The Evolution of My Coping Mechanisms

During stressful times, I use helpful coping mechanisms. They are like old friends. They are always there, changing with time, but never truly leaving me. In my childhood, my comfort came from a stuffed animal that I named Squidy.

For some odd reason, his arm became my security blanket.  It was a soft spot. Not only in the terms of texture, but in terms of comfortability. I wrapped my fingers around him, and I rubbed his arm between my nose and upper lip. I did this whenever I needed soothing.

Squidy himself was a bit of a mystery. Was he a dog? A bunny? Something in between? But that didn’t matter, what mattered was the feeling of his 80’s style pastel clown jumpsuit. The gentle touch against my skin.  The way he fit perfectly into my world during a time I needed him the most.

He was my sensory relaxation, and I didn’t know it then, but this was a form of stimming. Which is a way to regulate emotional stability in times of internal chaos.  

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Squidy never left my side. He traveled with me everywhere I went.  He helped absorb my fears and provided an unspoken reassurance—everything will be okay. Time hasn’t been kind to him. He is quite literally falling apart at the seams. However, I can’t imagine ever letting him go. He is a reminder of how I found comfort in my earliest years.

As I got older, my coping mechanisms changed. During my teenage years, I became a hair twirler in times of nervousness and anxiety. I’d pick at my split ends. I hyper fixated on each strand. It was as if I were searching for some kind of relief from being either under or overstimulated. It became a habit.  A small but effective way to calm down and soothe my worries. 

As an adult, my coping evolved once again. I now vocalize, and it has become my go-to method of relief. I hum, sing at random moments, and repeat the same phrase, “It’s okay. You’re fine.” I say these words continually, as they cycle through my mind.  

When I’m around others I try to keep it in silence, but sometimes I can mutter it beneath my breath. It offers a sense of reassurance, a reminder that I will be okay, and that I will be fine. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. 

The sensations and sensitivities can become incredibly overwhelming for me.  It eventually leads to a breaking point where I feel like I need to shed a second skin.  

However, the process is slow, and hard to bring to fruition. In these moments, I must admit that I’ve engaged in self-harming behavior. Hitting my legs, slapping my face, or punching myself provides a release from the building tension. These moments are a rarity, but they are real.

At times when I’m low, and feel so empty, I scream cry.  It’s the only way to let go of those overwhelming emotions. It is an ache, an agonizing pain from feelings of utter disparity. I can’t control it running through my body anymore.  

This isn’t a healthy method, but It’s a part of my journey. I’m trying my best to avoid these situations, and I’m learning how to handle these intensities better. 

I also struggle with what to do with my hands. When nervous, they become sweaty, and I rub them together incessantly until my skin feels raw.  It’s another mechanism I use to try to ground myself. It also creates an outlet for the energy that has nowhere else to go.

These are the ways that I cope with those feelings.  From Squidy’s comforting presence to the words that I whisper to myself, they have all served a purpose.  

Some of these coping mechanisms have faded. New ones might come into play, but no matter how they change, one thing remains constant.  That I will always find a way to calm the ache during times of extreme discomfort.

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