I do.
The link is to a Reddit post that I found on Wheaton's blog today as I was catching up on the world that I have ignored for too long. He asks us to share things that will make the world a better place so I comply.
Besides that... it is something that I needed to hear. And it goes with the growing-up-with-pain-teaches-you-things-others-may-never-learn thing.
http://www.reddit.com/r/reddit.com/comments/b87a0/i_read_a_lot_of_threads_about_being_lonely_sad_or/
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
A funny thing happened on the way to the laundry
I finally got my head out of my ass enough to get to the laundromat today. I'd been planning on it for two weeks but my heart and my head hurt so much that the thought of being out of bed when I wasn't at work was well... nonexistant. Sure I'd feel bad about that if I didn't know that grief does that to you. Besides, the only way to turn those feelings into anything helpful and productive is to process it. And there was a lot to process: system wide overload.So I get to the laundromat and have my typical "Oh shit I'm in a new place how do I not make an ass of myself for not knowing the place like I know my own laundry room" 30 nanosecond panic attack. Got myself put together and put on the fake "A hurricane wouldn't phase me" attitude and went to change in my 20. Of course the attendent spotted me, the newbie, right away and gave me the tour. This laundry provides cups for the change machine so that your pants don't fall of your hips carrying 20.00 worth of quarters. Kinda felt like a casino with all that coin clinking into the metal tray. I got over that feeling really quick when I saw how much the wash cycles cost. Yikes is a profoundly understated exclamation. After loading 3 machines, setting up my laptop and cracking open a Dr. Pepper I settled in to keep up with facebook. I hadn't even gone through 3 notifications when I noticed the character in residence.
He was hawking his resale shop and talking at warp 4. He hit up a mom and her tween daughter, a set of goths and I thought, oh thank God I'm spared. He seemed to be ignoring anyone that looked busy. A freelance writer, the only other male in the place, was face to screen with his project. I was working, as I said, on letting friends know I wasn't dead. The freelance writer fetched the last of his clothes from the machines and the hawk swooped.
If only I had ignored my washers for another half an hour and kept my nose to my screen I would have been spared. But no, after wasting the laundry owners time with still occupied machines for half hour longer than the cycle ran, I put my clothes in the dryers. After reminding Mic what a card he is and finding that I will be working the next time the gang wants to get together, he pointed out my dryers were done. So I added coin and was cornered.
Today I am wearing a necklace constructed of two store bought strands, a store bought cameo pendent and the clasp from one of my grandmother's costume jewelery pieces (see photo). I'm also wearing a persian inspired patchwork vest with velvets and thick embroidery and lots of appearal trim over a deep purple camisole top, jeans and the "sexy" mules. I'm still in my 12 jeans but have done enough stupid things during emotional upheaval that I feel like a 14 and everything is tight again. Grrr.... once he saw the necklace I couldn't get rid of him.
He needs jewelery in his shop and he needs people who are willing to do consignment. Now, you know that I'm just dying to have the break of a life time so that I don't have to wear the fake confidence facade and can sit and assemble/paint/create/whatever without dealing with the rejection or trying to talk the goods up. I'm not a hawker. There is nothing high pressure about me. Besides that... discovery is an honor. Accepting wares after an arduous sales pitch is an obligation. I'd rather be honored. But I'd rather be honored by a legitimate businessman.
I listened to his pitch and his lofty plans because... well I'm just politely stupid like that. He had the right things to say about the necklace, meaning that he knew his stuff; the right things to say about the ensemble I am wearing today, meaning he knows complementary/analogous colors, motifs and his periods so he at least knows his arts. Where I think he went wrong was turning the burgeoning business arrangement into an opportunity to pick me up. "I love your eyes, their shape and their color. You have amazing curls" (that was an exageration) "that are perfect for the shape of your face." Another bad idea might have been guessing my size and saying he prefers women of substance to the skinny underfed runway models without personality. He his a high pressure sales guy with everything he is selling... including the "hassle free" coffee he'd like to have sometime. He is also bi-polar and has no internal editing button.
I don't know how to take this one. Either this falls solidly into the "It can always be worse" or loosely into the "Be careful what you wish for" category. Or it's just one of those fun stories to blog about.
What Wheaton said
so I guess since a.g.s isn't the only one who needs to have a bit of encouragement, I will repeat the Wheaton's words using my own words.
For form of writing, there is a syntax which helps the reader recognize what he/she is reading. An autobiography has a specific set of language rules, most noteably that of being written in the first person. A fictionalized autobiography will be in the 3rd person and while it will be about events that occurred in an author's life it will read differently. A personal autobiography will also read differently than one that outlines a career, or one's involvement in a part of world history as it will be more conversational than instructional. Fiction, memoir, non fiction and technical writing all have a different way of relating to the reader. It stands to reason that the author's mindset needs to be programmed for the kind of work being written.
Wil writes review/critique, memoir, fiction and blog. In each of these writing sessions the mind has to be tuned to the task at hand. And that is the problem. Writing is a creative endeavor as much as it is a discipline. When you do the creative stuff, peppering a critique with humor or developing a character or painting a new world for your reader to get lost in, it is hard to write a blog post in which you attempt to analyze the experience of writing. And every time he does he fails. So when he is writing fiction and memoir he is silent on the web. But when he is writing short essays and kvetching with us, his readers, he is doing little else.
