2021: Defying Gravity - Part #2 - Back Story

​Dear Reader,
 
                 We meet again. Welcome back.
In my previous blog, I talked about some of the important life changes I made in 2021 and let you in on how I’ve been doing lately with my mental health. There have been massive changes all-round, and I still have some explaining to do in terms of how all that came to be.
                I mentioned the fact that c-PTSD, which I was recently diagnosed with, finds its roots in repeated and prolonged trauma, often starting in early childhood. I also referred to the great fucktastrophy of 2019, but had not yet gotten around to telling you what that exactly entails.
                It’s a long story full of plot twists, segways, interwoven storyline, smoke and mirrors; I’m still in the process of untangling the confusing chaos myself, and finally writing it all down is just another way in which I’m slowly putting the pieces of the puzzle together as I process and move on. So, if you’re along for the ride, buckle up, buttercup…it’s going to be a wild one.
                In order to understand what happened and why it had such a huge impact, you need to know a little more about me and my history. Let me start with a bit of a back story….
 
                SETTING THE SCENE
 
                Rewind back to 2016 for a second, to my 30th birthday.
I brought all my old bands back together and organized a giant jam session just for the occasion, inviting everyone I cared about to join us. It was a memorable evening involving some pretty epic shit, including but not limited to a guitarist in a fur coat and a giraffe legging, and my dreadlocks somehow getting tangled in the guitar strings at one point. I still think of that night often, it meant so much to me. When I walked into that venue, hung up the balloons, welcomed my guests, climbed onto the stage and sang my lungs out for four hours straight, I wasn’t just celebrating my birthday, I was celebrating that I was finally alive.
                ​As you know, I’ve had my struggles in the past and dealt with depression, anxiety, self-injury and eating disorders for over a decade. After roaming the mental healthcare system for many years without sustainable results, I’d almost resigned to “just learning to live with it”, since that’s what I was repeatedly told by the countless professionals who couldn’t figure out what to do with me.
                It was pure grace that I met my coach when I did, leading me to discover a vastly different approach that actually worked for me. With her support, I embarked upon a challenging journey as I took full responsibility for my own health and happiness. Working incredibly hard on myself, I faced my demons, challenged my limiting beliefs, healed old wounds, built and strengthened relationships, learned new tools, got my life on track and I was finally standing on my own two feet. I had secured my dream job teaching biology at a school that I absolutely loved, I’d gathered a tribe of wonderful people around me, created a nice little home for myself and I was finally living life to the fullest.
                Although I knew there was still work to be done, I really believed that the dog days were finally over and I had come out the other end a stronger and better version of myself. For the first time in my life, I was fully alive, healthy and happy. Genuinely happy.

                HOPES AND DREAMS
 
                My recovery left me feeling equal parts euphoria and sheer outrage. I mean, not only had I just spent a decade of my life needlessly suffering, wandering through a broken system and unaware that there were other options…but there were so many others out there still doing that same thing!
                Now that I was aware that there were better, more effective options, I wanted to learn more so I could continue to heal and grow, and learn to help others as well. After all, I had navigated that dark labyrinth, I knew it like the back of my hand and now I also knew the way out. I simply could not -in good conscience- just happily skip off into the sunset and keep that knowledge all to myself.
                One of the methods my coach used was Neuro Linguistic Programming. I already had some prior experience, since I’d briefly worked with an NLP coach in the past and I’d minored in coaching during my Batchelor’s degree. But now I also had this profound personal experience with it and the results were so spectacular that I was excited to learn the methods for myself. After all, up until then practically the whole world had been trying to convince me that my mental health – or rather, the lack thereof – was a life sentence and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. And just look at me now! That shit’s golden, and I felt compelled to pay it forward.
                I saw myself helping those who, like me, found themselves struggling and spinning in circles in the psychiatric system, believing that they would never recover simply because the conventional route did not meet their needs. I even hoped to one day develop more effective treatment methods, train therapists and make this type of healthcare more accessible.
Obviously, I didn’t plan to achieve all this overnight, or even over a decade for that matter.
It was more of a long-term passion project that I wanted to do alongside my teaching job. Although that may seem impractical to some, that’s just how I roll. I love having projects alongside a steady job. The stable income provides me with the freedom to authentically go all-out on my passions.
                Take my work at the gym, for example: since I’m freelance and not financially dependent on it, I’m free to choose which classes I teach and when. That way, I can fully focus on the ones that suit me best or that are most important to me, and leave the rest for someone else. Honestly, it doesn’t even feel like work. It’s more like a paid hobby and it gives me more energy than it costs.
                So, I wanted to approach coaching the same way. Money out of the way, I’d focus fully on the clients that best fit my target-group and take enough time to expand my skills and knowledge. Ever better: I could help people for free or at low cost, thus lowering the threshold for people who couldn’t afford ‘alternative’ help. I didn’t have a timeline in mind, but I was keen as mustard!
 
