Category — true colors

Four times in the last two weeks, I’ve found myself taken to task for a lack of vulnerability by four different people over four different situations. That makes a lot to ignore, particularly when much of my capacity for ignoring bothersome things is allocated elsewhere. Bigger fish and all that. You can imagine my irritation when the third incident pushed me past my ignoring muscles. Perhaps you cannot imagine my irritation when I realized they all had a point, if you’ve never witnessed one of my revelations.

The first charge was putting on a brave face, appearing to have everything under control. Wait- are you suggesting I don’t have everything under control?! Absolutely, I’m putting on a brave face. It isn’t you I’m trying to convince.

Anxiety and depression grow to fit the space they are allowed, unfolding into infinity when left unchecked. I could be living in my walk-in closet in a week if I put my mind to it. There’s an electrical outlet in there. Conversely, working my bravery muscle to failure is the only logical strategy. I try to prepare for the giving out, but often it is like losing a pie-eating contest: sudden, messy, and unpleasant for anyone involved.

My demons are very clever; their taunts are the perfect checkmate. You’re more trouble than you’re worth. You are unwanted, unloved, unworthy. They shake my confidence and cut off my supply route with a few hot whispers. Insecurity prevents me from seeking reassurance; my need for support becomes evidence against me, and I find myself caught between sorely needing some assistance in finding my center again and being utterly unable to absorb the slightest rejection. It’s a miserable place for someone who has even a basic understanding of human nature.

So I withdraw, because if one’s deepest fear is a lack of acceptance and affection from the people they love, the solution is not to need them. I do love y’all very much, though, so the only path to take is inward. Sometimes I manage a sweet solitude, rich with understanding, compassion and determination. Other times I fail at self-comfort, and punish myself harshly for my inability. The irrational nature of my anxiety serves as a logical basis for my shame, delivered with a low hiss.

You’re a fucking trainwreck. No one wants to chase the monsters out from under your bed. Stop being such a child.

That refrain warps a healthy social need into a pitchy desperation that I abhor with all that I am. I isolate myself when I’m struggling, because I positively cannot stand the possibility that I might be that girl. The girl everyone sighs and rolls their eyes at before they answer her call. If they answer at all.

My intention is to be a net positive in your life; the highest form of that intention wants to bring you the same level of enrichment that you bring me. The lowest form fears an imbalance of power and doubts your ability or desire to handle that with grace and care. If I rely on you, will you become demanding or disrespectful? Will you let me grow to trust you and then dissolve into the shadows, leaving me standing alone in the storm delivered by the shifting of your trade winds? If my circumstances are precarious, my well of courage and resiliency draws down from my very survival, and my ability to invest trust in others evaporates like groundwater in drought.

There is no better training ground for whoever cares the least has the most control than a failed marriage. Apparently, it made me a fucking ninja at feigning indifference. I began as the silliest of silly schoolgirls and finished with such icy detachment that I frightened all but my closest confidants with a stunning lack of emotion. Winning the I don’t give a fuck game wasn’t a hollow victory; it was my conviction and resolve that gave me the courage to end what had become a toxic relationship.

Wrapping my mind and heart around the end of forever shattered my ability to trust even myself. Taking responsibility for my own role in the ugly demise of our sacred bond left me incapable of trusting my intuition, my perception, my ability to survive any more loss, betrayal or shame.

Nothing lasts forever became my new truth, and that fear stood sentry against any hint of rejection or abandonment. At the first sign of trouble, I cut my losses and pushed forward alone, assuming that yet again I had worn out my welcome.

My withdrawal, my unwillingness to let anyone come too close or help too much, an utter refusal to assume that there was any genuine affection or good intention underneath conflict or misunderstanding left no room for anyone in my confidence that wasn’t willing to scale a wall just to see if they would be greeted peaceably on the other side.

In attempting to protect my badly battered heart and shelter the people I love from the darkest of my shadows, I’ve caused a lot of pain and confusion. Though I never intended to inflict either, in hindsight I don’t know how I could have expected anything else. To admit that I truly believed I wasn’t hurting anyone (except perhaps myself) seems trite now, but there you have it.

I once had an argument about the song from the post title. I didn’t care for the song, because who loves that girl? She’s mean and fickle and insecure. Could anyone ever love someone like that for who she really is? Really?! Seriously?

God, I hope so.

Thick carpet denies the reassuring click of my high heels as I walk, armored by concentration. My hair is loose and damp, and I feel the weight of a winter dress on my skin. A dress I bought years ago and have never worn, and my pearls are ever-present on my collarbone like tiny sinkers, full of lead. The scent of makeup and perfume fortifies the cold dignity of my grief.

Behind the podium, I alternately check my notes and stare at the back wall while people file into the room and settle into their seats. There are wooden chairs or pews, I can never quite tell, in this dimly lit room with horribly colored walls. Some kind of goldenrod, with just an overtone of olive green, or is that the shadow, maybe, and oak accents. The roof is beamed, and the architecture reminds me of a sanctuary, but I can never remember if there are stained glass windows, or whether I’m standing merely at the front of the room or at an altar.

The  hum of  people slows to a whisper and then near-silence.

Tears welling in my eyes and a thick lump in my throat provide the sensation of being behind an aquarium wall- I could scream and no one would hear my cries as the water stole my breath and my voice without trying. Quiet determination wins a slow victory, and I try to scan the audience and make out their faces. Looking for someone to speak directly to, an old trick.

I’m searching for someone specific, someone with kind eyes and a steady gaze, who will eye me expectantly and maybe tip his chin up ever so slightly, as if to say go on, girl, you can do this. If I could focus on just his face, I could find my voice and carry on. He isn’t there, or I can’t pick him out- my vision won’t sharpen, but I can’t feel his energy, I can’t sense his presence among everyone else. My fingertips prickle with panic and my breath comes too quickly as I stare at my notes, willing myself to speak that first sentence and break the now noticeable silence.

Blinded by terror, the words are senseless, like ants running across the page.  I can hear nothing else but my own roaring thought: who are you looking for? The realization that I don’t know washes over me and sends the room spinning.

With my eyes fully closed, I hear myself speak one sentence before the sensation of falling down a rabbit hole startles me awake.

Thank you for being here today to honor the life and memory of my father.

My waking reaction varies. Sometimes the stunning icy fear still has my chest in its grasp when my eyes fly open, sometimes I wake up covered in cold sweat and hot tears. Sometimes I manage some gentle self-admonishment as I roll over and think of sweeter things. Sometimes it stays with me for days, and I find myself daydreaming about the exact color of the paint, or about the windows, wondering why I never remember those maddening details.

I’m always disturbed and perplexed by my utter inability to make do by fixing my gaze on a spot on the back wall, but I don’t like to think about that.