Bottomless Well
31 days and the tears haven't stopped.
I thought I'd made it yesterday. I met a fellow U2 concert-goer who saw my Soundgarden tee, and we shared our Cornell/Soundgarden stories. He toasted with his beer, me with my Diet Coke. My voice shook but I didn't cry.
I met other concert-goers and we laughed over a broken ATM. We too shared stories. And again, I did not cry.
I didn't know the opening act but learned it was One Republic. The lead singer mentioned that he'd written a song for his son when his son was a baby -- so his son would always have something written for him by his dad. You know, in case something ever happened.
Waterworks. I couldn't help myself.
Then U2 came on ...... and I waited. I knew they'd dedicated "Running to Stand Still" to Chris Cornell in their first LA show. They'd also dedicated "One Tree Hill" to him the next night and again at Bonnaroo last weekend. I waited.
Not RTSS. And for "One Tree Hill" they only noted that "we've all known someone that we've lost way too soon."
Waterworks yet again.
I don't know when they will end.
His death is the fifth one I've experienced in the last 15 months. My mom, an aunt, my dog, and another aunt. But I can rationalize all of those: each was older, all were infirm. This one makes no sense. It never will. And that's why I can't stop the tears.
Shame, Shame, Throw Yourself Away
"Shame" by Vern Rutsala (found at poetry.us.com):
SHAME
This is the shame of the woman whose hand hides her smile because her teeth are bad, not the grand self-hate that leads some to razors or pills or swan dives off beautiful bridges however tragic that is.
This is the shame of being yourself, of being ashamed of where you live and what your father's paycheck lets you eat and wear.
This is the shame of the fat and the old, the unbearable blush of acne, the shame of having no lunch money and pretending you're not hungry.
This is the shame of concealed sickness—diseases too expensive to afford that offer only their cold one-way tickets out.
This is the shame of being ashamed, the self-disgust of the cheap wine-drunk, the lassitude that makes junk accumulate, the shame that tells you there is another way to live but you are too dumb to find it.
This is the real shame, the damned shame, the crying shame, the shame that's criminal, the shame of knowing words like 'glory' are not in your vocabulary though they litter the Bibles you're still paying for.
This is the shame of not knowing how to read and pretending you do.
This is the shame that makes you afraid to leave your house, the shame of food stamps at the supermarket when the clerk shows impatience when you fumble with the change.
This is the shame of dirty underwear, the shame of pretending your father works in an office as God intended all men to do.
This is the shame of asking friends to let you off in front of the one nice house in the neighborhood and waiting in shadows until they drive away before walking to the gloom of your house.
This is the shame at the end of the mania for owning things, the shame of no heat in winter, the shame of eating cat food, the unholy shame of dreaming of a new house and car and the shame of knowing how cheap such dreams are.
I will never forget the feeling.
It was the feeling I got around age 5, when in the church fellowship hall, I slipped and fell, and Melly – a snotty girl who thought she was better than everyone else – came right over to me sitting on the floor and said, "You know everyone can see your drawers and your b-u-t-t." (Yes, she spelled the word because her holier-than-thou mother didn't let her say the word. I wish I were joking).
It was the same feeling I had every single time someone asked me where I went to church, because I wanted an answer that was anything other than what I could say. Every time I told the truth – which was every time because lying would have induced yet even more guilt – there were the inevitable follow-up questions.
It was the feeling I got in third grade, when Emmy turned around in the lunch line, gasped, and punched the guy in front of her to turn around: "Annette’s wearing a BRA!!!!" I wanted to just die. Sharon, my sweet friend who had walked over in the church social hall to help me up the same day Melly commented on my drawers and my 5-year-old ass in the floor, did me another solid that day … she found the teacher, who came and consoled my wounded pride and heart. I ripped the training bra off that day and didn't touch it for another year.
It was the feeling I had when my BFF in junior high admonished me that my mother – who had crash-dieted her way to a 70-pound loss – now wore a smaller size than me. The fact that we were in church was all that kept me from saying, "Thanks, you freakin' skinny bitch." (The good peeps at church would have hauled me down to the prayer altar and laid hands on me to try to exorcise whatever demon had gotten hold of me that day … well, maybe, maybe not.)
It was the feeling I got whenever I worked the pageant with other people from the yearbook staff, knowing my place would never be on the stage, no matter how well I could sing and maybe win talent. I wasn't pretty enough and I damn sure wasn't thin enough. And I definitely couldn't afford the gowns, let alone hope to ever find them in my size. We weren't poor but this was something out of our realm.
