I'm always in control - and my genuine neighbour threatens me

They moved in eight months ago, and they are genuinely nice people. He especially is really kind, patient and genuine. He asks questions about me, and waits for answers. He thinks through my answers and asks another question. At first I thought it was a mechanism whereby which he could remain in control - as that is what I've done historically. But now that I have talked with him a number of times I think that he is genuine. And it makes me feel very uncomfortable. I've been asking myself why.

Why? I think because it makes me feel vulnerable. If he were a christian and a pastor he would be perfect. He seems to have time, doesn't rush (he's risk averse), and asks meaningful questions. In short he seems to care and have compassion. And buy does it ring my alarms?

Why so? Because as I've said, it makes me feel vulnerable. It's like someone starting to unpack your heart, your insides. And wooaa! That's enough of that. Go any further and you will know everything there is to know about me. And it's uncomfortable! And I will be out of control. WHAM. There it is. I will be out of control. Why is that so scary? Because I'm never out of control. I'm always in control. Always. Always. Always.

What would it be like to not be in control? What would it be like to open up to this neighbour of mine? What would it be like to lose control? My insides churn at the thought. Scary. Frightening. He will gain power over me, he may be able to do something to me that I don't want.

Yes - but will he? Does he strike you as the kind of person who will? Is he in anyway like my dad? No he is not. He's the antipathy of my dad. So he's like my wife. And I've projected my dad (and mum) onto her for years. Am I project my dad onto my neighbour (as well as everyone else I meet?)? Do I project the worst of my dad on everyone? Waiting for someone to whap me on, crush me, drain me, dump on me?

No - my neighbour is not like that. So what have I to fear? Woa. This is close stuff. Ok - so I allow him to ask me questions. I give him open and honest answers. He probes further. I fight with control, but continue to allow myself to be vulnerable. Let's say I get to the point that I become a gibbering wreck. Emotional. Then what? What would I be afraid of? That he now has some power over me. That I would be perceived as a little person, someone without worth, rights or power. In short that I would become a prisoner in a POW camp. Yet would my neighbour deal with me like that? I would feel indebted to him somehow. Like the balance of the relationship would swing from 50/50 to 100/0.

Ok - but would that be the case? I don't know - as I've never really tried it. I've always been in control. Ok - so I realise that I'm basing this relationship on the one I had with my father as a child. Yes. And I realise that my emotions from my childhood are still raw? Yes. So I still need to process those emotions. Yes. But would I do it with my neighbour? That's a tough question. I don't need to, I have a choice. So I can. But I would make myself very vulnerable.

Would my neighbour be freaked out if I did? My adult head says I don't think so. But the boy in me says don't risk it, you'll give him power over you. I can feel the battle on my insides as I sit here. A fight. A strong urge to run. To fight. To battle against unseen foes.

Yet I don't want to fight. I want to give in. I want to stop. I want to stop fighting. It's tiring being on standby 100% of the time. But stopping means looking at what's inside. It means looking at and facing my pain - so that I can really stop running.

Ok pain. I'm looking at you. I feel weak, powerless, insignificant, small, overpowered, someone with no rights, no voice, have to hide, keep out of the way, be compliant. My insides churn. Twist. It hurts. I was looking for love and acceptance, but got rejection and crushed instead. Why did my dad do it? Why did he hurt me so? I so wanted to please him. So wanted his unconditional love, acceptance and approval. And yet he picked me up and dashed me against a rock. Repeatedly.

So unfair. So uncalled for. Such a shock. Why? Everytime was a shock. I hoped for the best but experienced the worst. I'd brush myself down and repeat the shock, pain and numbness. Couldn't cry about it, as there was no one to cry with - and it was a sign of weakness. It was a sign that I was hurt and I couldn't show that.

But - there was no one anyway. No one on my side. No one who came alongside me. No one who asked me genuine questions, in a caring way, and really listened without judgment at what I was saying. Which brings me back to my neighbour. This is what he does. And it undoes me.

But back then - no one. Not my mum. And there was no one else. Everyone was in fear of my dad. We lived abroad until I was eight, and from that point we lived hours from any relatives. When I was around 14/15 one of my dad's friends challenged him about how he related to us kids (I heard this through some means). My dad fell out with his friend. But his friend was right!

We were battered. Not literally (though sometimes it was physical) - but we were battered emotionally. My dad's pain was such that he could not face anyone, including himself. So to make himself feel better he had to rubbish everyone and everything else - and the guilt and pain he felt would explode as pure undiluted anger.

I had no one to talk to. There was no one for me. I was alone. On my own. Responsible for my sisters (as they were added to the family).

I had no one to talk to. There was no one for me. There was no one. There was no safe place. I couldn't rest in my dad's arms, I couldn't rest in my mum's arms. There was no where I could go and feel safe. We weren't even allowed in my parents bedroom. It was the holy place, and woe betide us if we went in there. So where could I go? Only to my bedroom. Alone. Lost. A little sad boy, in a foreign land where no one wanted him, liked him, befriended him. School was an intimidating and dark scary place. Home with dad was the same.

Fuck. Bastard. How was it possible to be so alone? The second house we lived in in Belgium was huge, with three stories. I was right at the top of the house, on my own. My sister and parents were on the first floor. And it felt like I was a million miles away from the rest of the family. The ceilings were really high, the stairs were steep. And I was alone, literally, at the top of the house - and it felt like a long way away. Maybe that's why I chose that room. To be the furthest away I could. I don't look back thinking I was a little boy of under eight years old. I see myself as old, responsible, on my own, needing to fend for myself.

I was bullied at school and did not have a single friend. Not one. I was responsible for my sister and had to walk her and myself to school and back. We'd get bullied on the way back.
He'd get home. And crap. I didn't want to play with my sister even then. We were allowed to ride a bike down the side of the house. And that's it.

I was on my own.

I was so very much on my own.