"If you pick it, it won't get better." - emotional wounds.

I woke early and lay in bed planning the blog for today. It was going to be about Fergie (former Duchess of York) and blaming parents for life's misfortunes. Then I listened to the news. There was an item about Trooping the Colour in London today. I was emotionally hijacked. Fergie will have to wait.


As I lay there, doing nothing, the gentle drop of a faded memory soon became a flood of memories. I wasn't doing anything to distract myself or the flow of memories. Pure indulgence. The emotional brain really got going and soon I could feel a gentle wallowing taking over. I started to go through that day 30 years ago, hour by hour. I got up, washed and dressed, all on auto pilot.


June 13th 1981 - I was going to London to meet my mother and sister. At great expense, my mother had bought tickets for the hottest show in town. A rare afternoon and evening performance of 'Nicholas Nickleby' Parts 1 & 2. I left the house and a domestic crisis behind me. An adult was throwing a childish tantrum. Should I go or stay? Either way would cause more problems. I was torn.


I drove to West London, parked and got on a bus. I was still thinking about going back home. The journey slowed down as we approached Hyde Park. Of course, I had forgotten. It was Trooping the Colour today. I got off the bus in Piccadilly and wandered down Lower Regent Street towards The Mall. Crowds of people lined the road, but I found a decent position to view the procession. Fortunately I'm tall.


We cheered anything and everything that went by. Then the Queen rode up on her horse. No sooner had she passed, when there was a commotion on the other side of the road and the Queen's horse 'reared' up.  Police went into the crowd, but the Queen and the procession carried on. What had happened? No-one knew. There was animated chatter amongst the crowd. Then someone who had been listening to a radio said that there had been an attempt to shoot the Queen. We couldn't believe it.


I walked away and made for Charing Cross station. I needed to tell someone what I'd just witnessed and find out if the shooting story was accurate. I rang home. The reception was cool.


I walked on to the theatre, still wondering whether I should go home or stay. I felt sick. I sought out another phone box and made a call to where my children were for the day. I still didn't feel any better and walked on to the theatre. My mother and sister were there. I shared my news and also told my sister a little more of what was going on at home. But there was no turning back now.


My mother could be pedantic about the use of correct English. She questioned whether I really meant that "the horse bolted." I remember wanting to shout at her to shut up, but this was neither the time or place. I felt about ten years old. By now my simmering emotions were ready to boil over.


We watched the afternoon performance. I wish I could go back and really appreciate it all for the tremendous theatrical production it was. (Though I have since watched it on DVD with my mother.) My brain was going crazy as it darted from home, the Queen, my mother, the play, even the costumes I was organising for a local amateur dramatics production in July.  I seem to remember being overly concerned about spats.


We watched the evening performance and I wondered what I would face later on. What I had I done by staying in London? I drove home. The crisis had passed...for now.


Back to this morning and June 2011. I was remembering a day that is in my top ten of the most upsetting in my life. But for many hours I had enjoyed a wonderful theatrical performance, so it wasn't all bad. Bittersweet. Pain and pleasure. How often does that happen? But so often we focus on the pain and forget the pleasure that accompanied it too.


The point of going down this particular memory lane is to describe an emotional hijack. It came out of nowhere and was unexpected. I didn't have anything to distract me, nor did I chose to find something. It was an emotional wound and I wanted to pick at the scab and feel the pain that I knew would occur. A type of self-harm.


I couldn't help the first thought, but I did have control over the second one. I chose not to leave well alone. The toxins came out. An hour later, I was left with anger. No surprise there.


Fortunately I know how the brain works, what I was doing and how to deal with unhelpful emotional arousal. Now, a few hours later, the memory and its associated emotions have faded again and it has become a teaching tale. I'm re-telling it, not re-living it.


Not even writing about it has raised my emotional level this afternoon. Why?  Because I'm using a different part of my brain. I'm also listening to the radio as I write and watching a busy birdlife out of the window.


Multi tasking has its uses.


©RitaLeaman2011