The Language of the Unheard

Disclaimer: I know not many people read this and those of you who do know me fairly well.  However, in case this post makes its way onto the screen of a stranger, let me clarify that the Black Lives Matter movement was part of a discussion during which I learned something about myself and should not be addressed in a comment.  This blog is supposed to be about how I’m processing the insights into the roots of my disorder. While I have some political ramblings on here, I’m trying to focus on what’s going on with me.  If you want to read and comment on my thoughts on our world, you can go here.

I tend to have extreme emotions to begin with but, my reactions to Black Lives Matter and Trump’s campaign have been completely over the top.  The demonization of BLM and the elevation of Trump’s ideology du jour feels like a personal attack on me, which is ridiculous.  The only targeted demographic that truly affects me on a personal level is Trump’s misogyny.  Still, the intense anger that overtakes my rationale when discussing either topic is perplexing.  My support for BLM and against Trump is justified on a logical level;  if I’m presented with a point by point list of each agenda, I can show-- calmly, rationally, respectfully-- where I stand on each and why. But when it comes to a verbal discussion, all sense of logic flies right out the window and doesn’t boomerang back until a mushroom cloud appears.   That’s not the best way to bring understanding and compassion to a subject.

A mushroom cloud appeared when I embarrassed myself, and probably my family, yesterday.  If you have seen any portrayal of an Italian-American family dinner and have gaped at how loud and intense the conversations can be, let me tell you, this really happens.  Yelling is how we communicate. About everything. Right down to who brought in the mail.  My role in the family is The Kid.   My cousin is also The Kid.  Respectively, we are 42 and 21 years old, but we are the youngest members of the local clan.  We are also much more introverted than the rest of the family. ( I’m going to pull my cousin out of this post for now since I cannot speak for her but wanted to mention that I’m not technically the youngest of the family.)  The Kid’s role in the family is to remember to “shut up and let the adults talk.”  While this is never actually said, it’s implied by various actions such listening to the first few words of my sentence and then either redirecting the conversation to someone/something else or cutting me off before I actually finish  my comment. Both actions have been happening to me at the dinner table my entire life. 

Most of the roots of my disorders need to be cut by being my own person. It is ok to assert myself I need to be confident in my thoughts, actions, and words.  I need to internalize that I am within my rights to express myself on any topic.  In return, others are allowed to dispute my points of view with their own.  This is how we learn.  This is how we come to understanding each other.  This is an integral part of a functioning society. Whatever label it’s given, conversations, discussions, debates, or fairly fought arguments over disagreements need to happen and they need to happen with respect.  If you are shown any disrespect, end the conversation and walk away until tempers have been controlled.  This is how I prefer to conduct myself. I’m not always good at it.  In fact, I failed miserably at my self-imposed decorum yesterday. 

However, my failure wasn’t because we disagreed.

A troublesome side effect of having Scrambled Brain is my lack of impulse control and how it likes to present itself at the most inappropriate times. I feel there’s a difference between acting inappropriately with someone who knows you well and someone who is an acquaintance.  Both deserve respect. However, if your manners bolt out the door with the former and if that’s not a habit, it’s easier to reconcile.  The latter isn’t aware that temper tantrums isn’t really your style.

Prior to this full-blown disorder, I would approach a debate with facts and logic:  “no, this is what the research states” and “explain to me why you believe that”.  Scrambled Brain has not only created a mess of the facts, but it likes to flip my Assert Yourself! Switch firmly into the On position.  That in itself isn’t a bad thing.  The problem is when my unconscious decides to fight a battle that isn’t the topic of discussion.

The discussion turned to Black Lives Matter and my opinion was in the minority of those voiced.  (DH feels the same way I do but he’s healthy enough to know when to speak and not.)  The discussion was heated— though, I honestly don’t think it’s easy for anyone to remain calm on this subject.    When I look back on it, I was the person I usually want to slap.  I wasn’t listening.  I wasn’t trying to understand.  I was more interested in saying what I had to say and dare anyone to tell me why I’m wrong.  That’s not who I want to be.  Ever.  About anything.   I was on the other side of how I expect myself to act. I was the disrespectful one and the gentleman, who, mind you, had some really good insights and points on the subject, did the adult thing and walked away.  Then I continued to argue with no one, but I was no longer talking about BLM. I was spewing frustrations over being told I’m wrong or dismissed before I finish expressing my point.  Let me get to that period or exclamation point and then have at it.  Please.

Yes, I apologized to him.  He did nothing wrong, really.  If I were in my right mind, I would have calmly requested that I be permitted to finish my comment and, from what I’ve observed, he probably would have complied. Instead, I raised my voice and slammed the table with every word.  The only thing good I can say is that my punctuated words were the rest of my statement rather than an attack on him.

I spent the next two hours crying and dissociating in and out before fell asleep for the night.

Aside from making a fool of myself and trying to explain this crazy disorder for the nth time in 4 years, I figured out why I become so blindly enraged when BLM is criticized.  I understand their frustration on a nonracial and nonlethal level. They aren’t Being Heard either. With every retort of ALL Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter,  the fear and grief of the Black community is being dismissed. Yes, all lives and blue lives matter.  Of course they do. But when those phrases are used to drown out voices rather than addressing the matter at hand, they become nothing but a three word silencing mechanism.  Any response other than “I agree” to Black Lives Matter is morally, socially, and ethically flawed in some way.  The reason for that flaw will vary from person to person and has no place in this post. (Maybe I’ll write another on Medium…)

Trump does the same thing through different tactics. When his statement is challenged and he cannot provide backup for his belief, he turns to mockery, insults, and fearmongering.  Anyone who doesn’t agree with him is fair game. Believe it or not, I would actually have a tiny bit of respect for him if he didn’t constantly stoop to lower and lower levels in his attacks. (Side note:  I do NOT agree with him on anything. “Respect” is meant to convey that I’ll agree to disagree.)  His popularity enrages me.  The fact that I have family and friends who would actually vote for him brings me to terrified tears.  Trump’s form of dismissal is dangerous for every single living being on this planet.  

People love to quote Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during national racial conflict.  I’m going to stick with this one:  “A riot is the language of the unheard.”  If you are dismissing this statement with “I’ve never been so mad that I’ve rioted”, a) good for you; and b) you’ve never lost your temper and yelled at or punished your kids for not listening to you?  I’ve spent my entire life not Being Heard. Being Heard does not require agreement.  I require my point of view to be heard and considered.  I agree that I need to make sure Scrambled Brain doesn’t interfere with giving the same consideration to others.  My outburst yesterday, and in past arguments on a variety other subjects, stems from almost constant dismissal when trying to join a dinnertime discussion for as long as I can remember.  

A riot is the language of the unheard.

I think it’s time to hear each other.