                MAKING IT HAPPEN


                You probably haven’t noticed this about me – insert sarcasm - but I’m one of those people with a ridiculously large collection of hobbies and a broad scope of interests. And once I latch on to something, there is no holding back. I’m going to dive in and immerse myself entirely, because half-assed does not exist when it comes to the things that I’m passionate about.
                So, once I had my sights set on learning to coach and changing the mental health game, I couldn’t wait to start paving the way. My first step was finding the right trainer, and I knew that the person who had trained my own coach just so happened to be one of the best in his field. Wanting to acquaint myself first, I scooted on over to his website and scrolled through all of the options for shorter experience workshops. They all seemed equally interesting, so I just signed up for the next one on the agenda: Analytic Profiling.
                Then, later that week, I spontaneously invited my father to tag along. It’s actually kinda funny how that happened. Over at my parent’s place for dinner, I walked in on two of my brothers arguing with one another as my father unsuccessfully tried to mediate by imposing his solution on them without actually listening to their needs. Having observed the situation, we later struck up a conversation about the patterns I’d seen and I offered some ideas for a more effective approach. Now, that may sound like a bit of a weird topic of conversation between a father and his kids, so for context I should add that my father and I have many common interests, and as a businessman and a total geek for logic and analysis, he was quite open to discuss communication strategies with me, especially since it could benefit him in the future.
                Anyway, my analysis must have piqued his interest as he asked me where I’d been learning that stuff. So, telling him about my own coaching trajectory and my ambitions, I invited him to come along to the workshop. Knowing for sure he’d absolutely love it, I thought it would be a cool father-daughter activity. And if it ended up being beneficial to our personal development and our family dynamic, then that would be an added bonus.
                Initially, my father was a little hesitant. He argued that he’d tried before, but he could never seem to find a trainer that was ‘far enough above him to teach him anything new’. Eventually, I managed to convince him that if he really was interested and if finding a trainer was the bottleneck, a one-day workshop would be a great way to test the waters. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
                And so that next Friday, we showed up at the venue together and spent the day learning all about the fascinating world of micro-expressions and body language. We had an absolute blast and lo and behold, my father was so enthusiastic that he enrolled for two training courses on the spot.
I was extremely keen to participate myself but I couldn’t afford the tuition just yet and I was pretty bummed about the prospect of having to wait a few more years. You can imagine my elation when I was offered the opportunity to participate at a discount, so that my father and I could do the NLP Practitioner training together!
                Looking back, I’m sure that the trainer saw something happening that very first day at the workshop and had good reason to train me alongside my father. I wasn’t aware of it then, but would provide me with tools and insight that would come to be of vital importance in the near future and for that I’m eternally grateful. But at the time, I was simply thrilled to get started on what turned out to be a life-changing journey that continued on through many more courses, including NLP Master Practitioner and Master Coach of Strategic Intervention. I had a dream, and I was making it happen!
 