The creative mind doesn't like changing gears in mid stream. I know fom the cretive perspective that while you are working on a piece your mind is always working even when your hands are idle. So it makes the task of transitioning indanely difficult. And editors don't like it when their clients do this either. It messes up your tenses, thoughts wander and entire chapters begin to lose the kind of continuity that makes editing a nightmare.
So if you write on a multitude of topics in a cariety of styles, you're going to have to be patient with yourself. Personally, if you can find a short ritual that will help you make the transition from style to style without feeling like an idiot... do so. Deep breathing doesn't always work for me. Sometimes changing form a hot to a cold beverage helps. Weird? I'm not weird because I think writing fiction is the kind of task that requires hot tea or a mocha. Blog writing is a Dr. Pepper kind of task. And memories put to paper scream for some comforting hot chocolate/chocolate milk. That's just my thing to do. Every author does something different. But you need something to help you change gears. Being a trekkie I like to imagine my mind as an Okudagram and using verbal commands to get the computer to change tasks in Geordies voice. THAT is weird.
So writers, lighten up, find the ritual that lets your get to your voice and quit worrying about the future. It takes care of itself. And everything takes time.
For form of writing, there is a syntax which helps the reader recognize what he/she is reading. An autobiography has a specific set of language rules, most noteably that of being written in the first person. A fictionalized autobiography will be in the 3rd person and while it will be about events that occurred in an author's life it will read differently. A personal autobiography will also read differently than one that outlines a career, or one's involvement in a part of world history as it will be more conversational than instructional. Fiction, memoir, non fiction and technical writing all have a different way of relating to the reader. It stands to reason that the author's mindset needs to be programmed for the kind of work being written.
Wil writes review/critique, memoir, fiction and blog. In each of these writing sessions the mind has to be tuned to the task at hand. And that is the problem. Writing is a creative endeavor as much as it is a discipline. When you do the creative stuff, peppering a critique with humor or developing a character or painting a new world for your reader to get lost in, it is hard to write a blog post in which you attempt to analyze the experience of writing. And every time he does he fails. So when he is writing fiction and memoir he is silent on the web. But when he is writing short essays and kvetching with us, his readers, he is doing little else.
The creative mind doesn't like changing gears in mid stream. I know fom the cretive perspective that while you are working on a piece your mind is always working even when your hands are idle. So it makes the task of transitioning indanely difficult. And editors don't like it when their clients do this either. It messes up your tenses, thoughts wander and entire chapters begin to lose the kind of continuity that makes editing a nightmare.
So if you write on a multitude of topics in a cariety of styles, you're going to have to be patient with yourself. Personally, if you can find a short ritual that will help you make the transition from style to style without feeling like an idiot... do so. Deep breathing doesn't always work for me. Sometimes changing form a hot to a cold beverage helps. Weird? I'm not weird because I think writing fiction is the kind of task that requires hot tea or a mocha. Blog writing is a Dr. Pepper kind of task. And memories put to paper scream for some comforting hot chocolate/chocolate milk. That's just my thing to do. Every author does something different. But you need something to help you change gears. Being a trekkie I like to imagine my mind as an Okudagram and using verbal commands to get the computer to change tasks in Geordies voice. THAT is weird.
So writers, lighten up, find the ritual that lets your get to your voice and quit worrying about the future. It takes care of itself. And everything takes time.
Welcome
Periodically, as you know, I find through circuitous routes that I have more than ACG/S as a regular reader of this blog. You also know that I have discovered that my words/works are being disseminated in other blogs around the world. Today I discovered that I have yet another follower.
Welcome another.grad.student and thank you for being brave enough to announce your following. Gang, meet another.grad.student. She blogs on Blogger as well. Hers is only a couple of entries old and is being scrunched into a very busy time in her life. But I think, once she gets going and finds her blog-voice she'll do fine.
Welcome another.grad.student and thank you for being brave enough to announce your following. Gang, meet another.grad.student. She blogs on Blogger as well. Hers is only a couple of entries old and is being scrunched into a very busy time in her life. But I think, once she gets going and finds her blog-voice she'll do fine.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Setting the Stage
Here's the story of a girl who learned very early on that she could not trust those who showed interest in her. What point is there in telling this story? It will explain, I think, just how aggressive my mental defenses are and why I'm having such trouble undoing them. Keep in mind that I am not using any real names beyond my own. The principle players and I, after 30 years, have become dear enough friends that I would not wish ill feelings directed at them. Their actions had purpose which I could not see at the time. I don't know if they consciously supported the purpose or if it is a comfortable tale I tell myself now 3o years later. The point is that things are good and I don't resent the events or the persons involved.
And as I said, I thought that it was dealt with. When this new situation arose I was shocked to find myself reduced to the 10-12 year old child that I had been. I think my defenses may be protecting her without realizing that she is now 40 and possesses (I hope) the faculties to heal and defend herself with out the automated response.
10 year old Sherry was knobby kneed and gaining girth to prevent herself from continually being dragged to the top of a 15 foot slide and thrown off the sides. Her hair was long blonde and straight as a board, a curtain to hide behind at her desk. Her hair hid the blushing caused by the pain of the insults thrown at her daily. 10 year old Sherry had bright blue eyes with a thin rim of green that glistened in the sunlight. Most people thought that it was the eagerness of youth that put the shine in her eyes. Only she knew that the shiny gloss came from the film of tears that were ever on the verge of falling whether or not she were being actively targetted. She spent most of her time alone hiding on the playground, hoping to avoid detection.
