Old Fashioned

Twenty-six years, two months, seventeen hours and fourteen minutes.

I was laying on my bed, reading a book by Anna Quindlan called Object Lessons. The only thing I’ve read by her previously was Black & Blue, which I thought was very well written. This novel is about a 12/13 year old girl, who is finding that her world is not only changing, but is also not what she always believed it to be. Two very, very seperate things. Although at times produce similar results.

I want this book to have a happy ending.

I was laying on my bed, reading, Alanis was on the cd player and although I wasn’t focusing on the music, every now and then, a lyric would break me away from the words on the page and pull me towards the words in the speakers. …the only way out is thru, the faster we’re in the better…..

I was laying on my bed, reading, and after a scene with the protagonist and her mother, one where you hope they will both just look at each other and….and see the other, and from there, make their way towards understanding. They didn’t.

I was laying on my bed, reading, and after that scene, I lay the book down on my chest and looked out of the back door. I blinked. Surprised by how clear the world was- how blue the sky, how still the pine tree, how green the pastor’s roof was. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out why I was so confused.

Why was I so surprised that the day was so lovely, that everything wasn’t hazy or muddled or blurred…. Because, ya know, when you live so long in your own head, in your own world of clouded vision…it’s surprising when you notice that things on the outside aren’t necessarily the same as things on the inside.

Why this should surprise me, I do not know. Internal/external conflict is old hat to me. It occurs to me now that the scars on my arm, they are perhaps the only thing that is the same without as it is within. No. Probably not the -only- thing. But certainly the most clearly defined, controlled thing.

After school let out, and I finished my finals and found that I had passed everything and was good to go for another year…I experienced a nice reprieve from so much that had been bothering me the weeks previous. Although, it wasn’t so much a reprieve as just….euphoria and elation covering over the reality.

I keep looking around me, trying so hard to find something familiar. I am surrounded by familiarity. But like the mourning doves, it all seems ephemeral, transient. It’s all in my peripherals, and when I turn my head towards it, it’s gone again. It moves and shifts and I don’t know how to catch it.

I’m so overwhelmed by restlessness. By this need to run, to go away from everything I know. And maybe it’s just that my extended circadian rhythm is still in that ‘college’ mode- everyone is picking up and leaving and some group of neurons in my brain can’t figure out why I’m not doing the same, they haven’t been reprogrammed. And maybe I just have this ominous feeling inside of me that I can’t quite name or pinpoint, that indicates bad things and I want to go away so no one really has to witness them. And maybe it’s just my lack of having a schedule that needs to be followed, lack of work to occupy my time, that leads to too much ruminating, too much uncovering of those underlying things that I hide so well with school and work and groups.

I’m so overwhelmed with a tightness in my chest and a pressure behind my eyes and a throat too small to allow the necessary oxygen to pass thru. Jay and I were discussing freedom the other nite. And in thinking back…freedom isn’t necessarily what I seek.

It’s not fair to take an animal that you’ve raised from a baby and all of a sudden release it in to the wild. It’s going to get killed. It doesn’t know the difference between a predator and a pal.

And yet, isn’t that what life is about?

But some caretakers prepare us better for the world. Not to say that others don’t try their damndest, of that they aren’t doing the best that they know how. But no one gets a manual, and sometimes it takes more trials than you have to figure it all out.

It’s mother’s day, yes. And I’m trying to not think too hard about mothers, for various reasons. My own, because I can’t escape her guilt and sadness. My other- the one who actually birthed me- because I think it’s wrong to suddenly call and strike up a conversation just because the calendar decrees that today is an appropriate day to do so. Why the fuck haven’t I done so at any point in time over the last 2 months? And others, who are not my mother by blood or by law, but who somehow provide so many of the things that I can’t manage to get from my own.

I’m supposed to be grateful for what I have. And I am. I try to be. I try to say thank you, I try to let the people around me know that they are appreciated. But, sometimes I almost feel that…if I could take all of the various attributes of them and instill them in my own mother…I would. Even if it meant that I wouldn’t have those other people around to fall back on.

What is it in me that so fiercely wants my -family- to be my family? That can’t just accept that sometimes “family” doesn’t have to be defined by blood or by law? What is it in me that still feels so incredibly guilty every time someone gets in closer to me than my mum or my sister ever have…so much so that I try to shove away as soon as I realize what has happened?

I’m frustrated with myself. More than anyone realizes. It’s down to the core, this time. So deep that at times I can’t discern why I am still trying- whether it’s because logic tells me I should be doing so, or, whether I’m doing it for the benefit of everyone else, or if it’s because I want to, or if it’s just because, technically it’s illegal to completely give up.

