There was a party in the library

a lecture on attachment theory, grounding couscous and manifestation walls

A Thursday in late February

I drove over bumbling potholes and watched the sky’s face brighten with joy as the sun tickled the day. She accidentally stuck the fingers of her rays into my eyes and almost blinded me, but I didn’t mind. I was happy to see the morning finally smile.

I got to uni in time for the lecture. We were in a series on attachment theory exploring the ways in which human beings form emotional bonds. Last week we learnt how the attachment system works in conjunction with the caregiving system; if the attachment system is how you seek safety and reassurance in relationships, the caregiving system is how you respond. Two thoughts had followed me from then into this week. The first was that the idea of ‘attachment systems’ was preferable to ‘attachment styles’. The idea of a system is much more dynamic and less pathological than a fixed style and suggests something in flow, which is more reflective of our lived experiences. The other was that we seem to put a lot of cultural emphasis on the ‘attachment’ side of things and hardly any on the ‘caregiving’ side even though one can’t exist without the other.

As much as I wanted to however, I didn’t have time to unpack those thoughts. Our lectures were moving on. This week, we were transitioning from theory to practice, looking at how we navigate both our clients' attachment behaviours as well as our own.

The shift from others’ attachment to our own attachment was slightly jarring. We’d spent so much time talking about it through a theoretical lens that I’d almost forgotten that I am a person made of flesh and feeling too. It was like being pinched, being suddenly reminded that I have skin.

The lecturer asked us to split into pairs so we could get in touch with our own attachment drama by completing the ‘Adult Attachment Interview.’ One of us would be the interviewer and the other the interviewee. We all groaned. The exercise was expected but unwelcome. Who wants to dig into their relational trauma at 11am on a Thursday?

Bibia was sat next to me so I partnered with her. She had a personal therapy session later and didn’t want to be the interviewee which was fair enough. There’s only so much soul digging you can do in a day.

We made our way down to the basement where the psychology interview rooms live. It was dark; the sun could find no windows to poke her fingers through. I suddenly realised how vulnerable it was about to get and I was grateful that I was partnered with Bibia. Our lectures had not covered how attachment behaviours are different across cultures. I was unconsciously conscious of that fact, of the fact that there were some relational experiences I would rather share with Bibia because she would just get it.

Still, even with the added safety of Bibia being both skinfolk and kinfolk I was conscious that the attachment interview would stir up emotion I wasn’t prepared to hold so early in the day. I decided I would eat my lunch during the process as a form of grounding.

Self-care or avoidance? I wondered. Self-care. I decided.

Bibia asked the questions: When you were upset as a child, what would you do? Can you recall a time when you felt rejected as a child? How do you think your early relationships with caregivers influence your approach to close relationships now?

When we got to the last question the emotion I had been expecting presented itself. If I am flesh and feeling and the body keeps the score, the body was now remembering the feelings buried in flesh.

I’m going to cry now, I declared. A wave of tears rose within me and I waited for it to crash through the back of my eyes and into the room like a flood. It didn’t. Instead it gently lapped at the shore under my cheekbones and retreated back into the sea, couscous from my lunch soaking up what was left of the water like a sponge. Not my own emotions making me a liar, I thought.

Bibia made jokes to lighten the mood. She offered validation, sharing similar experiences. She reflected that like a lot of black women who grew up before their time, I can be hyper-independent which meant help-seeking doesn’t come easily to me. She wasn’t wrong.

We left the basement and naturally parted. We would meet up later. Bibia needed to decompress before her therapy session and I needed air and movement. I could still feel the waters moving within me. I made my way outside to walk around campus. The sun was still in the sky and this time she was more careful, using her fingers to massage away the tension that had gathered in my bones.

I walked as she guided, following the wisdom of my body until I found myself in the library. On the first floor there was a party. Well, as much of a party as you can have in a library. There were decorations, food and apparently there had been a rap performance an hour before. The rap artist in question hurried to show me a recording of his performance on his phone so that I didn’t feel left out.

The party was to launch a new space opening in the library for post-graduate students of colour. I was suddenly annoyed that I’d eaten my lunch because I had no room for the cake that was offered. I introduced myself to the organizers and learnt about how the space had come about. I got to talking to one of the ladies about post-graduate life, trading stories across academic disciplines. When I shared my ideal work-life balance post-graduation her face shone like the sun outside.

"Write it here, manifest it. Write your manifestation and we’ll stick it on the wall—as you’ve spoken it, it shall be for you." She beamed at me, ushering me toward a table with paper and pens. My inner Christian balked at the word ‘manifest’ but I pushed the resistance away. The bible says write the vision and make it plain, right?

Start it with ‘I am’, affirm yourself! She continued.

I took on her enthusiasm and began to write. It was an unexpected exercise but a welcome one; I needed that kind of affirmation after the attachment interview. I read my words back and felt a curious mix of pride, joy, excitement and arrogance. I had affirmed myself as a writer, a teacher, a psychologist and a host of other things. She pinned the paper to the otherwise bare wall, my affirmation floating like a single fish in the sea. I suddenly felt exposed. If the things I’d written didn’t happen this piece of paper would sit on this wall forever condemning me as a hopeful fool.

“Of course they’ll happen,” she said

I noticed then that in front of us was a display board with a book on Black attachment sitting square in the middle—like God was affirming my path right there. I picked it up, because what else do you do with life’s synchronicities? Another book caught my eye too, something that looked like jazz had thrown up on the cover.

I mingled around a bit more before checking the books out to meet with Bibia again. Her therapy session had ended and it was my turn to offer laughter and validation, to complete the cycle of care given and care received.

As I left the library I noticed that the sun was completing her own cycle too, inching her way towards the horizon after a day of light giving. I wondered briefly what her own attachment was like. Whether she held back in some places and rushed forwards anxiously in others. If she could manifest something for herself, what would it be? Or was life itself her manifestation wall?

By the time I got home, she was taking her final steps towards the night. I watched from my bedroom window as she stretched her fingers across the sky one last time, reaching through the glass to graze her fingertips over the smooth covers of the books resting on my bed before folding her arms in rest.

The two books that I checked out of the library

Thank you so much for reading the Self-Disclosure Diaries.

Self-disclosure describes the act of sharing our thoughts, feelings and experiences to facilitate connection and understanding. This newsletter is inspired by this concept and is rooted in the belief that sharing our small and seemingly insignificant stories can be enriching and healing for ourselves and others.

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- Mica