One autumn day, sometime before Halloween of her 5th grade year, one of the popular boys noticed her. He had not been one of the boys who gave her knobby knees scars by tripping her in gravel. He had not been one of the boys who followed her down the sidewalk on her way home,throwing rocks and twigs. He had not been one of the boys who called her humiliating names. He had not ever shown that he noticed her before. He was one of those boys that all of the girls noticed for being cute, outgoing and having the smile of an angel or rogue... no Devils allowed in Catholic school. During the time Mrs. Bauer set aside for reading, he leaned over the aisle between their desks.
"Hey Sherry."
10 year old Sherry thought that he'd been trying to get Geri's attention. So she ignored him. A wad of crumpled paper landed on her desk. "Hey Sherry."
Sherry looked through a part in her curtain of blonde hair. "I have to ask you something."
Sherry ducked back behind her hair. Mrs Bauer was a generous teacher but she didn't like there to be talking during reading time since our class had below average scores in reading. When class broke for lunch Mark hissed at her.
"Hey Sherry. I wanted to ask you a question."
"What?" She thought that he wanted help with homework or just wnated her to do it for him. If they weren't insulting her that is the only time her classmates talked to her.
"Would you go out with me?"
Ten year olds don't date, she thought. What she said was, "Why?"
While Mark was looking at her, Sherry did what she always did; she read the room. A ripple of winks and nudges from Mark to the last row of students in the popular clique made her back rigid.
"I think you're awfully smart. And funny."
Sherry didn't recall laughing much at all and began to register his words as lies.
"Will you go out with me?"
"No."
Sherry left the room thinking that was the end of it. The sound of conspiratorial tittering follwed her out the room as she went home for lunch. When she came back Mark was at his desk. His friends were gathered around a singel desk at a respectable distance. "I really mean it. You're smart, and funny and kinda pretty. Why won't you go out with me?"
"Because I don't believe you." She wanted to believe him. But she had spent 3 years listening to Jimmy H telling her how ugly she was with no dispute from her classmates. And in this, their 5th grade, no one was arguing Jimmy's accuracy either. Sherry sat at her desk, eyes glistening with tears she prayed would not fall on her writing assignment. She begged God to make her invisbile to Mrs. Bauer. If she were called on to answer a question her voice would crack and that would surely mean tears would follow. It seemed like all she ever did was cry.
The rest of the day passed without incident. Three days passed and she was sure that this disgrace had evaporated. As the class filed in, Mark sat at his desk, hands forlornly folded atop his books. "I don't know why you don't like me, Sherry." He pouted. "Why won;t you go out with me?"
Sherry ignored him.
The next day his friend snuck up behind her, "If you won't go out with Mark, will you go out with me? I think you're awfully sweet and we could have a lot of fun."
"No."
"Why not?"
"We are ten." Sherry's voice was barely a whisper. "We are too young to date." Still timid, her voice had gained in volume. Her body shook with fear that her refusal would be punished. But hse had to speak her mind. Grampa told her that there was no point in hiding the truth. "Besides, I know you are lying."
He turned her around, a huge and fake smile on his face. She knew it was fake because he should have looked either hurt or embarrassed. Her if her accusation was false and embarrassed to have been caught if it was true. His expression did not change so she knew that he had a motive she could not see.
"Why would I lie?"
Sherry ran away.
"Well Mark, she won't have either of us. Maybe she lieks Tom better. Hey Tommy, come overh ere and ask Sherry out."
Tommy's reluctance was evident. Mark and Mark dragged him to Sherry's desk. Barely audible, Tommy did as he was told and then ran for the haven of his desk before she could say anything. Mrs Bauer called the class to attention. Again the curtain of blonde hair drew over Sherry's face. This time the tears fell on her math homework. She didn't care. And she didn't make a sound as she wept, smearing number two pencil over the loose leaf paper.
The next day each Mark in turn asked her to go steady. Each day until Christmas they asked. And they asked up through Easter break. Tommy submitted to their pressure and asked only periodically after protesting that he didn't want to because it was mean. School resumed after break. As did the daily ritual. Each say until Summer vacation was much the same. She cried into her dilapitated teddy bear's stomach, sure that she was rusting the music box sown inside him.
6th grade began with orientation in which new classmates were introduced and homeroom was assigned. Sitting with Mark Mark and Tom was Donovan. Sometime during orientation she noticed the Marks pointing in her direction. Donovan looked, sized her up and wrinkled his nose as though he'd just been told he had stepped in dog poop. Then he laughed and nodded affirmatively to something being discussed. Before she ever got to homeroom, Sherry was caught about the elbow.
"They tell me that you're one of the smartest people in school. I guess that means we'll be spending time together since I need a little extra help. You'd like to do homework with me wouldn't you?" Donovan smiled the smile of snakes and charlatans. Sherry's heart sank. This year would be the same as the last. "No."
