Realisations and lessons from my trip to the White Isle
I wasn't expecting it to happen. Far from it. I'd started the first day of my break feeling good. I made my way to Glasgow airport for my late afternoon flight to Eivissa, sailed through security, picked up all the travel size liquids I needed and found a table for two, for one, in the restaurant looking onto the tarmac. I ordered a flatbread dish and a glass of red wine, took the book out of my suitcase and relaxed into the airport atmosphere. I had ninety minutes to enjoy before I would board the big flying tube. We boarded on time and departed on time and it wasn't long before I was washing down a small tub of salt and vinegar Pringles with my second glass of red wine of the day. Bliss.
An hour or so later Captain's silky English twang informed us that a tail wind was propelling us forward, shaving an hour off of our arrival time. Thank you wind! We floated down the East coast passing over the resorts, Ibiza Town's marina, the Dalt Villa, Playa D'en Bossa and the tattered memories of the iconic Space venue.
A satisfyingly warm April evening had greeted me as I stepped off the stairs onto the tarmac. I coaxed my frugally packed carry-on luggage along behind me, as I sashayed through a pre-season desolate passport control. I headed to arrivals and found my transfer minibus. A short wait on the other passengers and then we were on our way from East to West. I stared out the window at the Ibizan countryside, elated to be away from home for a few days, my first trip overseas since BC (Before Covid). I was eagerly anticipating watching the sun go down in the only way it knew how to here - magically. I could already feel the sand between my toes and the gentle glow of daytime rays on my skin. And I was excited to wile away the time reading and maybe some writing. But definitely lots of reading.
But my first morning wasn't filled with the elation I'd expected. I got dressed and went for breakfast, picking up my journal to write my Morning Pages whilst eating. I love breakfast, it's my favourite meal of the day. And breakfast in a hotel on holiday? Well, for me, you just can't beat it. I love mornings on holiday knowing you have the rest of the day to enjoy doing absolutely nothing, no plans, no commitments, nothing to do except relax. And when you're traveling solo, you can do whatever you want, whenever you want without having to consult or discuss. It was a part of solo travel that I'd always enjoyed. At least I think I'd always enjoyed it.
Or was that a story I had been telling myself to cover up the loneliness and my need to look and be uber independent? Was I totally fine with being on my own? I didn't need anyone, that's what I'd always thought I thought. I even remember being told 'you don't need a man hen', hen being Scottish vernacular for 'girl', when I was a child. My mother passing on her words of wisdom, ignorant to the damage those innocent words were doing to a child who had already been passed up by her biological father - no thanks, don't want you. Of course that's not what really happened, but I know that's how it would have landed with a seven year old.
I'm not sure when my shame spiral started. In Ibiza that is. Of course the real start date was before I was even born when an aunt suggested I be aborted. You take that in don't you when you're a small foetus inside a stomach, the shame of being put there by two consenting 'adults' who never knew any better.
But here's how the spiral played out in Ibiza:
I feel like I'm surrounded by people in couples or families and I'm the only one here on my own. What will people think of me being alone? I'm 47 and traveling on my own again. How did I get here? I'll never have children. Is this what I need to do for the rest of my life? How can I make my hollidays more fun? Why don't I know myself better to choose holidays that I enjoy? Why can't I enjoy this time on my own? I love it here, why am I criticising and worrying about being alone? No one cares? Why didn't I choose a better hotel? I'm such an idiot for booking this hotel. Why can't I relax? Do these Spanish people hate me for being here? No wonder they don't like the British, invading their island. Why did I have to get pets, I could be anywhere in the world right now if it wasn't for that decision. Why did I bring my laptop, I can't even focus on writing because I'm so in my head. I can't wait for Thursday night so I can go home tomorrow. Go home to what? I used to hate going home. I used to cry on flights home because I wanted to stay. What is wrong with me?
This is basically how my brain has operated since, well, probably 1976 and I didn't even realise it was causing me so much grief. Shame from being abandoned. Shame for not being good enough to have a 'normal' family. Shame for not being able to be who I was. Am. Shame for feeling like I had never been truly accepted because everyone around me so desperately wanted to cover up this mistake. And the father 'leaving'... I'm glad others couldn't hear my thoughts. I'm working on turning the volume down on them and rewiring the pathways that have caused me to feel like I'm worthless and don't deserve to be alive.
The good thing about my Ibizan shame spiral is that I saw it. I witnessed my thoughts, my feelings and my sabotage of what should have been a beautiful few days in a place I love visiting. Aside from the interference, I did have some lovely moments, and despite the tone of this entry, it's not a 'woe is me' monologue. I have been reminded that I need to double down on this stuff and kick it to the kerb and focus on validating myself from within.
One really good thing to come out of the trip is that I was introduced to Tim Fletcher who has opened my eyes to the reality of mass-market solutions being pedaled by mass market social media 'psychologists' who care not a jot about individual cases, only concerned with selling one-size-fits-all books and echo chamber online mass 'communities'.
And this is why I'm terrifyingly stepping into writing about this part of me. This huge part that I have been ignorant to all my life. I thought it was my low EQ that was the cause of all my stupid decisions, but I have never been able to acknowledge and accept the toll that abandonment and shame took on my life. Low EQ was the symptom, abandonment and shame were the cause. And improving my EQ (brain wiring, emotional connection to myself and others and my nervous system regulation) might be part of the solution.
My hope is that by sharing my experience, I can help someone else. And I will be beating the drum for mothers, fathers and society EQ being more aware of the effects of abandonment and shaming children - whether intended or not.
To peace and prosperity
jaxx x
NOTE: Abandonment and shame are two complex forms of 't' word (I don't type the word because it's being overused on social media and we need to shift to an acknowledgement that there are different levels from mild to severe 't' and mass market solutions are not the answer). If you are facing difficulties, please seek one-on-one help with a qualified therapist who is equipped to help you and who cares about your individual experience. Do not rely on mass market solutions being pedaled by people who only care about selling books and mass audience online communities.
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