I’m not really connected to anyone, anymore. I feel distant and…perhaps not empty, but…hollow? Numb. Numb is probably the best descriptor. Because I know there’s something there…I just…can’t feel it. Except in brief spans of unmanagable, uncontrollable, confusing bursts of emotion. And, I suppose that’s contradictory, since I just said I was filled with restlessness. But it’s that restlessness I imagine the people in Our Town maybe feel, before they resign themselves to their fate…that need to go back and see where they should’ve done differently or…or something.

Maybe I’m just tired. Not physically…for the first time in many months, I think my body has gotten an adequate amount of sleep, or at least downtime. Just, otherwise worn out.

It does me no good, digging until my fingers bleed, trying to find answers or memories or truths or realities. It does me no good, and I know this. But I still dig, like a machine who doesn’t know any better. But I know better. But if I stop digging…I’m left only with what I currently have, which apparently isn’t enough, isn’t what I think I need.

I keep thinking to myself, when? When am I going to wake up and shake off this dream? Not that it’s a horrible dream, not that it’s a nightmare. But why don’t I feel real? Why does this all feel like some oddly scripted play with cardboard sets?

And maybe that’s why, when I put down my book and looked outside, I was surprised to find the outlines so crisp, the shadows sofull of depth, and the light set much brighter than a lighting director would ever design.

I can’t help but wonder, what exactly is wrong with me, that I can’t get the hang of things. I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to be like high school algebra…I eventually passed it after a few tries, but never understood it. Or rather, I understood most of it, but still couldn’t solve the equations the right way. Which was fine, when the teacher doesn’t care how you get to the answer. But in algebra, it’s not about the answer, it’s about how you got there so if you don’t get there the correct way, even if you get there, you’re screwed. And in life, I’m kind of the teacher and the student…I won’t let myself just be there…I have to know how I got there. And it trips me up. I think too much. I dwell. Short of ECT, I’m not sure how the hell to stop. Distractions work, to a point. But I always end up back to the beginning, ruminating.

This town that I live in, it’s sometimes somewhat segregated…there are the ‘townies’ and there are the college kids- but even the townies who go to the college can’t shake the fact that they’re ‘from here.’ And there are the relocated ones- lots of professors or alumn who’ve been here, seemingly forever, but who just aren’t ‘from here.’ Walking thru Wally World, it is sad and snobbish of me to say, but many of the townies are very easy to spot. Not all of them, of course. Anyways. My point is that those who aren’t townies…primarily those who are college kids or somewhat newly relocated people….well, I think they look down on the townies. (And, to be fair, the truth is, they look down on the grubby families decked out in camo who always have 3 grubby children in tow and few teeth, be them townie or not. Because we- yes, We, I am guilty of it too, when I don’t watch myself- equate ‘white trash’ with ‘townie’ even tho that’s certainly not the case for probably 2/3 of the residents who’ve lived here all their lives and such) Anyways. So. The perceived Townies are looked down on. Thought of as simple-minded, uneducated, grungy, barely literate.

But sometimes…what I would give to be one of them. To know my place and to be mostly content with it. To know my neighbors and their children, and their grandparents, and the name of every dog they’ve had since 1963. To not be able to afford anything but wally world but to never expect to be able to and so therefore not too worried or upset about it.

Yes. We can all chose our own paths in life. But it is also true that, in the beginning, we are very definately set on one path or another by those who came before us, generally our parents. For some of us, it’s difficult to get off of that path which becomes more like a rut. And. It’s not always a bad path. But sometimes it feels so confining.

There was never a question, growing up, of whether or not I would be going to college. The boys…they had more leeway. Most of them didn’t do as well in school as the girls did. Not that I did fabulously, but I generally held a B average- a C average was cause for serious restructuring of my time and/or activities. A C average got me “I expect better than this, what’s wrong with you…” Yet, for Chris…a C average was fine. A D average got him “You do need to apply yourself a little more, try better next time.” To me, those are very different messages. And, I’m not saying that the distinction caused me to be bitter or whatever. I never noticed it as a child- I knew what my expectations were, I knew what his were. It didn’t occur to me that they shouldn’t be different. And I’m saying that wrong- it was perfectly -fine- for them to be different. It’s just that, as in everything, higher expectations come with higher pressure.

Chris- I admire him. The boy never seems to get discouraged. He’s failed out of college I don’t know how many times, and has been “just a few credits” away from graduating for forever. And even if I made it sound as if the expectations on him weren’t as harsh as they were on me…well….given his druthers, he would’ve probably stopped trying the college thing long before he did. But, even tho his grades weren’t always as satisfactory as mine- he too, was expected to go to college. But. It wasn’t shocking when he fell into the path of my other brother, who also wasn’t exactly studious. And that was…not preferable…it -was- accepted. He went as long as he could without choosing a major which also was accepted. I wasn’t allowed to send in the application without at least having something down.