Each day until Thanksgiving was the same. The Marks took turns asking her why someone so cute and smart would turn them down. The first Mark came up with a new speech. "You're breaking my heart Sherry. I've liked you ever since the 3rd grade and all you do is turn me down. Am I ugly?" No, I am, she thought to her self. "Am I mean?" I had not thought so until last year, she thought to herself again. "Do I smell?" No, she answered in her heart. "I go home every night and cry that you tell me 'No'." No you don't, she heard in her head. That voice was not her own.
Sherry, rather than continue the conversation, this time said nothing. she thought that ignoring them would make the tire of the game and stop. She'd thought about begging. About crying and telling them how much it hurt to know that they were only pretending. But when Jimmy found out how much he was hurting her he kept doing it more. He found more ways to cause pain. Sherry didn't think that telling them how she felt was a good idea. She thought about telling one of the new teachers what was going on. But who would believe that the three most popular boys in class would ever ask her out? She'd be laughed at, called a liar and branded as a trouble maker. Best to keep to herself. They'll stop soon enough, hse thought.
But it kept up through Christmas, ans Spring break. It was close to Summer vacation when a new boy joined the class, and their clique and their game. Just before the end of the school year Clay asked her to go steady. Sherry ignored him.
"Look guys, she thinks she's too good for us."
When Gramma and Grampa picked her up for her only weekend with them alone she cried all the way home. After Star Trek and learning that Cheese puffs and tears don't mix, she told her grandparents what was happening. Gramma cried silently with her for a while. Grampa waited until the hiccups went away and asked her what her course of action had been.
"I don't know what else to do. I tried to think what Laura (Ingalls) would do. ButI can't hit them and I don't know where to get leeches."
"Hitting won't work. Jimmy H you should hit. These boys.... what they are doing is psychological."
Grampa Gerbstadt gave Sherry a crash course in basic psychology. "You'll just have to say yes."
"But "I don't want to! They don't mean it."
"Of course they don't. That is the point in saying yes."
"I don't understand."
"Al, she can't. She's too young for all of this foolishness."
"She isn't. If she were it wouldn't be happening."
"You don't really want to do this do you?" Gramma put her arm around Sherry's shoulders.
Sherry's chin dropped to her chest and the sobs started again.
"Al, this is just going to make her feel worse."
"How, she already knows that they are lying to her."
"But this is the proof. Once this happens..."
"It will put a stop to the torment."
"I-I ca-an't."
"You will when you're tired of this. Wash your face and get your books. I'm sure you have a lot of homework to do."
Summer came with the reprieve from her torture. She thought. Her brother began to tease her every day about them liking her. "And maybe (fill in the name) likes you too!" Then 7th grade started. The very first day, before she ever got into the building, the first Mark began cajoling her from the curb. "Look, there she is. The only girl to ever break my heart. Will you ever go with me Sherry?"
Sherry dashed inside the building hoping to find solace that was not there. That first weekend of school she was at Gramma and Grampa's again. "Well, has it stopped?"
Sherry didn't need to ask has what stopped. All she did was shake her head no as tears flowed. later in the weekend, as she colored in her homework for religion class, Grampa appeared in the doorway. "Why do they do this,Grampa? Why do they say nice things that they don't mean?"
"Its the way people are. Sometimes people say mean things that they don't believe because they are hurt or scared. Sometimes people say nice things that they don't mean because they don't want to admit to thinking nasty things. Action. You have to look at what people do."
"Actions speak louder than words." Sherry didn't know who she was quoting. But she heard it a lot from everyone so she believed it was a wise thing to know and say.
"Most of the time. You'll always know when people tell the truth by action. You can't always believe the words. There are a lot of good actors out there and they aren't all in Hollywood."
Sherry went back to school that Monday thinking of the things that Grampa said. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt from all the crying. She knew she needed this to stop. But when it stopped then she would know that she never had been wanted and most likely never would be wanted. After this no one in her class would want her anymore that they all ready did. And, at the age of twelve, Sherry didn't have the bigger picture to know that there was a world beyond Catholic school and more people in her life than her classmates.
Sherry let it continue through Thanksgiving and Christmas break. Each day it was harder and harder to want to go to school. It was getting harder to sit through class not knowing during which period the attacks would come. Then, just before Easter break, Clay trapped her at her desk. She hated having to sit by the wall... no escape.
"Sherry, Sherry Sherry. Why do you keep saying no? You know that I want you. Those guys are just a couple of chumps. I've got money, we live in a nice house and I am the most popular boy in school. You've got to want me as much as I want you."
"OKay."
"what?" Clay blanched.
"I'll go with you."
Mrs. Huffman called the class to attention and grabbed Clay by the scruff of his collar to show him to his seat. The popular girls were laughing at him. Mark, Mark and Donovan were laughing at him. As they were leaving for the next class, the first Mark clapped Clay on the shoulder, "you're stuck with her now!"
"You said she'd never say yes!" Clay screeached. Sherry's worst fears were finally realized. This would stop the daily torment. But what was she to do with the pain in her soul?
Sherry successfully avoided Clay for the rest of the day. For the whole weekend she refused to aswer the phone or talk to Clay when he called.
"Why is that boy so desperate to talk to you?"
"He wants to break up with me?"
"What do you mean break up with you? You shouldn't be dating anyone. And who would want to date you anyway?"
"Don't worry. No one really wants me. It was a joke that back fired."
On Monday morning, Sherry approached Clay as he stood nervously by a lamp post.
"Um... I tried to call you all weekend." He looked like he'd eaten an entire plate of deviled eggs that had been left in the hot Summer sun for hours. "We can't go steady."
