Only a Part of Me is Like This
But, man... It's a BIG one.
As the massive butcher-block tabletop launched off the dolly I was pulling, I screamed “nooo” like I was in a car that suddenly swerved off the mountain road.
I knew there’d be damage. I hoped none of it had happened to me, but I knew the table was too soft to take such a drop without a scrape. Unlike real butcher block, made from hardwood, this was merely pine.
The road was littered with gravel, and the table hit it like there was dirty money riding on the fight, skidding to a stop. I just kinda crumbled, unable to look for a second.
I should’ve strapped it to the damn dolly.
This was the second move this table had endured, and the second such drop. The previous was far less dramatic.
[Spoiler alert: the side of the table was definitely damaged this time.]
Collecting myself, I loaded the 80-pound beast back on the dolly and, having secured the loose strap that had “tripped” the wheel, carted the load the remaining six yards to the front gate of the new house.
This was one of a couple of moments during a recent move where I simply lost. My. Shit.
If I weren’t so overtired and overspent, losing it would have manifested as sobbing. I mean—and maybe it had something to do with being a man—but I genuinely felt like crying. All that showed up was white-hot rage and stern resolution.
I’ll show them all. I’m getting this job done, come hell or high water.
Even after 51 years, this is how I cope with disregulation. Ugh. I hate that word, even as I find myself using it more recently. It’s the right word. I just resent that it comes out of my mouth. Excuse me. Part of me resents it (he said, spitting a little as he said the words).
Fucking parts.
At the surface, the problem seems to be the disregulation. It’s not, though. The problem, if that’s the right word, is all the parts that show up when disregulation is the way of being.
Some parts judge. Others bow their heads in compassionate awareness of what’s arising. Most are silent, lest they suffer the wrath of the tyrannical part of me, which is a culmination of a life lived neurodivergent.
And then there are all the parts that have a problem with that tyrant part.
Oh, this guy? Yeah. He’s a dick. Sure, he gets shit done, but don’t ask him a question when he’s focused.
That last one is the part that hates the tyrant. I know, because I hear from that part during moments like the table drop.
He says, and out loud, “I hate this version of me.”
If this all seems confusing, it’s probably because I’m still working through it myself.
What this work asks of us is much of what men struggle with in general: being open, vulnerable, and talking about feelings.
Feelings, especially intense, reactive ones, are evidence of parts.
What I see in men is that we generate parts draped in armor, some bearing weapons, and many of them ready to battle. As folks sometimes say, it’s not a bug, it’s a feature.
Parts keep us safe. They show up mostly as protector parts, with jobs around protecting us from experiencing something they think we can’t handle.
We might notice those protectors as critical parts, and on the more concerning side, we might notice them as the tough-guy parts. They may even be the violent parts of us.
Whatever their method, protector parts protect our hurt parts. These are the ones most of us, but men especially, are most uncomfortable with, so we—unwittingly—build armies of protectors to keep our whole system from touching those hurt parts.
For some of us, talking to a bulkhead of the Titanic would be more realistic than trying to convince protector parts that vulnerability is worth the effort.
The advice to men that they… be more vulnerable… sounds ridiculous in this context. We’re simply rousing their armies of protectors.
“Be more vulnerable” lands as “you’re not okay as you are” with protector parts. Once those parts are engaged, turning them off is like trying to muzzle an aggressive dog.
My inner tyrant will never surrender as long as someone (or another part of me) shows up to say how much he hates that version of me.
Just bearing witness does so much for these parts.
As such…
Thanks for being here.
~Damon
We contain multitudes, Whitman said. I appreciate your way of noticing the parts, and listening.
I like to say that Parts are like little "mini-me" personalities inside of us. When we treat them like kids who just need to be seen, heard, and valued for being exactly as they are, they tend to show up less agitated and concerned in moments where they get triggered.
It's all Parts, all the way down, and they need love just as much as we do.
Love you, brother. Thank you for this offering.