Monday, November 17, 2008
Call Me Crazy
That's the title of a book I read not two years ago. It really made me think of some things.
We are all crazy in our own way. Some are more crazy than others. They say the real crazy people don't know they're crazy. If you are aware how crazy you are, you must be sane.
Still, I wonder.
Take divorce. Divorce on its own is enough to fuck a child up, and when you think about how 50 percent of marriages don't work out, and how many of them involve children ...
Then there are so many other issues. Someone I once knew named a single event that traumatized him for life. He used to say that he had this caretaker he was incredibly close to, and something happened, and she stopped watching him when he hit about three years old. Then his mother took care of him, but she wasn't as affectionate, and they didn't have the bond, and the kid just went solo after that. This one caretaker's presence removed seemed to signify to him that anyone could be removed, and so for protection he isolated himself and failed to connect with people on into his adult life. He is ultimately still dealing with that fear of neglect, that loss of closeness, so much so that even though he has the impulse, he fights himself to maintain the status quo of loneliness just as quickly as he reaches out to people for real human relationships. Intimacy. Sharing. He cuts it off just as quickly as he opens it up.
I saw an episode of Intervention one time where this guy was a homeless crack addict. He panhandled every day just to get a few bucks so that every couple of hours he could smoke a rock. That was what he lived for; it became his main reason for existence. He met his parents up for lunch and was incredibly belligerent. He refused to accept their love and kindness, and all but spat in their faces before heading off on his bike to go win some more money and smoke even more. At the end of a day of crack-smoking and panhandling, he would nestle up in between two chain-link fences, in a bed he had made for himself on an abandoned mattress, and fall asleep. His mother in an interview said he had been a good kid and done well in school until his folks split up when he was 13, and spent the next 15 years or so on a crooked downward spiral, with only sparse spikes of joy in between.
So, what does this mean?
On the other hand, I remember working one of my first office jobs and the ladies who would sit at the little smoking table in the kitchen for their 15-minute breaks, and they would talk about how their 12-year-old lost his cell phone again; or, I remember another one who said her daughter, who was now in her late teens, resented her mother and asked why she never pushed her to keep dancing, because now she was older she felt she didn't have any talent or hobbies, or anything like that to reflect back upon, and her mother replied, "But you hated the dance lessons. You didn't even want to go," and then concluded along with the ladies at the table that no matter how you try to raise your children, with patience, and love, or no matter what you give them, they will hate you in the end, or at least, for their teenage years if not later.
And I'm reminded of a song, a song that rips at my heartstrings just as much as it heals: a song that in unexpected moments comes into my mind; a song that in certain moments too late I recall the words that have become my solace. The song belongs to me and to no one. It is an "our song" without an "our." I once dedicated it to Andy, and he never even listened to it. But it wasn't a song for Andy. It wasn't a song for us, and that's the point. If there is an us that it belongs to, they are both me: the me that I love and the me that I hate; the me that I am and the me that I want so desperately to be; the me that wants so much to be loved and the me that wants to deserve it; the me that would never hurt a fly, and the me that hurts the ones I love the most with my sharp tongue and burning red thoughts that I can't always see, much less explain.
I guess what I'm saying is about this and it's about the book: it's about the point where you realize you are crazy, but want so badly to fix it. It's about the me who was hurt and the me who didn't deserve it, and the me who wants a good life, but only for the me who is worthy of it.
It's about the me I want to be, buried underneath everything. It's about the innocent little girl who was nice to everyone; it's about the strong woman who wants in the face of the evil world to seek goodness, honesty, and truth.
It's about the failure of so many to be honest with themselves, or at least, my own. It's about the fear of failure as much as it is about being sick of failure, and the mindset of failure, and it's stench.
It's about loving for love itself and wanting to just allow it to flow through you without touching the bruises; or at least, being able to separate the smoky past from the brightest future, so one can see clearly and make honest, good choices, and treat those who treat one's self with love the same in return.
I've not always been good at this. I never even knew when I wasn't, so I guess the realization is the first step. But it is a horrible cycle to feel indescribable pain and fire it outward, only to have it boomerang back right through your heart.
This catalyst is a good one. It's part of the constant theme, the story of getting somewhere only to realize how much farther you have to go.
After reading about zen and happiness and talking about things as candidly and reflective as my mind would like, I have decided once again to go back to therapy.
I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow. It will be my first appointment in more than a year. I will probably cry. It will probably make me weird for the rest of the day, which is why I have scheduled it for late afternoon so I won't have to go back to work.
Sometimes you just need another person to help you look inside yourself; I have done all the work and questions I could possibly do on my own. It is time to start again.