"I know."
"It's uh... nothing personal, it's just that...
"Your mother didn't approve."
"Right. And well.. you know... its not like you have money for the movies and stuff."
"I know."
"And well you just couldn't afford gifts all the time for like birthdays and stuff."
"I know."
"so uh... yeah. So we aren't going steady."
"Right."
Clay ran into the building and never looked Sherry in the eye again. Mark, Mark, Donovan and Tommy never asked her to go steady after that. Her Grampa was right. "They won't have the guts to do it again. They'll be afraid that you'll say yes again." And he was right.
Only one person asked her to go out, to go steady with the hope of building a relationship after that. His actions matched his words. But he didn't stay either. And at 40, Sherry feels like that 10-12 year old girl all over again.
And as I said, I thought that it was dealt with. When this new situation arose I was shocked to find myself reduced to the 10-12 year old child that I had been. I think my defenses may be protecting her without realizing that she is now 40 and possesses (I hope) the faculties to heal and defend herself with out the automated response.
10 year old Sherry was knobby kneed and gaining girth to prevent herself from continually being dragged to the top of a 15 foot slide and thrown off the sides. Her hair was long blonde and straight as a board, a curtain to hide behind at her desk. Her hair hid the blushing caused by the pain of the insults thrown at her daily. 10 year old Sherry had bright blue eyes with a thin rim of green that glistened in the sunlight. Most people thought that it was the eagerness of youth that put the shine in her eyes. Only she knew that the shiny gloss came from the film of tears that were ever on the verge of falling whether or not she were being actively targetted. She spent most of her time alone hiding on the playground, hoping to avoid detection.
One autumn day, sometime before Halloween of her 5th grade year, one of the popular boys noticed her. He had not been one of the boys who gave her knobby knees scars by tripping her in gravel. He had not been one of the boys who followed her down the sidewalk on her way home,throwing rocks and twigs. He had not been one of the boys who called her humiliating names. He had not ever shown that he noticed her before. He was one of those boys that all of the girls noticed for being cute, outgoing and having the smile of an angel or rogue... no Devils allowed in Catholic school. During the time Mrs. Bauer set aside for reading, he leaned over the aisle between their desks.
"Hey Sherry."
10 year old Sherry thought that he'd been trying to get Geri's attention. So she ignored him. A wad of crumpled paper landed on her desk. "Hey Sherry."
Sherry looked through a part in her curtain of blonde hair. "I have to ask you something."
Sherry ducked back behind her hair. Mrs Bauer was a generous teacher but she didn't like there to be talking during reading time since our class had below average scores in reading. When class broke for lunch Mark hissed at her.
"Hey Sherry. I wanted to ask you a question."
"What?" She thought that he wanted help with homework or just wnated her to do it for him. If they weren't insulting her that is the only time her classmates talked to her.
"Would you go out with me?"
Ten year olds don't date, she thought. What she said was, "Why?"
While Mark was looking at her, Sherry did what she always did; she read the room. A ripple of winks and nudges from Mark to the last row of students in the popular clique made her back rigid.
"I think you're awfully smart. And funny."
Sherry didn't recall laughing much at all and began to register his words as lies.
"Will you go out with me?"
"No."
Sherry left the room thinking that was the end of it. The sound of conspiratorial tittering follwed her out the room as she went home for lunch. When she came back Mark was at his desk. His friends were gathered around a singel desk at a respectable distance. "I really mean it. You're smart, and funny and kinda pretty. Why won't you go out with me?"
"Because I don't believe you." She wanted to believe him. But she had spent 3 years listening to Jimmy H telling her how ugly she was with no dispute from her classmates. And in this, their 5th grade, no one was arguing Jimmy's accuracy either. Sherry sat at her desk, eyes glistening with tears she prayed would not fall on her writing assignment. She begged God to make her invisbile to Mrs. Bauer. If she were called on to answer a question her voice would crack and that would surely mean tears would follow. It seemed like all she ever did was cry.
The rest of the day passed without incident. Three days passed and she was sure that this disgrace had evaporated. As the class filed in, Mark sat at his desk, hands forlornly folded atop his books. "I don't know why you don't like me, Sherry." He pouted. "Why won;t you go out with me?"
Sherry ignored him.
The next day his friend snuck up behind her, "If you won't go out with Mark, will you go out with me? I think you're awfully sweet and we could have a lot of fun."
"No."
"Why not?"
"We are ten." Sherry's voice was barely a whisper. "We are too young to date." Still timid, her voice had gained in volume. Her body shook with fear that her refusal would be punished. But hse had to speak her mind. Grampa told her that there was no point in hiding the truth. "Besides, I know you are lying."
He turned her around, a huge and fake smile on his face. She knew it was fake because he should have looked either hurt or embarrassed. Her if her accusation was false and embarrassed to have been caught if it was true. His expression did not change so she knew that he had a motive she could not see.
"Why would I lie?"
Sherry ran away.
"Well Mark, she won't have either of us. Maybe she lieks Tom better. Hey Tommy, come overh ere and ask Sherry out."
Tommy's reluctance was evident. Mark and Mark dragged him to Sherry's desk. Barely audible, Tommy did as he was told and then ran for the haven of his desk before she could say anything. Mrs Bauer called the class to attention. Again the curtain of blonde hair drew over Sherry's face. This time the tears fell on her math homework. She didn't care. And she didn't make a sound as she wept, smearing number two pencil over the loose leaf paper.