                JOINING FORCES
 
                My father and I commenced our training together in the spring of 2016. It was an exciting time, I was completely obsessed with everything new I was learning as I put my skills to practice and spent every spare minute devouring books, videos and every scrap of knowledge I could add to that.
                And if you thought I was fanatic, wait ‘till you hear about my dad. He raced ahead as he always does, and within just a few months he decided to pull a 180, leave his current occupation and start his own coaching and training business. Business cards were printed, a website was set up and his first clients were hauled in all before he had even completed his first course. He was soon well underway with huge plans and aspirations, and the most exciting part was: he wanted me to be a part of it!
                My father’s new business, NLPro, expanded quickly alongside his ever-growing ambitions. Considering my own aspirations, it didn’t take long for us to start collaboratively fantasizing about future endeavors. My father planned to continue expanding his business with coaching, workshops and training in personal development as I planned to carefully start coaching alongside my teaching job, working to build a foundation from which I could impact the mental health system in the future.
                Although we both followed a different timeline and approach, there was enough common ground for us to consider joining forces, combining my personal experience and teaching skills with his boldness and entrepreneurial experience. We could refer clients to one another, develop and teach new training courses…we’d be having fun and making an impact at the same time!  
                As this project was so close to my heart, I really wanted to take my time and do it right. It was an exciting yet daunting prospect, as it required my venturing out into vastly unknown terrain and putting myself out there. As a lone wolf who doesn’t enjoy networking or asking for help, I had to let go of my primary instinct to do everything by myself. But for a cause so important to me, I was willing to set aside my hesitance and accept that collaboration was essential to making it work. Considering the relationship I had with my father, I concluded that if I was going to take the dive and trust someone to hold my best interest at heart, my own dad was my safest bet.
 
                DADDY’S GIRL
 
                They say that first-born daughters always look like a female version of their dad. Well, my younger father had long hair, leather pants and a rock band and I swear that if you photoshop my teenage face on that mental image, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
My father and I have a lot in common, not just in looks. For instance, we’re both thinkers, cerebral and analytical. We get high on learning, information our drug of choice and book collections bursting out of their seams as we consume facts and theory as though our lives depend on it. We’re fast learners with an extensive and ever-growing array of hobbies and interests; whatever we dive into, we’re immersed in no time at all and we aim to master it quickly and proficiently.
                We are also both incredibly creative and share a passion for music, which is probably what we bonded over the most. We both sing and play various instruments, took part in musical theatre, visited many concerts, played together at parties and family gatherings and even formed a band for a while. That was our gig, pun intended. He was prouder of my talents and achievements than I was, and just loved showing me off to anyone willing to listen, no matter how awkward I felt about it.
 
                With so much in common, it makes sense that I naturally leaned more towards him. I was a real daddy’s girl and I thought the sun shone out of his ass. He was so smart, charming and resilient, there was nothing he didn’t know or couldn’t do. Everybody seemed to love him, and the few who didn’t were either jealous or threatened by him. Craving his approval, I wanted to be just like him.
                Looking back though, I wonder if I really was that close to my dad, or rather to the image of him that I’d created in my mind. You see, my father wasn’t really around much during my childhood. I was hardly aware of it at the time, but he was always either at work or out somewhere chasing his latest passion. If it wasn’t band rehearsal, he was training search dogs or dangling under a helicopter whilst on a Search and Rescue mission in the New Zealand bush.
It was easy to hold up an illusion of him as the coolest dad ever, and to view my mother as the ‘bad cop’ who always spoiled the fun. After all, my mother bore the brunt of our upbringing and my father was more of a superficial presence who fixed things, brought gifts and told cool stories.
                My mum basically raised four kids on her own. Five, if you count my father. She tells me that she simply accepted that my father was the kind of person who, brilliant as he was, needed to be left free to do his thing. So, she cleared the path for him. Working from home, my mum held down the fort, taking on an extra job at the supermarket in the early hours of the morning just to keep a roof over our heads when business was slow. She was also the voice of reason whenever my dad’s ideas, plans or promises became too risky or fantastical. My mother was the stable factor in our household.
                My dad could be quite a whirlwind; extremely ambitious, and often impulsive, careless and full of hot air. He always had some new plan or idea that he was convinced would make it big, and it always leaned on the premise “fake it ‘till you make it”. Refusing to acknowledge risks or failure, he never bothered to be cautious or prepare for potential problems. He just went for it, and he’d figure it out along the way, no safety net required.
                Although his bravado and optimism often got him very far, very fast…it did come at a price. He took his chances and often enough this led him to great heights, but the knife cuts both ways. Things didn’t always go according to plan, leaving a trail of destruction that was somehow always someone else’s fault and someone else’s job to clean up. But no matter what, he was always quick get up, dust himself off and move on. It was one of the things I admired most about him, though I didn’t realize until much later that he could never have done it without my mum. She picked up the slack, she was the safety net. If anyone was taken for granted, it was definitely her.
 