In the meantime, here it is:
That's the title of a book I read not two years ago. It really made me think of some things.
We are all crazy in our own way. Some are more crazy than others. They say the real crazy people don't know they're crazy. If you are aware how crazy you are, you must be sane.
Still, I wonder.
Take divorce. Divorce on its own is enough to fuck a child up, and when you think about how 50 percent of marriages don't work out, and how many of them involve children ...
Then there are so many other issues. Someone I once knew named a single event that traumatized him for life. He used to say that he had this caretaker he was incredibly close to, and something happened, and she stopped watching him when he hit about three years old. Then his mother took care of him, but she wasn't as affectionate, and they didn't have the bond, and the kid just went solo after that. This one caretaker's presence removed seemed to signify to him that anyone could be removed, and so for protection he isolated himself and failed to connect with people on into his adult life. He is ultimately still dealing with that fear of neglect, that loss of closeness, so much so that even though he has the impulse, he fights himself to maintain the status quo of loneliness just as quickly as he reaches out to people for real human relationships. Intimacy. Sharing. He cuts it off just as quickly as he opens it up.
I saw an episode of Intervention one time where this guy was a homeless crack addict. He panhandled every day just to get a few bucks so that every couple of hours he could smoke a rock. That was what he lived for; it became his main reason for existence. He met his parents up for lunch and was incredibly belligerent. He refused to accept their love and kindness, and all but spat in their faces before heading off on his bike to go win some more money and smoke even more. At the end of a day of crack-smoking and panhandling, he would nestle up in between two chain-link fences, in a bed he had made for himself on an abandoned mattress, and fall asleep. His mother in an interview said he had been a good kid and done well in school until his folks split up when he was 13, and spent the next 15 years or so on a crooked downward spiral, with only sparse spikes of joy in between.
So, what does this mean?
On the other hand, I remember working one of my first office jobs and the ladies who would sit at the little smoking table in the kitchen for their 15-minute breaks, and they would talk about how their 12-year-old lost his cell phone again; or, I remember another one who said her daughter, who was now in her late teens, resented her mother and asked why she never pushed her to keep dancing, because now she was older she felt she didn't have any talent or hobbies, or anything like that to reflect back upon, and her mother replied, "But you hated the dance lessons. You didn't even want to go," and then concluded along with the ladies at the table that no matter how you try to raise your children, with patience, and love, or no matter what you give them, they will hate you in the end, or at least, for their teenage years if not later.
And I'm reminded of a song, a song that rips at my heartstrings just as much as it heals: a song that in unexpected moments comes into my mind; a song that in certain moments too late I recall the words that have become my solace. The song belongs to me and to no one. It is an "our song" without an "our." I once dedicated it to Andy, and he never even listened to it. But it wasn't a song for Andy. It wasn't a song for us, and that's the point. If there is an us that it belongs to, they are both me: the me that I love and the me that I hate; the me that I am and the me that I want so desperately to be; the me that wants so much to be loved and the me that wants to deserve it; the me that would never hurt a fly, and the me that hurts the ones I love the most with my sharp tongue and burning red thoughts that I can't always see, much less explain.
I guess what I'm saying is about this and it's about the book: it's about the point where you realize you are crazy, but want so badly to fix it. It's about the me who was hurt and the me who didn't deserve it, and the me who wants a good life, but only for the me who is worthy of it.
It's about the me I want to be, buried underneath everything. It's about the innocent little girl who was nice to everyone; it's about the strong woman who wants in the face of the evil world to seek goodness, honesty, and truth.
It's about the failure of so many to be honest with themselves, or at least, my own. It's about the fear of failure as much as it is about being sick of failure, and the mindset of failure, and it's stench.
It's about loving for love itself and wanting to just allow it to flow through you without touching the bruises; or at least, being able to separate the smoky past from the brightest future, so one can see clearly and make honest, good choices, and treat those who treat one's self with love the same in return.
I've not always been good at this. I never even knew when I wasn't, so I guess the realization is the first step. But it is a horrible cycle to feel indescribable pain and fire it outward, only to have it boomerang back right through your heart.
This catalyst is a good one. It's part of the constant theme, the story of getting somewhere only to realize how much farther you have to go.
After reading about zen and happiness and talking about things as candidly and reflective as my mind would like, I have decided once again to go back to therapy.
I scheduled an appointment for tomorrow. It will be my first appointment in more than a year. I will probably cry. It will probably make me weird for the rest of the day, which is why I have scheduled it for late afternoon so I won't have to go back to work.
Sometimes you just need another person to help you look inside yourself; I have done all the work and questions I could possibly do on my own. It is time to start again.
In the meantime, here it is:
Labels: Books, Incubus, Therapy
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