I feel it in the pit of the stomach. A knot, almost like a punch in the stomach. I can’t eat, even if I’m hungry, even if it’s time for a meal. I feel like I want, or need, to throw up.
It’s rejection. It’s how my body somatizes rejection.
“You’ll have to tell me where to go from here, I don’t know how to get to your place”, Bert says on our way back from the climbing crag.
“No, you can drop me off at the parking lot where you picked me up. I’d rather walk back home again”, I reply, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.
“Are you sure? I really don’t mind”, Bert insists.
“I’m sure. I actually like that walk”, I reply to him — “and I really need it in this moment”, I add silently to myself.
At the parking lot, I grab my stuff from his truck, double-checking that I haven’t left anything behind, tucking in the loose objects. Bert is standing there, a little awkwardly, probably ready for the usual “buddy hug” that guys give each other at the end of an outdoor climbing session together. But I’m the one who needs space now, actual physical distance, and my body language is probably making that clear, as Bert finally just says, “Nice leads today”.
“Thanks, you too”, I reply automatically, and walk off in the direction of the creek path, barely holding myself together.
Although the real break down didn’t come for me until a couple of hours alter, I’m pretty sure Bert could tell I was upset. But, after all, he’s one the one who caused this pain.
Some of our texting, some constraints he had lately been putting on our plans for climbing/hanging out together, had recently given me the gut feeling that he was trying to put a distance between us after our closeness on the 5-day trip climbing & hiking together in July. Sure, work stress is real for him, I know that, but I knew instinctively there was something else going on, too. And when we met in person to climb outdoors again yesterday, I got confirmation of my instincts. Part of it was still intuitions based on his behavior towards me at the crag. But then, the actual confirmation came on our drive back, when I asked him if he was still planning to do his trip to Utah in October and if he’d still like me to join him — something that he, not I, had brought up and suggested on our trip in July. As I asked my question yesterday, I felt him tense up somehow, or get more awkward. “Yes… I haven’t finalized my plans, yet, and I can’t remember the dates, but I’m tentatively still thinking of going.”
Something felt weird but I needed to clarify, both because I need to know emotionally if this friendship is worth investing in and also because I need to start asking for time off at work, if I intend to take vacation. So, I clarified: “No pressure if you’ve changed your mind since suggesting the Utah trip to me at Devils Tower. But when you’ve decided, please let me know either way because I need to know what to do about taking time off at work”.
And that’s when the hammer hit, that hammer I had been expecting for a couple weeks: “Yeah, it could be nice to have a buddy on this trip with me, it would make it less sketchy than running the canyons by myself… But I haven’t gone on a trip by myself, yet, this year, so I think I’ll need to go to Utah by myself”.
So, not only is he backpedalling, retracting the invitation/suggestion he made to me less than three weeks ago. On top of that, he’s also putting it as if the only reason he’d let me join him on the trip anyway would be just for safety, implying that my company — I as a person, I specifically as his friend — could be interchangeable with just any other “buddy”?
WOW. Talk about some rejection.
I did eventually break down yesterday. When I got home from the climbing and the painful interaction with Bert, I ran some urgent errands of my own, still holding myself together by will power and a strong sense of practicality, or duty. Then, once at home again, I ate some food, texted with my gay runner friend to share/vent, had a nice long shower, and finally prepared myself to allow myself to feel.
I knew the emotions needed to come out. I knew the knot in the stomach would be partially alleviated by a cry out. I knew that rejection was hurting like hell and that pain needed to be given space, all the space it needed. So, I made up my bed comfortably, set my alarm for half an hour later when I’d need to start getting ready for my evening plans, and put the song “Inkpot gods” by The Amazing Devil on repeat, as I curled up with pillows and my triceratops cuddly under the sheet. That’s the song that helps me get my tears out — it somehow taps straight into that deep well of grief in my heart.
And, indeed, the tears came. The sobs, shaking my body.
I dived straight into that deep well of grief and let the pain wash over me.
It was cathartic, albeit terribly painful, even physically achy.
And then, I felt the layers peeling away, in an experience that was almost on a different plane of consciousness, as close as I have ever come again to the experiences I had with ketamine-assisted psychotherapy three years ago. I let go wholly. And there was an incredible wholeness in my pain. Not only was the hurt child there again, yearning and calling for their Dad. There was also a sense of profound strength. I felt like an ancient tree, or mountain, grounded, rooted deeply. And I felt it physically: I wasn’t imagining it “rationally” in my head; I felt it deep in my body, in my soul. Almost as if it were some kind of strength that was going through me, being channeled by me. So, I released all control, and just let myself feel.
I’m not sure how long it lasted, it was probably very brief. But it was incredibly deep and intense.
Then, the pain washed over me again, with some more cathartic tears.
And then, finally, slumber — like an empty shell left on the shore from a receding storm.
The Little Prince and the Fox 