                Personally, I had a bit of a complicated relationship with my mother. For the longest time, I subconsciously assumed she didn’t like me very much. Looking back, we just didn’t understand each other very well and we often got our wires crossed.  As a baby, I had bad digestive issues and I didn’t like to be held. Whenever she tried to cuddle me, I pushed her away. This left her feeling insecure, wondering if she was doing something wrong. Sensing her hesitation, I assumed that I must be faulty and we both ended up feeling some kind of unspoken rejection from one another.
                My mum can also be pretty high-strung, which in my young brain translated itself to the conclusion that I needed to take care of myself, and protect her. Que the development of a hyper-independent miniature adult who preferred to be left to her own devices, as if I wasn’t stubborn enough to begin with. Both being very precise, strong willed and wanting things a certain particular way, our personalities just clashed. Thankfully, we get along a lot better these days.
 
                FAMILY PORTRAIT

                To the outside world, I’m pretty sure we looked like a perfectly normal, happy family. And for the most part, we were. I mean, we were an odd bunch for sure but we hardly ever fought, we loved each other and we had our good times. But of course, every family has their ow problems and we were no exception to the rule.
                My parents had their own struggles resulting from their own histories respectively, and in our household, we simply didn’t do vulnerability. We connected and communicated on a superficial level as we each co-existed on our own little islands, and difficult conversations, feelings and conflict were avoided like the plague; you just had to suck it up. Generally, we dealt with the hard stuff by ignoring, downplaying or rationalizing it and focusing solely on practical solutions.
                Children aren’t born with the ability to navigate and regulate their own emotions; this is something we learn from our primary caretakers. Parents obviously do the best they can with the skills and knowledge that they have at their disposal, but their approach doesn’t always match the child’s needs. I can’t speak for my brothers, but personally, I felt like I couldn’t turn to my family for support if I was going through something difficult. I didn’t learn to regulate or navigate my emotions, needs and boundaries, in a healthy way; instead, I developed a whole myriad of unhealthy coping mechanisms along the way. Because unfortunately, I did experience some hard shit throughout my childhood that I could have used some help processing.
                Our family immigrated twice, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it definitely comes with its challenges. And for years, we lived in an unsafe neighborhood where it wasn’t at all unusual for the neighbors to slash our tires, smash our windows with empty beer bottles in the middle of the night or burgle our house while we were out for a swim. There was always tension under the radar, amplified by the fact that my parents both worked their asses off but could barely make ends meet.
                Although they tried to hide it from us, I remember waking up one night to the sound of my parents crying in the next room, and suddenly being very aware: if even my dad is worried, we must really be in trouble. Aside from the struggles we had as a family, there were also things going on in my own life that I didn’t quite know how to handle. I was bullied relentlessly at school but I quickly learned not to come home upset, as I was told to either ignore it, or toughen up. I also experienced repeated sexual abuse at the hands of our next-door neighbor, which ended up in a court case and the whole shebang. Unfortunately, the emotional support and guidance that I needed was not up for grabs and I came up with my own creative, make-shift solutions such as dissociation, bottling things up, moving into my head, people pleasing, perfectionism and avoiding authentic connection. Those solutions got me through when I needed them, but obviously they weren’t exactly adequate for the long haul.
 
                FATHER’S FLIPSIDE

                My relationship with my father was complex; as much as I loved and admired him, there was quite a flipside. There were certain patterns in his behavior that impacted me, our relationship and our family dynamic dramatically, and caused a lot of harm over the years.
                To me, my father was a very confusing man. The things that he said and did, and the way he presented himself, didn’t seem to line up with how I felt when I was around him. He could be very controlling and manipulative, though in a subtle way that was practically invisible to the naked eye. On the surface, he was always a kind, charming paragon of politeness, reason, and understanding and because of that, it took me many years to figure out what was happening in the undertow.