I’m not trying to make this sound like either one of us had it worse than the other. My ultimate point is that regardless of what we did or how we did it, we were all of us, always pushed harder. Not a bad thing. Until you find yourself shoving against the one pushing you. It’s so much easier to just be pushed along. Chris…he never got discouraged. He did what he wanted. Especially once he was about a foot taller than mum and had a quick temper to boot.

Me? It would probably be understating it to say that I didn’t have a temper. Or much of a spine. Or really, much of an expressed desire to do any differently than what I was doing. And I should lie and say “Oh, maybe I thought I was happy, but I really wasn’t…” But. No. Thru most of high school, I think I was probably pretty happy, outside all the teen angst shit, which I kept hidden mostly anyways. So why now all this shoving? I don’t know. Why now, all this anger when mum starts in on how much money I’ll be making one day, even if it’s true? And. I have a better understanding now, of why she thinks in shades of green. When you’ve never had enough, you definately want to be sure that your children DO. Ok, fine. It’s not the things that she wants for me that bothers me. It’s that she doesn’t acknowledge that maybe I don’t want the same, that maybe I want to go into nursing to *gasp* HELP people.

It shouldn’t be a surprise to her. I mean, when I started college and we fought over my major, I wanted psychology or social work. She absolutely forbid it. You’ll never make any money in that field. Ok. So. Maybe she knew what she was talking about, seeing as she had been a social worker for many, many years at that point. But. I didn’t want to make money. I wanted to help people. Yes, a lovely childhood fantasy maybe. But damnit. Why wasn’t I allowed to HAVE those childhood fantasies??

What is childhood, anyways?

M asked me the other day, if my father was ever nice- if I ever kind of went thru periods where I really loved him. No, I told her, he was never sober. But I’m not sure I can give a qualified answer. No, he was never sober. But maybe too, I was a little programmed to not care for him?

I had a childhood. I remember that I played softball. (Ok. All I remember is that my uniform was purple and gray, and that I wasn’t allowed to chew gum but everyone else on the team was, and one time when my mum actually came to pick me up instead of Elmer, I stuck my wad of chewing gum in my back pocket, thinking I’d remove it after I was done at bat and throw it away. Needless to say, I forgot, and the pants got washed, and she wasn’t furious that the pants were a pain in the ass to clean but she -was- furious that I had been chewing gum. Other than that, and having to ride in Elmer’s maroon car choking on cigarette smell, I don’t remember softball.) I do remember dance- I have lots of videos, and I spent probably 5 or 8 years in dance classes. And my teacher’s name was Joyce Hall and she had a porch swing in her back field that mum and I would sit on if we were very early for class some spring days. I had friends. I had boring summers and late nite games of whatever our night-time version of hide-n-seek was that we played with flashlights, where all the neighborhood kids would play. Even the cooler older boys like Dave Dansak and Jimmy Badstedner would play. (ha. And I remember coming home one night and being all excited and telling mum all about it, but I had forgotten to spit out my gum before I got home and she noticed and I was grounded from playing for I don’t know how long. And she told me that she could never, ever trust me again, that I had lost her trust and could never get it back. I was…all of 12? It was chewing gum. Talk about life-defining moments…)

But yet, I don’t remember much ever -feeling- like a kid. Does anyone, I wonder?? I was “so quiet, and well behaved.” And was forever getting an “O” for ‘accepts responsibility’ and ‘politeness’ (Actually, I never got anything less than satisfactory in anything in elementary school) I dunno. Lou was the outgoing one. I was the quiet, pensive one. I was very good at being ‘seen and not heard.’ I guess. And, I mean. Whatever, ya know? That’s who I was. Who I am, to a point. Except then, I just…I dunno if it was expected of me or if I just was that way by nature. Now…or as I got older, I just figured that that was what was expected of me. No one ever won a fight with mum, so I just didn’t fight. It was easier, and I was certainly surrounded by enough fighting.

I’m certainly babbling. I just wish I could figure out how in the hell to feel real. To feel. To feel and not to fake. J insists I’m getting better. So I believe her. And, most days, I do believe her. Other days, like today, I just wonder if I believe her just because I’m supposed to believe her.

I dunno. Therapy tomorrow tho, since I’m leaving town on Tuesday. Someday I wish I could just completely lose patience with myself and explode all over her office.

But then I’d immediately feel guilty for doing so and would recontain everything so quickly it would be as if I didn’t explode in the first place. I mean. Hell. I kinda do that every week already. *sigh*