The next day each Mark in turn asked her to go steady. Each day until Christmas they asked. And they asked up through Easter break. Tommy submitted to their pressure and asked only periodically after protesting that he didn't want to because it was mean. School resumed after break. As did the daily ritual. Each say until Summer vacation was much the same. She cried into her dilapitated teddy bear's stomach, sure that she was rusting the music box sown inside him.
6th grade began with orientation in which new classmates were introduced and homeroom was assigned. Sitting with Mark Mark and Tom was Donovan. Sometime during orientation she noticed the Marks pointing in her direction. Donovan looked, sized her up and wrinkled his nose as though he'd just been told he had stepped in dog poop. Then he laughed and nodded affirmatively to something being discussed. Before she ever got to homeroom, Sherry was caught about the elbow.
"They tell me that you're one of the smartest people in school. I guess that means we'll be spending time together since I need a little extra help. You'd like to do homework with me wouldn't you?" Donovan smiled the smile of snakes and charlatans. Sherry's heart sank. This year would be the same as the last. "No."
Each day until Thanksgiving was the same. The Marks took turns asking her why someone so cute and smart would turn them down. The first Mark came up with a new speech. "You're breaking my heart Sherry. I've liked you ever since the 3rd grade and all you do is turn me down. Am I ugly?" No, I am, she thought to her self. "Am I mean?" I had not thought so until last year, she thought to herself again. "Do I smell?" No, she answered in her heart. "I go home every night and cry that you tell me 'No'." No you don't, she heard in her head. That voice was not her own.
Sherry, rather than continue the conversation, this time said nothing. she thought that ignoring them would make the tire of the game and stop. She'd thought about begging. About crying and telling them how much it hurt to know that they were only pretending. But when Jimmy found out how much he was hurting her he kept doing it more. He found more ways to cause pain. Sherry didn't think that telling them how she felt was a good idea. She thought about telling one of the new teachers what was going on. But who would believe that the three most popular boys in class would ever ask her out? She'd be laughed at, called a liar and branded as a trouble maker. Best to keep to herself. They'll stop soon enough, hse thought.
But it kept up through Christmas, ans Spring break. It was close to Summer vacation when a new boy joined the class, and their clique and their game. Just before the end of the school year Clay asked her to go steady. Sherry ignored him.
"Look guys, she thinks she's too good for us."
When Gramma and Grampa picked her up for her only weekend with them alone she cried all the way home. After Star Trek and learning that Cheese puffs and tears don't mix, she told her grandparents what was happening. Gramma cried silently with her for a while. Grampa waited until the hiccups went away and asked her what her course of action had been.
"I don't know what else to do. I tried to think what Laura (Ingalls) would do. ButI can't hit them and I don't know where to get leeches."
"Hitting won't work. Jimmy H you should hit. These boys.... what they are doing is psychological."
Grampa Gerbstadt gave Sherry a crash course in basic psychology. "You'll just have to say yes."
"But "I don't want to! They don't mean it."
"Of course they don't. That is the point in saying yes."
"I don't understand."
"Al, she can't. She's too young for all of this foolishness."
"She isn't. If she were it wouldn't be happening."
"You don't really want to do this do you?" Gramma put her arm around Sherry's shoulders.
Sherry's chin dropped to her chest and the sobs started again.
"Al, this is just going to make her feel worse."
"How, she already knows that they are lying to her."
"But this is the proof. Once this happens..."
"It will put a stop to the torment."
"I-I ca-an't."
"You will when you're tired of this. Wash your face and get your books. I'm sure you have a lot of homework to do."
Summer came with the reprieve from her torture. She thought. Her brother began to tease her every day about them liking her. "And maybe (fill in the name) likes you too!" Then 7th grade started. The very first day, before she ever got into the building, the first Mark began cajoling her from the curb. "Look, there she is. The only girl to ever break my heart. Will you ever go with me Sherry?"
Sherry dashed inside the building hoping to find solace that was not there. That first weekend of school she was at Gramma and Grampa's again. "Well, has it stopped?"
Sherry didn't need to ask has what stopped. All she did was shake her head no as tears flowed. later in the weekend, as she colored in her homework for religion class, Grampa appeared in the doorway. "Why do they do this,Grampa? Why do they say nice things that they don't mean?"
"Its the way people are. Sometimes people say mean things that they don't believe because they are hurt or scared. Sometimes people say nice things that they don't mean because they don't want to admit to thinking nasty things. Action. You have to look at what people do."
"Actions speak louder than words." Sherry didn't know who she was quoting. But she heard it a lot from everyone so she believed it was a wise thing to know and say.
"Most of the time. You'll always know when people tell the truth by action. You can't always believe the words. There are a lot of good actors out there and they aren't all in Hollywood."
Sherry went back to school that Monday thinking of the things that Grampa said. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt from all the crying. She knew she needed this to stop. But when it stopped then she would know that she never had been wanted and most likely never would be wanted. After this no one in her class would want her anymore that they all ready did. And, at the age of twelve, Sherry didn't have the bigger picture to know that there was a world beyond Catholic school and more people in her life than her classmates.