                A remnant of his own upbringing, my father often used guilt or emotional blackmail to bend me to his will. I was often told I was selfish, and from a young age he instilled in me his own version of the ‘emotional bank account’. Effectively, this meant that everything had strings attached. If I did something wrong or refused to do what he asked, he only needed to remind me of everything he’d done for me and hint at how my decision may affect our relationship the future, that would win me over. And if not, threatening ‘what will everybody think’ was a very effective way scare me straight.
                As you can imagine, it wasn’t easy setting boundaries or communicating needs and feelings with him; he simply didn’t accept or acknowledge what didn’t suit him. Over the years, all this took on a life of its own in my brain as literally any social interaction became a transaction and I felt like I was in permanent debt. If someone so much as smiled at me on the street, I felt guilty. Hell, I even felt bad if I gave someone a gift or did them a favor, because by doing something for them, it could potentially make them feel guilty, and I felt bad for putting them in that position.
 
                To my father, the notion that different views and opinions can co-exist, was foreign despite the Covey principles preached. He lived in a very black and white world; it’s either win or lose, you or me, and there’s only room for one truth. Thus, if our worlds ever collided, his primary objective was to make sure that his own world remained intact, and he would stop at nothing to achieve that.
                ​As a child, I quickly learned that my feelings, experiences or needs were only valid if I could rationally back them up. The only way to create space for my own existence was to provide a rock-solid logical argument or an appealing lure to get the other person on board. To this day, I still feel compelled to over-explain everything and question myself all the time, not to mention my knee-jerk reaction to immediately try to win over anyone who has a different opinion from my own before I lose my right to exist. I don’t like that about myself, and it takes a conscious effort to work around it.
 
                Discussions with my father were a mind-fuck of epic proportion, I often left conversations feeling drained, confused and empty. Smart and quick witted as he was, he’d have you buried under an avalanche of information and trapped in his web of logic in no time. He was incredibly convincing and persuasive, yet also freakishly good at conjuring guilt and shame from the crevices of your mind. And the most mind-boggling of it all, was that his calm and rational good-guy exterior never faltered.
                During conflict, I felt immobilized. His tactics ensnared me like vines wrapping around my limbs, his calm demeanor making it so that I couldn’t possibly express myself without looking like the bad guy, or like a crazy, irrational drama queen. And so, internally, I was screaming to be heard as I thrashed around and hurtled myself against the bars of a sound-proof cage, breaking my bones with the sheer force of my own frustration. Conflict always tore me up inside, because if I chose myself, it would inevitably result in disconnection from the other person, but choosing to comply would lead to disconnection from myself. I had to choose between two evils and I usually ended up choosing the latter, thus learning to sacrifice my authentic self in order to receive love and acceptance. Conflict still terrifies me, although it’s really the loneliness and the pain of the disconnect that I’m afraid of.
 