I had the feeling in 10th grade, when my father got a job driving trucks, something he'd always wanted to do, and something allowed by a company that was trying to find ways to keep their people in the long-term, even if they had to let them spin off in the short-term. When I mentioned that my father was on his way to New Jersey, and a classmate said, "What, did your parents split or something? Oh hunny, it's okay, it must be awful." I sneered back and said, "No, it’s his JOB now. My parents are still VERY much married, thank you." Because of an awful thing that had happened to her earlier that year, I had felt really badly for her. I didn't much after that.
I had the feeling the spring semester of 4th year in college, every damn time the phone rang and it was a creditor. I was in deep to credit card debt and couldn't begin to afford the payments that their collection firm was demanding. The man threatened to call my parents and rat me out – no matter HOW much I explained that I was an adult when I got the cards, my parents had no reason to know about my card -- let alone be responsible for the repayment. He held that over my head and threatened me with my own shame. I wanted to die all over again ….. only this time I truly considered the ways I could make it happen. What stopped me? Shame again…… the idea that I would leave my family and friends with unanswered questions and all this mess, to wonder over and over why I did this.
I had the feeling when I went to my first counseling session on campus. I tried to sneak in furtively, as if someone couldn't see my 300+ pound body trying to sneak into their doorway. I didn't want anyone to see me in this weak, weak moment. I only went one other time, to let them know that I had made it through my crisis, and doing good. Wouldn't need a third visit, but thanks for everything, bye, see ya. Shame that I had even had to go there in the first place.
And here I was again. I was on a pay phone outside the Piggy Wiggly on Sam Rittenberg. I couldn't even bring myself to go to the place face-to-face. So I found the number and spoke in a very small voice. The voice at the charity was kind, but gently explained that they were all out of funds already for the month. It was September 3. Third. Third. And out of funding for the entire month. I was out of funds myself for a few weeks, out of hope, out of rope, and my knot was frayed beyond repair. No hope of rent assistance from them, and no idea when my first paycheck from Campus Job #1 would kick in. I went back to my car and cried. I was across the street from them, sobbing uncontrollably, wondering how I had gotten to this point. How would I ever pull myself out of this abyss? This was my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. Pangs of guilt and shame.
Wasn't I smarter than this?
Wasn't I better than this?
Once again, I had disappointed everyone. I was that small-town kid who was supposed to set the world on fire. I couldn't even light a fire under myself to see a way out, at least one that would keep my dignity intact. I hated that I was reduced to this quivering mess of a person.
I was a failure. I was a failure.
About two & a half months later, I felt it again, when my student loans' final appeals were denied. I had received the maximum assistance, gosh we hate it but there are others who deserve their shot too. And from there, I went home and it got worse. Blue piece of paper on the door. I'd been served. I had 10 days to vacate. Jesus, could it get any worse? Yes, it could…. I had to call my parents to break the news and to say, "I'm coming home. I have no further alternatives. Friday after Thanksgiving, we'll come back with a U-haul. I have to be out by that Sunday." I still had a week of classes and exam dates.
God love my friend Sunny H. She saw me walking across campus the next day, and my face betrayed my despair. "What’s wrong and don’t tell me 'nothing' – what is it, really?" I told her. I had no dignity anymore, I had no reason to lie. I was at bottom. She hugged me and said, "Okay, so today's Monday before you leave. So Sunday night, come back to my place and you can stay there for the last week of classes. I'll tell my roomies, they'll be fine." She didn't bother to consult or check or care to …. A fellow frat brother in need and that was all that mattered. I slept on an old mattress in the dining room/ spare bedroom. Her roommates could not have been nicer and made me truly feel at ease for the first time in weeks. My bestie and her husband put me up for exam nights/days. They were the only other ones who knew anything about my situation. They never said a word but offered kindness, generous hearts, and a ready ear…. As well as a steady supply of Kleenex. They have saved my spirit more often than I could ever count.
And I felt it again when a few years later I was told that I was a wonderful girl, had been for five years nearly, but gosh, there wasn't a future for us. He rendered me speechless, literally. And I realized I felt the shame at not meeting his standards, but I felt something else: anger. A holy anger. How DARE he classify me as a lesser being? Who did he think he WAS anyway? I let him go. The deed was done, his decision made. I decided the anger was a better feeling than the shame. And so I lived in the anger, because I couldn't face the idea that I was the lesser being he made me to be. The anger got me up in the morning, dressed me, fed me, and I lived off that fuel until I could begin to heal again, until my soul, spirit, heart were finally mended enough that they no longer leaked every good thing that would be poured into them.
