Why lie about keeping distant
I always keep my distance. We don't call. We don't text. We don't invite. I tell them we are busy. This is at least partially true, with so many jobs and so little time, and with limited resources, we are always running. While we live close, it would be unfair to do more than a check-in every once in a while. Here are some lovely photos. Here are my kids interests. It's true that we keep our distance. Its true that you would hardly know who we are if you saw us on the street. Even if you know what we look like, the little vagueries that we share on social media, it would be impossible for you to know us. I lie when you ask me to. I tell you I'm too busy for a drive, for a call. Too busy for a visit. I lie to my kids and say that you, too, are busy. Those lies are small. They are punishing only for me. You don't care about the lies, because you don't really care about the calls and the visits. Because I've seen what those visits have done. I've seen the looks passed around when you think I can't see them: the assesed measurements, the quiet inspections. I've heard the calls. Heard the quiet whispers, picking, and poking, and peeling back layers, like a skinned thing that you couldn't help but devour whole. I lie because I can't imagine doing it to them, taking that from them, breaking them to bits, as you have done to me. I lie because the lies you tell are large, so hard to swallow that I've choked on them all of my life. They too, are punishing, only for me. I lie because all anyone believes are the lies that we've told. I would rather have them hear my lies than to hear how small you really think they are, or how unworthy. I lie so that they will rise greater than all of us. I lie so that they will not know that terrible voice beating them down.
Therapy
She said it
as if it were
easy,
"Just hold
that happy thought,
Peter."
As if
my thoughts
were tangible.
I could not grasp
my happiness
in the palm of my hand,
could not twist it
between my fingers.
My thoughts
were droplets of rain,
sometimes a fine mist
that clung
to the edges
of my brain,
sometimes a
downpour
that an umbrella
could not stop.
She told me
to hold on
to happiness,
but I cannot grip the rain,
cannot control
its coming and going.
All it does
is soak through
the soles of my shoes
and collect
in my feet
until walking
becomes a chore
and my teeth
chatter
with nonsensical words.
The rain stays
in all the wrong ways.
She told me
to hold on
to this little shred
of happiness,
but I've already forgotten
what it was
I was trying
to hold onto.
Thus is the way of the storm,
weighing us down with water
until we can no longer feel
the individual drops.
A rough day
I feel like I am always lost floating in an ocean of others emotions, I always have space for others because I think that’s who I’m meant to be. Although I feel like those I hold the most space for do not know much about me. Like an agent undercover, the real me peaks its ugly head out sometimes then quickly gets pulled back in when there is a problem to fix.
Building people up who would watch me crumble, holding on to hope that I am important in their life. Maybe it’s my own fault, I rarely let those in that are the closest to me, there’s no need to worry them all with the complaints that run circles around my brain. The one who adapts the one who perseveres no matter the circumstances the one who can just flip the switch pull the smile and move on.
All I Hear Is..
Well, my thoughts as I read this were about trying to find something to fill the endless hours of nothing. I currently have 2 jobs, one in my field and one as just extra money. However, it is slow at both places right now so I work maybe 3 days a week. Sitting, eating, laying down, reading, eating again, random drives, petting my cat- this is all I am right now. It is easy to get lost in the mundane and, upon waking, realize that you feel 'gross'. That sitting and basically doing nothing makes you feel empty and that you aren't trying to do anything with your life. The mundane allows dark corners of thought to reach out and make themselves more known- usually hidden behind professional smiles or busy hands, the corners take over your thoughts. Your health, weight, bank account, family, friends, all of it becomes vulnerable. Like open wounds that are reopened just for salt to be shoved inside. Sometimes the darker thoughts will pop out of nowhere: questioning if death is something you would fear or not if it were to happen suddenly, maybe by your own hand. I am NOT suicidal, but the dark corners sure like to make you wonder. Now I am a bit embarassed by where this tirade has gone- but as prompted I am just typing. Currently I am sitting on a small twin bed in a cabin I live in as part of my position at a camp as an environmental educator. With schools just starting back after the holidays, I only work once a week taking care of the small collection of reptiles and amphibians we have for our herpetology classes. I spend an hour everyday applying to jobs online, wanting to feel more like an educator than a fancy camp counselor. Yet, all I hear back is silence or interviews with undecided dates to hear back. I am 13 hours away from friends and family, wondering if I am on the right path at all, or if I am only flailing