Lost Words
I hung up the phone and lay in the dark nest of my bed last night, thinking of this. There was a word, circling through my head, that I told myself I would remember, and by so doing would remember the path of thought I was traveling in the darkness, that I knew at the time was important.
Tonight I sit sipping a Guinness, Red Sox on in the background, losing 4-0 in the top of the sixth, Manny's up with men on 1st and 2nd. One pitch away from a walk or a strike-out. Motherfucking double play. Also: if I have to see that motherfucking commercial for the vampire flick 30 Days of Night one more time, where the chick says "Please God!" and the vampire dude mumbles "No God" I'm going to shoot the fucking TV. Come ON, Red Sox!
What was the word? As I lay there I knew I needed to write about it. I also knew I couldn't possibly write about all that was twisting down the corridors of my mind at this hour in only one sitting. And so I continued to lay in the dark, and committed myself to sleep, having not slept at all the night before. I slept hard and heavily, despite the tangled thoughts.
In general terms: I was thinking about relationships. I was thinking about the structure of my family, the sheer numbers (9 of us), the birth order (I'm number 8). The strong need and desire I had for protection. The sense that I didn't really have it. A feeling of being lost on the sidelines and in the fray of activity. Of wanting recognition, specialness. Cherishing the small ways I received it, in particular from my father.
He used to take naps on the living room floor. For many years I would sometimes join him, laying side by side on the hard floor, he would put his arm out for me to use as a pillow. Silent, resting side by side. Everyone else was too old for this. For these fifteen minutes, he was mine, it didn't matter that other people were passing through or milling around. Sometimes my younger brother would lay on the other side, but this was ok. He and I were a team of sorts, bonded by our position on the totem pole.
In a basic way, we grew up not expecting much. We did not receive a lot of attention, and in some ways, this suited us. Secret forts could sometimes thrive for weeks unnoticed, with stores of stolen cookies or soda, hidden plans and agendas. Adult attention was not necessarily considered a good thing. It was often an expressly bad thing.
I did not expect, desire, or have heart-to-heart talks with my parents, this feeling only solidified as I grew older. I did not expect or desire advocacy, guidance, or coaching from my parents, and generally did not receive it. There were rules. We were expected to follow them. We were not to take seconds at dinner, and were to drink orange juice and milk from cups that probably held about 6 ounces of liquid, tops. If we had an overnight guest, they received the better or bigger of whatever we had. We were to attend mass as instructed. Respect elders. Not complain about what you have or don't have. Remember that this was a family - what makes you think you're so special?
I don't fault my parents for anything. They did what they had to do, what they knew how to do. They accomplished a lot with relatively little. A vague feeling of having raised myself only places me in a lot of good company. And so why am I writing about all this, as if I have missed out on something? I'm thinking now about the word expectations, though that isn't THE WORD I have yet to recall.
You get what you expect. And it's a sorry thing to not expect much. That's a little bit of the problem I'm having, the problem I've had. I've written about this before, and I'm still trying to navigate my way to the bottom of it. I think I deeply want and need full attention. But I don't know how to receive it, how to receive it without pushing it back, running away from it at the same time my heart is burning with a need for it, with a need for recognition and acceptance and - yes - love.
Being recognized means being known. And being known, when you've felt unknown, is a scary thing. I'm an excellent hider. Hiding is easier than explaining. How do you explain when you don't know how? To whom do you explain when there is little or no trust? How does one believe in the idea of safety without knowing how that really feels? The world shrinks around me til it's closet-sized and dark, that's the place I end up when I'm afraid to explain, afraid to say what my heart is feeling, afraid to say what I really want. I'm not done writing about this, not even close. But I'll lose you if I say much more.
Final score 4-2 Cleveland.
Tonight I sit sipping a Guinness, Red Sox on in the background, losing 4-0 in the top of the sixth, Manny's up with men on 1st and 2nd. One pitch away from a walk or a strike-out. Motherfucking double play. Also: if I have to see that motherfucking commercial for the vampire flick 30 Days of Night one more time, where the chick says "Please God!" and the vampire dude mumbles "No God" I'm going to shoot the fucking TV. Come ON, Red Sox!
What was the word? As I lay there I knew I needed to write about it. I also knew I couldn't possibly write about all that was twisting down the corridors of my mind at this hour in only one sitting. And so I continued to lay in the dark, and committed myself to sleep, having not slept at all the night before. I slept hard and heavily, despite the tangled thoughts.
In general terms: I was thinking about relationships. I was thinking about the structure of my family, the sheer numbers (9 of us), the birth order (I'm number 8). The strong need and desire I had for protection. The sense that I didn't really have it. A feeling of being lost on the sidelines and in the fray of activity. Of wanting recognition, specialness. Cherishing the small ways I received it, in particular from my father.
He used to take naps on the living room floor. For many years I would sometimes join him, laying side by side on the hard floor, he would put his arm out for me to use as a pillow. Silent, resting side by side. Everyone else was too old for this. For these fifteen minutes, he was mine, it didn't matter that other people were passing through or milling around. Sometimes my younger brother would lay on the other side, but this was ok. He and I were a team of sorts, bonded by our position on the totem pole.
In a basic way, we grew up not expecting much. We did not receive a lot of attention, and in some ways, this suited us. Secret forts could sometimes thrive for weeks unnoticed, with stores of stolen cookies or soda, hidden plans and agendas. Adult attention was not necessarily considered a good thing. It was often an expressly bad thing.
I did not expect, desire, or have heart-to-heart talks with my parents, this feeling only solidified as I grew older. I did not expect or desire advocacy, guidance, or coaching from my parents, and generally did not receive it. There were rules. We were expected to follow them. We were not to take seconds at dinner, and were to drink orange juice and milk from cups that probably held about 6 ounces of liquid, tops. If we had an overnight guest, they received the better or bigger of whatever we had. We were to attend mass as instructed. Respect elders. Not complain about what you have or don't have. Remember that this was a family - what makes you think you're so special?
I don't fault my parents for anything. They did what they had to do, what they knew how to do. They accomplished a lot with relatively little. A vague feeling of having raised myself only places me in a lot of good company. And so why am I writing about all this, as if I have missed out on something? I'm thinking now about the word expectations, though that isn't THE WORD I have yet to recall.
You get what you expect. And it's a sorry thing to not expect much. That's a little bit of the problem I'm having, the problem I've had. I've written about this before, and I'm still trying to navigate my way to the bottom of it. I think I deeply want and need full attention. But I don't know how to receive it, how to receive it without pushing it back, running away from it at the same time my heart is burning with a need for it, with a need for recognition and acceptance and - yes - love.
Being recognized means being known. And being known, when you've felt unknown, is a scary thing. I'm an excellent hider. Hiding is easier than explaining. How do you explain when you don't know how? To whom do you explain when there is little or no trust? How does one believe in the idea of safety without knowing how that really feels? The world shrinks around me til it's closet-sized and dark, that's the place I end up when I'm afraid to explain, afraid to say what my heart is feeling, afraid to say what I really want. I'm not done writing about this, not even close. But I'll lose you if I say much more.
Final score 4-2 Cleveland.
posted by Black Egg at 9:10 PM
3 Comments:
ANGST? ACCEPTANCE? ANYMOSITY? HMM... i seem to only be comeing up with a words.... great post, great writing!
GREAT SPEELER HUH?
Acceptance is close... thanks for the suggestions. I'm glad the post made a little sense, I was thinking about what I wrote when I was at work today and feeling weird about it. But whatever.
I still don't know the word.
Post a Comment
<< Home