I felt the shame of lesser-than when I stepped on Dr. E's scale. March 8, 2006. D-Day for real. A number I never connected to myself before was there, in glowing red on a digital scale. It wasn't lying to me. It was there. And the shame returned 8 weeks later on May 11, when I stepped on another scale as I joined Weight Watchers. It was 8 pounds higher. FAILURE was what I heard – not only couldn't I lose weight on my own, I had gained a pound a week! What was WRONG with me? I berated myself, over and over…….
Debbie, my drill sergeant with angel wings, torched my shame to ashes with these words: "Shh, shh," she whispered as my tears spilled over. "Stop, stop. Listen, you are here now, and you are never going to see that number again. I won’t let it happen, not on my watch." Bless God and bless you, Debbie, because I haven’t seen them again, not in 7 years. I have NO plans to see them ever again.
And I still feel it. I still feel small whenever I’m put in a situation where heavy eye contact is expected. It is the shame in believing they can see right through me – right through my eyes into my very core – and will smile that grin that says, "I don’t know where they found you but you have no right to be here." It is not social anxiety – I'm not scared to be out in public, I'm not scared of public speaking, I'm not afraid or anxious to do any of that, as long as I can keep up even a part of a barrier. I cannot stand to be naked and raw and vulnerable and exposed to the world, especially among people who do not care about me except for whatever they can wring from me.
Because somewhere in me – and in each of us – resides a demon named Shame. Shame takes every delight, feeds off our fears that we are nothing and no one of any merit. Shame has built houses of cards for generations. Shame mocks us with "What will THEY think?" knowing full well that THEY aren't even remotely thinking of us. THEY are too busy wondering themselves what will WE say. And no matter how much we do say that we don’t care what THEY think, in some place tiny or large in our souls, we all do.
Shame is a bastard. Its evil twin is Guilt. They work hand in hand. They propel us to treat ourselves with contempt, to see ourselves as damaged goods every waking moment and even haunting us in our sleep.
I hate Shame.
Dancing in the Dark
You were there in a big hall, across a crowded dance floor. We all wanted to dance with you, and you in turn wanted to dance with each of us. You intrigued me because we shared a dance partner -- only I was trying my hardest to disavow that I'd ever danced with this creature. You, however, smiled at my unwanted partner like you were old friends. It rattled me, I must admit.
The dance went on. You changed up the music and intrigued me even more. You laughed with my pursuer. I kept avoiding this creature of whom I wanted no part. I'd had more than my fill of this beast and I wanted to forget it ever existed. Yet again, you smiled at it and I couldn't understand. How could you befriend such a monster? I took a break from the dancing and pondered this. How could it be? How could such a wonderful person as you smile at the thing that tried to kill me? Unless -- had it tried its work on you as well, and had you figured out how to appease it?
It had waited my evasion long enough. The creature came over and demanded to dance with me. It was my turn and I did not have a choice. It held me close. You came to us out on the floor and said, with that beautiful grin, "Hey, mind if I join?" You weren't cutting in to take me away, but joining in -- a pas de trois, if you will.
And I laughed. You laughed. The creature laughed, hollowly. And we danced together.
It was a tenuous dance, to be sure, but I began to understand. The creature had danced with you for a long time, and you had learned its motions that I had not yet mastered. The music kept going, the beautiful lyrics and music that finally settled in and you helped me learn to master the steps, the turns, the dips and laugh through it all.
We danced together for quite a while. I thought it would last forever, or at least longer than it did. You sang to me, and to everyone gathered there, and you reached into our souls and said, "Me too."
Then you smiled once more -- and left the dance floor. You just walked away and didn't look back. I looked everywhere for you and learned you'd exited the venue. I looked with sad eyes at the creature and saw its fangs gleaming. I realized it still dances with me and always will. And the music sounds different. I still see your face, I still hear the laughter, I still hear you teaching me how to dance.
I miss you, my dance partner. I take the steps with the creature, but now I find myself surrounded by the other beautiful souls to whom you sang and danced, who also shared the pas de trois. And they too have all uttered the two most beautiful words in any language: me too.
Goodbye Chris Cornell, my dance partner who taught me how to dance with my demons. I will take your lessons and continue to live them. It is my honor to carry on the work of teaching others how to dance too, even with darkness surrounding them and pursuing them. I will continue to reach for the light, as we all hold each other's hands in the darkness. We will remember, and we will dance with you still.