                My father was also very achievement-oriented and could be extremely critical. I assume his intention was to help me grow and improve, but keen as I was on earning his approval, his pushing caused a lot of frustration and performance anxiety on my end.
                I remember being twelve years old and signing up for a talent competition. My dad was probably more excited than I was, and he made it his mission to see me win. Devising a makeshift microphone stand out of an oar attached upside-down to a chair and a microphone duct taped to the handle, he had me rehearse my song over and over for weeks, adding props and choreography, videotaping me and reviewing my performance dozens of times. Unsurprisingly, I eventually got sick of it and I told him I wanted to continue on my own. My father got incredibly angry and argued that I’d never win if I didn’t stick with his plan. When I replied that I just wanted to have fun and I didn’t care if I won, he yelled: “That’s ridiculous, no one does these things for fun. You’re either in it to win it, or you’re out”. When I disagreed, he exclaimed: “Well, don’t come crying to me when you lose!” When I ended up winning second place, he was the first to brag about my achievement, though.
                I also clearly remember an incident following my first parent-teacher conference at high-school after moving to the Netherlands. Considering the fact that I’d just moved half way around the world, learned a new language and adjusted to a completely different education system, I was quite proud of my results, as was my mentor. Coming home expecting a pat on the head, you can imagine my shock and bewilderment when I was suddenly standing with my back pressed to the fridge as my father got up in my face and began loudly reprimanding me for not trying hard enough.
                My father was very intelligent, but he had a hard time meeting people at their level of understanding. He loved to help out, but to be honest, his help often left me feeling more insecure and bewildered than I felt beforehand. I will say that I quickly learned never to ask him for help with my homework as having him explain math to my dyscalculic brain was a recipe for disaster. His last attempt ended with me in tears of frustration and him yelling in my face: “Oh come on, you’re not even trying! You’re just pretending to be a moron!”
                Accepting help from my father was a precarious thing. His love of teaching and helping others may seem like a noble cause, but I often got the impression that it had more to do with his need to be needed, or to be seen as special and interesting. An opportunity to showcase how good, smart, nice and helpful he was. The way he pressured me, led me to believe that my success was very important to him. And it was, especially when others were watching; he loved to show me off. But the way he helped me often set me up for failure, for example by giving me incomplete, vague or incorrect information, feeding my insecurities and pushing me into the deep end before I was ready, eventually leading to my defeat along with the inevitable blows to my self-confidence. It was almost as though he wanted me successful and independent in public, but he also needed me to fail and be dependent on him behind the scenes. I walked a tightrope trying to balance the two.
                What I learned from all this, was that lacking a certain skill or piece of information was not acceptable. And so, I would avoid or run from situations, bluff my way through, anything to avoid asking for help or admitting incompetence. I mastered figuring things out for myself, always keeping my eyes and ears open to pick up missing puzzle pieces. Any venture had to be done right the first time, and it had to look easy. I lived in a constant fear of being unmasked, ridiculed and cast out, an imposter amongst all these people who knew what they were doing.
                I had adapted myself to observe and learn quickly, making me as independent as possible. I didn't want to need anyone. Yet the constant anxiety simultaneously kept me tethered to my dad. I was unknowingly under his control, convinced that I needed him to help me navigate this big scary world. I felt helpless, so ignorant about the ways of the world and yet unpermitted to make mistakes or to ask for help. I felt paralyzed, and his 'support' was the medicine that I kept taking, believing that it was helping me while it was actually what was paralyzing me in the first place.
 
                My father described our relationship as close and special, and I always said the same. Yet deep down, I felt as though I didn’t really know him at all. He was like a chameleon, morphing into a different person around everyone he met. His demeanor, stories, interests and opinions changed along with whoever he was talking to and who was around to hear it, and went flat when they left.
                ​He had a way of fluffing and hyping things up, making them seem more important or special than they were. Making promises he didn’t or couldn’t keep and grand gestures that seemed out of place, I’d often come away feeling awkward or disappointed, and then I’d scold myself for being so ungrateful. I even remember accusing myself of setting him up for failure by setting my expectations too high, or not expressing myself clearly enough. He was only doing his best; I needn’t be so mean.
                I often wondered why I felt so awkward, subdued and on edge around him. I didn’t get why I felt scared, why I didn’t trust him and why I didn’t feel safe even though he was such a loving and supportive father. I assumed it was my own fault and I felt horribly guilty about that, so outwardly I did all that I could to ignore and counteract it. I trusted him and let him in because I felt like I was supposed to, even when my gut protested.
                There were always little things, whether it be the bluff, the white lies, the unkept promises or the overly-enthusiastic pushing of boundaries, but I always brushed them off as quirks, assuming that my dad had his heart in the right place. I loved him all the same.
 
                When I got into NLP, I slowly started seeing all these patterns. Sure, I’d gained some basic insight from the few family therapy sessions we’d had all those years ago, but only to the extent that I was aware there was some unhealthy shit going on. This time around, I was really bringing it all out into the light and exploring it in depth. And since my father and I were both in that training, I figured it was time to have an open and honest conversation with him about these patterns, and about how his behavior had affected me over the years. He responded surprisingly well, acknowledging that he had a tendency to be manipulative and opening up about his own childhood and how it had shaped him. He seemed to be gaining a lot of insight and he was really committed to changing toxic patterns and improving his relationships. I even saw him taking steps and making big changes as the training went on, which felt really good and which strengthened my trust in him. As time went by, we grew closer and our relationship stronger as did my faith in our future collaborations.
 
                Little did I know that my entire life and everything I thought I knew was about to be flipped upside down, torn to shreds and burned to the ground…
 
                ​To be continued.