Sherry let it continue through Thanksgiving and Christmas break. Each day it was harder and harder to want to go to school. It was getting harder to sit through class not knowing during which period the attacks would come. Then, just before Easter break, Clay trapped her at her desk. She hated having to sit by the wall... no escape.
"Sherry, Sherry Sherry. Why do you keep saying no? You know that I want you. Those guys are just a couple of chumps. I've got money, we live in a nice house and I am the most popular boy in school. You've got to want me as much as I want you."
"OKay."
"what?" Clay blanched.
"I'll go with you."
Mrs. Huffman called the class to attention and grabbed Clay by the scruff of his collar to show him to his seat. The popular girls were laughing at him. Mark, Mark and Donovan were laughing at him. As they were leaving for the next class, the first Mark clapped Clay on the shoulder, "you're stuck with her now!"
"You said she'd never say yes!" Clay screeached. Sherry's worst fears were finally realized. This would stop the daily torment. But what was she to do with the pain in her soul?
Sherry successfully avoided Clay for the rest of the day. For the whole weekend she refused to aswer the phone or talk to Clay when he called.
"Why is that boy so desperate to talk to you?"
"He wants to break up with me?"
"What do you mean break up with you? You shouldn't be dating anyone. And who would want to date you anyway?"
"Don't worry. No one really wants me. It was a joke that back fired."
On Monday morning, Sherry approached Clay as he stood nervously by a lamp post.
"Um... I tried to call you all weekend." He looked like he'd eaten an entire plate of deviled eggs that had been left in the hot Summer sun for hours. "We can't go steady."
"I know."
"It's uh... nothing personal, it's just that...
"Your mother didn't approve."
"Right. And well.. you know... its not like you have money for the movies and stuff."
"I know."
"And well you just couldn't afford gifts all the time for like birthdays and stuff."
"I know."
"so uh... yeah. So we aren't going steady."
"Right."
Clay ran into the building and never looked Sherry in the eye again. Mark, Mark, Donovan and Tommy never asked her to go steady after that. Her Grampa was right. "They won't have the guts to do it again. They'll be afraid that you'll say yes again." And he was right.
Only one person asked her to go out, to go steady with the hope of building a relationship after that. His actions matched his words. But he didn't stay either. And at 40, Sherry feels like that 10-12 year old girl all over again.
Time is fluid
It turns out that you can be your own imagnary friend.
Quantum mechanics can give you a doozy of a headache. And boy do I have a doozy.
Quantum mechanics can give you a doozy of a headache. And boy do I have a doozy.
Kirkegaard
It is as close as a direct quote as I can get. Heard it in a movie.
No suffering is as painful as remembering the future, especially one that can never be.
I think that is what all grief invariably really is. We never miss the past we have with someone special to us so much as all the things that never will come to pass.
Someone told people he was going to ask me out. Some of those people told me his plans. I got excited. Counted the eggs in my basket as chickens and got egg on my face. And now I am left with him insisting that I misread everything, that it was all in my head and I took things more seriously than he meant them. Really? Cause I am not the only one who took him seriously. He told no less than 4 people he was going to ask me out before I ever knew anything of the sort was possible. While he may joke around with a lot of people, his behavior with me was still different. So what I am left with is the following:
a profound mistrust of my own senses
a profound distaste for the concept of dating
a profound sense of embarrassment
deep abiding distrust of anyone who would tell me that I am special
the inability to release my self defense mechanisms
What does this mean?
My sense of embarrassment has lead me to shut down with everyone. I have ignored facebook. I do not engage my coworkers. And my muse and I are having a screaming match the result of which I am begrudgingly putting my pain into a new piece. I don't want to paint. I want to create the perfect monologue which combines a Perry Mason styled list of evidence as to his culpability and Anne Shirley styled insults toward his capacity for humane behavior. But the muse says paint. "Put the pain into something that lets you transform darkness to light." I'd rather throw a lamp at him.
That deep, abiding distrust of anyone who would call me special? That means that I am reliving part of my past that I thought was healed. This isn't the first time I've been yanked around. But I had thought a 50 year old man would be less like the 10, 11 and 12 year old boys who spent three years tormenting me. That story will follow later. The only person who will ever know how awesome I am is me. I saw my future differently. That vision created a memory (dreams and visions repeated become memories). And now I get to grieve that memory.
The way in which I was told to forget any idea caused my senses to shut down. All of my defense mechanisms slammed shut around me. I cannot override them. And yes, I want to override them.Those defense mechanisms protect me from pain, true. But when they slam shut like that they keep out the good things that can happen. He isn't a monster. His past created perceptions and as an empath I know, I think I know, that something in his thinking got twisted around. If I can not find compassion for him I will never find to capacity to participate in my life again. That is the way of the defenses I set up. But I can't override them. Its like being trapped in the engine room on the Enterprise during a containment field breach. The ship slams the doors shut, sucks out the atmosphere to keep the breach form contaminating the rest of engineering and the whole ship. Great. Problem is that when there is a lowly red-shirted yeoman stuck near the containment unit when the breach occurs, the safety protocols end up sacrificing the unlucky schlub. I'm the schlub. I can't get out. And Geordie can't get me out with his superior code authorizations. I've been trying. I've been punching buttons on the Okuda grams, throwing tools at the door and trying to pry open the barriers with my bare hands to no avail. The thing is... the internal sensors are reading a breach. But the containment field is intact. The atmosphere is getting sucked out of the room for no reason and it is going to kill me.
