2.13.10
How is it that the days that are going smoothly are the hardest in which to find something about which to write? I am used to mining the depths of pain and spewing it forth in deliciously vivid and visceral metaphors and calling it communication. And indeed it is; I am communicating my pain in a way that is most accurate, so (and this has been and remains the driving motivation of my life) some doctor, social worker, mental health worker, parent (in rare instances), of Buddhist monk may understand it and take it away.
But I'm finding there are all sorts of other kinds of communication which are vaguely, and in bits an pieces revealing themselves to me. Ones not based solely on the demand to be cured. Ones that are not handing over the self to have it be returned cleaned, pressed and hung, smelling vaguely like starch. Is this the life I want--wrinkle free by way of a chemical spray?
I'm not up for this today. Not up for a big exploratory piece. Not wanting to wrap up anything in that proverbial bow. And somehow I think you are not up to reading it either--that dry philosophizing and generalizing about relating to other. So I'll just tell you what I've done today, an insignificant winter Saturday.
Good god, that seems boring, too! A chore to write, a possible chore to read. I would rather be reading. I would rather be, dare I say, in conversation with people--friends, family, the owner of the flower shop down the street from whom I am going to buy tulips to give to R.,my housemate, who is giving his first concert in years tonight. I think it is classy and called for, to give flowers to the performer. When I was a young teenager I took part in summer theater in our hometown. Each summer was a different musical and we would audition and then chosen, would rehearse five nights a week and on week-ends for things like tech rehearsal as the performance dates drew near. Opening night there would be a table out front of the auditorium filled with bouquets for almost every cast member from parents, aunts and uncles, maybe even grandparents and friends. It was so exciting. We felt so special, so thrilled, so caught up in what felt like true theatrical professionalism. I loved it. So it only seems natural to buy flowers for R. and bring them along to the recital.
Of course nothing comes naturally to me. I've been worrying about the gesture a lot. Is it only a way to make the event about me? I don't really want to go, why am I professing a kindness I don't feel? I hate myself for ending up displaying affection, interest, intimacy that is false, an outright lie while others who don't want to go, just don't go. How do they manage that? If I don't go will R. retaliate with a mutual lack of support? I'm only going to be in with the in crowd. Hmmm. Now the in crowd isn't going. I don't dare drive, having never been to that city.
I announced in our house meeting that I won't be driving but like a trap door under the feet of the hanged, my conviction will open and I will fall through, directly into the driver's seat of my car, driving a crowd of house mates, heart pounding, head swimming, panic flooding my chest as I try to navigate my way to the venue.
And so on. Now, however, today, things are quite different. I am kind of excited to go. It will be lovely to hear an hour of beautiful piano music. And I mean really beautiful. This guy is good; it has been his life's work. I have secured a ride with M., even though I have to take on the role of navigator. I actually engineered that. I held back when anxiety wanted me to quell her and grab the certainty of a ride right away by asking S., but common sense knew he could not be counted upon. So the next day, at my clubhouse, I carefully asked M. if I could get a ride with him and looked up the directions on Mapquest as he asked. Then at dinner last night we discussed it with B., who M. also offered a ride to. R. is taking the T and I looked up the directions again, this time with the correct destination address. M. seemed to have a general idea of what they referred to but asked me to hold on to them and direct him as we drove. B. is worried about the time so we may leave earlier than 5:30 for the 7pm performance. M. assured me "we'll get there," and I responded openly and honestly and without forethought but with great warmth and cheeriness, "That's the confidence I don't have; that's why I'm not driving!"
Perhaps that is a glimpse of the communication I was talking about, honest and true, sometimes careful and planned, requiring assertivenss and revealing of personal idiosyncracies, a negotiation that develops over time into a solution. It was sprung from the depths (my terror of driving) but not vomited out onto everybody's lap as with a golden retriever who pukes up half a barrel of trash from the beach parking lot with an awful yakking and convulsing of body then looks up at you imploringly and without remorse, eager to forget the whole thing and be thrown the ball or fed dinner--to be loved.
Do I want to be loved like a dog, or loved like a person, a woman? A pet or a person? That seems to be the question lately and I seem to be the only one who has any potential for an answer. Beyond what I want, taking it out of the arena as a goal or expectation that I am in concrete control of filling or not filling, I will re-ask the question; can I be loved like a human? Then, probably most importantly can I love like a human?
Well, through all the trash in my head, I think I will go buy R. his tulips now. Step 1.