in a dark pond hoping I grab a log. The last several years I have been working in seasonal positions working in all types of environmental educator positions I have loved, except for my current position. But I am starting to feel weary of not knowing what or even where comes next. I am from Alabama and in the last 3.5 years I have lived in: Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, south Alabama, Bristol (UK), Alaska, and North Carolina. My heart never wants to settle, but my mind begs for somewhere constant. Somewhere I can put roots. Yet my heart screams for adventure away, away from the chaos that is family and the small town I grew up. Somewhere I can start anew, surrounded by strangers that become amazing friends I talk to through SnapChat. Surrounded by wildlife that I have only seen on TV, books, or screens. Surrounded by people that aren't from my small part of Alabama and comment endlessly on my apparently VERY strong southern accent while saying its cute, not weird. But again, my brain wants consistency, knowing that I will still be where I am in not just a few months but in the next years. Somewhere I can reliably be sent Amazon packages and have friends know they can open the door and find me. Where I can bring my nephew to spend a week with me everyyear. Where I can decorate and not worry about accruing too much to stuff back into suitcases to either go in a car or on a plane. Where I can get to know the store owner and pick at them for discounts and laughs. Life is a scattering of faces and places that I want to add to and all at once stop. The amazing excitement of stepping into an airport for another adventure while anxiety also eats at my insides reminding me I know no one at this new location but my heart stepping in and reminding me thats where the magic lies. Yet, my mind also whispers that time is finite and my grandmothers are low on sand to fall. That my cat can't follow me constantly, and she too is ageing. That my nephew hates speaking on the phone, and could easily forget me if I am gone for too long. Yet the song of adventure is in my other ear. Whispering of places, experiences, and friends to find, not through remaining in Alabama, but by adventuring and adding to my map of places I have visited. The swan song of adventure has won out for almost four years and most of me wants it to remain the winner. However, enough of me cries for consistency. To not switch coworkers like old socks and instead greet the same faces every day for not months but years. To have steady income and not wonder if I will have to ask my parents for help when work is slow or I am between places. My soul cries for a relationship not founded on a few weeks and fizzling out because I know I won't stay. Cries to create roots that connect for more lasting memories rather than amazing blips of time in my life. I know Alabama is not my home, it has some of my heart, but it isn't my future. My family likes to remind me that if I am far away, or god forbid in the north where snow isn't just in pictures but on roads as a consistent feature half the year, I won't know how to help myself. Yet I defend by stating my nomadic life has created a strong independent soul that can't be told it needs to have help. That I can't move somewhere permananetly far away because I would be alone- no my soul screams that I will make friends and maybe new family that will fill that inevitable social void. Yet, here I sit on a small twin bed, alone. Two jobs did not make much room for creating outside friendships besides friendly coworkers. Here I sit an hour from the beach that I have not yet seen because I am tired of going new places to explore alone because I don't have anyone to ask. Coworkers at camp have left for different places and coworkers at bath and body works are too busy with their lives. It is not necessarily that I hate exploring alone, no I love it. But when the choice isn't there, it becomes lonely rather than exciting.
There Can Only Be One
I had heard that journaling could help you process and understand your feelings so I started doing it a couple years ago. It does help. It might take some time to notice the effects, but it actually works. Lately, I’ve been trying this prompted journaling series called, “Envisioning Your Perfect Self.” I wasn’t sure how to begin, but once I started writing I just kept going. Different things that I wanted to change about myself kept popping into my head.
When I finished the last journal entry of that series, I had sculpted a full image of my perfect self. This version of me had none of the flaws I saw within myself, and all of the strengths I hoped to see within myself. After typing the final words, I hit “save” on the document that I knew I would never let anyone else read, and went to sleep.
My nose woke up before I did, then it aroused my stomach, which growled enough to awake the rest of my body. The appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon had tip-toed its way into my bedroom. My first thought was that my neighbors must be cooking breakfast and the scent had traveled through the vent. But the smell was too strong to be coming from a different apartment. I lived alone, which could only mean that Bobby Flay had broken in—and brought his own ingredients.
