October 4th, 2004
|jimbojones||10:14 pm - Sad stories|
Some unspecified time in the next few weeks, I get to find out if the girl I've spent the last couple of years in love with, and talked to so much about a future with, ever really wanted that future - or was just making plans because she felt "indebted" because I was consistently good to her.
I wonder what it feels like not to have ever been the little boy all dressed up in his best clothes, standing in front of the picture window for hours staring at the big circular drive, waiting for the car with Mom and Dad to come cruising in in a big plume of that red alabama/georgia clay dust. Waiting all through the day until it gets dark outside, just standing there and looking through that window, waiting and waiting for that car that never comes while his possessive grandmother mock-kindly keeps telling him to go get changed, go play, they're not really coming after all. Hearing the satisfaction that she thinks is secret, because she never wanted them to come in the first place.
Sometimes I think that I've really moved on from that sad little boy, and hey, just because I'm pathologically afraid of being stood up, and just because I start getting incredibly anxious as though someone is an hour late before they're five minutes late, it doesn't mean anything really. It's just this little thing; just a minor hangup. It's not like I blame them, or even show it at all, if they really are just five or ten minutes late. I've learned to compensate. I'm okay. That's not me anymore.
But then I find myself lying on the couch in my front room, reading a novel in the sunlight streaming through the window. And it's supposed to be a funny story, but I'm crying and crying and crying because it's talking about people being there for one another when they need each other. And of course the phone starts ringing off the hook for business, and while I can get my breathing and voice under control on command, I'm so snotted up from bawling that I have to pretend I have this horrible head cold. And then I realize that sad little boy is still in my head, and while I'm lying there reading, he's standing there in front of me, staring through the window, not seeing the cracked pavement and oil stains of the parking lot, but a big circular dirt drive with nobody in it. And I try to tell him everything's going to be okay, but all he hears is a long-dead grandmother hovering right behind his shoulder, self-satisfiedly telling him that no one will ever come. And I want to give him the cell phone in my pocket, but it has no place in his world, where the rotary phone is hard-wired into the wall, and the grandmother behind him will never pick it up for him, because everything's just the way she wants it already.
I forgave my mother, for this and other things, a long, long time ago. She's a wonderful person and was herself as much a victim of circumstance as anyone ever has been, and has truly been, and still is, one of the best parts of my life. (Ironically, she called me immediately after I typed that sentence - and I was glad that it, too, was there to read to her over the phone.) As for my dad, there were plenty of other, better, and newer issues to deal with on his part. And while I have forgiven him for pretty much all of them, he hasn't ever really been a part of my adult life, because he never made the effort to be one, and I finally quit making any myself. I made what peace I could with the grandmother after her last stroke, a week or so before she died, holding her hand and trying to rub some of the hurt out of the arm with the 24 hour IV in it, and out of the side that she could no longer move at all. She couldn't speak at all, but she looked at me a lot. I don't know what she was thinking, or what she was wishing she could say when she was making the only sounds she could with what the stroke had left her, but I hope she got what she needed; that in her own mind, at least, she made the connection that she wanted to make.
I don't know what's ever going to become of that little boy, though. Until today, I didn't realize he was still so much there, and still so sad.
Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Smiths - How Soon Is Now
| ||From: discogravy|
Date: October 4th, 2004 - 03:48 pm
that be the verse alright
they fuck you up yr mum and dad. they may not mean to but they do.
My 'rents divorce fucked me up in a lot of ways -- dealing with women partly, but mostly dealing with couples. To this day I get uncomfortable around couples; I always think I'm interrupting, that I should go.
The little neurosis' that leave their tiny india-ink finger smudges on us when we're little (and how we deal with them,) are what really fucking define an individual, I think. I lied to myself a lot. They split when I was say...5ish? and it wasn't until I was 21 or 22 that I really came to realize how fucked my dealings with couples and women were (and to a lesser degree now, still are.) I remember being incredibly frustrated when I was misunderstood as a child. Asking my parents if they'd always be there because I was scared when I was 4 or 5 (I remember this so vividly, and it can't have been more than 10 seconds of a day in 1982 or 1983) and them laughing and saying "oh no, we'll move back to the US eventually".) It's so hard to find the right words when you don't know what they are or how to explain the feeling behind the words.
And now I'm faced with my dad not being there. Which is fucking hard. Especially considering that he wasn't there for a long time when I was younger and then when he WAS there, we argued a lot. The last few years have been good, and I've come to terms with him as a person and we like each other as guys, not just as authority-figure-dad and problem-with-authority-son. A lot of our artistic taste is similar (sparse black and whites go over very well, as does spartan use of bright colors).
But that's not what I was commenting about.
I don't know if you ever really get over those little hurts that make their mark on you. I wouldn't be the same without mine; I get told I'm aloof a lot (or that I look angry or mean when I'm not. The irony being that it's always someone who's just called me cute and sweet like 5 minutes beforehand.) And obviously being aloof (to everyone except myself, I guess) has affected how people react to me and how I react to them and QED, my viewpoint on a lot of stuff. I guess the best you can do is try to give what comfort you can to the little bits of yourself that are still feeling those hurts.
I'm guessing the comments will be screened; my recent entries about my dad's ill health have all been commentless except for one that had the screened comments. I didn't want pity or sympathy, just catharsis, which is why i'd taken comments off...except I fucked up that one entry. And then couldn't get the comment field off without erasing a comment, which were all nice and very touching indeed. So, not knowing how public this post will be, I'll just say this about your romantic situation: que sera, sera. And that's not a real answer, or probably any real comfort, but it's as close as I can get. Because I am broken in my own little ways, and therefore can't give any real relationship advice that is'nt based on total bullshit that I learned from pop songs and love poems. Good luck. It's a good life if you don't weaken.
As another guy who paces by the door when someone has told me they're going to come at a certain time, I just wanted to say you're not alone.
Thanks, man. That does mean something.
This is a fucked-up fraternity though; we don't have a secret handshake and there's no keg in sight.