So how does that relate to Kirkegaard? Simple. I have remembered a future where I am not alone and all the cool awesome things about me are used in a partnership. It will not happen now. Not with him. And, if the words given me when I sought comfort from spiritual advisors is any indication, it will not happen with anyone.
I don't have the capacity to hate enough for revenge so all I can do is keep my head down and not get noticed. Since my part in the problem was having ever spoken of a hope, I can do nothing now but remain silent as can be. Cursed as I am as an empath, all I can do is hope that he doesn't keep tossing away opportunities to be with awesome women. Something in him keeps telling him he doesn't deserve anyone cool. And there are enough people who have told me that he is beneath my consideration who reinforce that thought; I cannot bear the idea of being counted among them because I know that they are wrong. He is wrong to think that he deserves only pain and vengence and disappointment.
He has been reprimanded. I do not know to what degree. But he must know I had nothing to do with that. I bear as much responsibility and should shoulder as much of the burden as he. It won't work that way. Whoever told on him made sure to make it seem as though he/she had done it with the best of intentions and made him the sole guilty party with enough plausibility that no one would consider any other options when the quick and easy answer is to punish him and be done with it.
No suffering is as painful as remembering the future, especially one that can never be.
I think that is what all grief invariably really is. We never miss the past we have with someone special to us so much as all the things that never will come to pass.
Someone told people he was going to ask me out. Some of those people told me his plans. I got excited. Counted the eggs in my basket as chickens and got egg on my face. And now I am left with him insisting that I misread everything, that it was all in my head and I took things more seriously than he meant them. Really? Cause I am not the only one who took him seriously. He told no less than 4 people he was going to ask me out before I ever knew anything of the sort was possible. While he may joke around with a lot of people, his behavior with me was still different. So what I am left with is the following:
a profound mistrust of my own senses
a profound distaste for the concept of dating
a profound sense of embarrassment
deep abiding distrust of anyone who would tell me that I am special
the inability to release my self defense mechanisms
What does this mean?
My sense of embarrassment has lead me to shut down with everyone. I have ignored facebook. I do not engage my coworkers. And my muse and I are having a screaming match the result of which I am begrudgingly putting my pain into a new piece. I don't want to paint. I want to create the perfect monologue which combines a Perry Mason styled list of evidence as to his culpability and Anne Shirley styled insults toward his capacity for humane behavior. But the muse says paint. "Put the pain into something that lets you transform darkness to light." I'd rather throw a lamp at him.
That deep, abiding distrust of anyone who would call me special? That means that I am reliving part of my past that I thought was healed. This isn't the first time I've been yanked around. But I had thought a 50 year old man would be less like the 10, 11 and 12 year old boys who spent three years tormenting me. That story will follow later. The only person who will ever know how awesome I am is me. I saw my future differently. That vision created a memory (dreams and visions repeated become memories). And now I get to grieve that memory.
The way in which I was told to forget any idea caused my senses to shut down. All of my defense mechanisms slammed shut around me. I cannot override them. And yes, I want to override them.Those defense mechanisms protect me from pain, true. But when they slam shut like that they keep out the good things that can happen. He isn't a monster. His past created perceptions and as an empath I know, I think I know, that something in his thinking got twisted around. If I can not find compassion for him I will never find to capacity to participate in my life again. That is the way of the defenses I set up. But I can't override them. Its like being trapped in the engine room on the Enterprise during a containment field breach. The ship slams the doors shut, sucks out the atmosphere to keep the breach form contaminating the rest of engineering and the whole ship. Great. Problem is that when there is a lowly red-shirted yeoman stuck near the containment unit when the breach occurs, the safety protocols end up sacrificing the unlucky schlub. I'm the schlub. I can't get out. And Geordie can't get me out with his superior code authorizations. I've been trying. I've been punching buttons on the Okuda grams, throwing tools at the door and trying to pry open the barriers with my bare hands to no avail. The thing is... the internal sensors are reading a breach. But the containment field is intact. The atmosphere is getting sucked out of the room for no reason and it is going to kill me.
So how does that relate to Kirkegaard? Simple. I have remembered a future where I am not alone and all the cool awesome things about me are used in a partnership. It will not happen now. Not with him. And, if the words given me when I sought comfort from spiritual advisors is any indication, it will not happen with anyone.
I don't have the capacity to hate enough for revenge so all I can do is keep my head down and not get noticed. Since my part in the problem was having ever spoken of a hope, I can do nothing now but remain silent as can be. Cursed as I am as an empath, all I can do is hope that he doesn't keep tossing away opportunities to be with awesome women. Something in him keeps telling him he doesn't deserve anyone cool. And there are enough people who have told me that he is beneath my consideration who reinforce that thought; I cannot bear the idea of being counted among them because I know that they are wrong. He is wrong to think that he deserves only pain and vengence and disappointment.
He has been reprimanded. I do not know to what degree. But he must know I had nothing to do with that. I bear as much responsibility and should shoulder as much of the burden as he. It won't work that way. Whoever told on him made sure to make it seem as though he/she had done it with the best of intentions and made him the sole guilty party with enough plausibility that no one would consider any other options when the quick and easy answer is to punish him and be done with it.
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