I got out of bed and walked down the short hallway to the living area and looked into the kitchen. I did a double take at what I saw, then realized I must have been dreaming. Standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, was…well, me. Physically, this person was a clone of me. He had the same red, wavy hair, blue eyes, and lean build. Something about him seemed different, though. There was sureness in his demeanor, confidence in every action. Finally, he sensed my presence, turned off the water, looked over at me, and smiled.
“Hey, look who it is,” he said. “Quiche?”
I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath.
“I’m having a dream about myself making quiche? I gotta stop watching Adventure Time so late.”
The other me dried his hands and then draped the folded towel over his shoulder.
“Nope,” he said with a friendly shake of his head. “Not a dream, Max.”
He then turned to open the oven.
“Don’t say my name, that sounds super weird. But how is this not a dream?” I replied as he reached into the oven. “I’m staring at a clone of me that knows how to make—a perfect quiche. Holy shit.“
My point had been derailed by the sight of other me holding a dish containing the most delectable looking quiche I had ever seen.
The copy of me laughed, but not awkwardly like I would have.
“I thought you might be a little confused. That’s why I made food. I know you can put up with just about anything if there’s a free meal involved. I’ll explain everything.”
He set the quiche down on the counter and sliced it into quarters. He transferred one of the slices to a plate that had been set out earlier.
“How did you even make this?” I asked while he set the plate on the dining table. “All I have in my apartment is cereal and pasta, and I don’t think there’s such a thing as honey nut scooter angel hair quiche.”
We both sat down at the table.
“I bought the ingredients. Everything is fresh and locally grown, of course. None of the cheap, processed stuff you usually chance just to save a couple bucks.”
I realized I was judging him for putting in effort on something while I chewed the first bite.
“God damn, this is good. You’re definitely not a clone of me.”
I thought I noticed a flash of discomfort on other Max’s face, but it faded in an instant.
“You’re right, I'm not a clone of you. I’m something…more,” his voice had lost a little bit of its confidence. A trimming of guilt could be detected.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, I’m the perfect you.” He shrugged, as if he could think of no better way to say it.
I laughed.
“A perfect me? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s true. You write, therefore I am.”
I looked at him skeptically. I had a suspicion of what he might have meant by that, but the rational side of my brain would not allow it.
“You mean like my journal things?” I ventured.
He spread out his arms.
“Here I am, the person you’ve always wished you were.”
I shook my head in doubt.
“The perfect me, huh? Prove it.”
He inhaled sharply and paused. I could sense him digging in heels in resistance to the challenge.
“I’m just you, except without the things you hate.”
“Tell me,” I demanded.
“Well, I don’t stutter.”
“I like my stutter,” I argued, appalled at the implication.
Perfect Max shrugged apologetically.
“You know what you wrote in those journals,” he said calmly.
“What else?”
“I can see the good inside of me.”
I waited silently, staring, my leg bouncing nervously.
He continued:
“I’m there for others when they need me, I’m capable of giving and receiving love, I’m—“ He cut himself off.
I could tell he really didn’t want to see me hurt. The perfect me cared about me.
“Say it,” I ordered.
He sighed.
“I’m happy,” he averted his eyes at first, then they darted back to assess the damage.
I blinked.
“I’m happy,” I pronounced with a questionable confidence.
Perfect Max didn’t fall for my bluff. He stared at me dubiously, forcing me to look at my cards.
“Sometimes,” I retreated, but not far enough apparently. “I might be someday. You’re gonna help me get there, right? That’s why you’re here?”
He looked at me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. Then he rose from his chair, walked towards me, and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“I’m afraid it’s easier this way,” he said as he passed into the kitchen behind me. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed the quiche, though.”
I looked down at the small sliver of quiche that remained on my plate. Fear crept into my mind as I gathered his meaning.
“Wait!” I pleaded, turning around in my chair. “I wasn’t done yet. I could have done more, I could have made it better!” Panic shook every word.
He looked at me, perplexed.
“Could have made what better?”
I stared at him with blank eyes as I felt the poison taking effect, and I accepted my fate.
“You.”
The word barely escaped my mouth, along with my final breath.