other people, insecure but able to mask it most of the time, never quite measuring up to my own expectations, filled with angst without an emotional outlet. This is the tray into which the pieces of my puzzle fit.