Why I choose to share my sadness

I never considered that I had a choice.

You, in my sphere.
Talking, never listening.
Taking without giving.
Demanding without offering.
Relying on the invisible ties that bind so tight.

When my son was two he wanted to build a snowman. He kept pointing to the mountain near our home and insisting to go. It was August. We piled in the car and headed up. We found some spots of snow, that summer melt that is both hard and wet. It wasn’t much but we managed a tiny snowman. And our son was elated. And you know what? We kind of were too.

Yesterday a friend of mine lamented that she felt unseen by her husband. His response to her mentioning an ailment or issue or discomfort was to cover over her voice loudly with his own pain.

Ethan was a 14-year-old drug addict, although we didn’t really know it quite yet. It was early. He had new friends and was not only smoking but selling pot as well. There were other substances too but what and how much was still unknown to us.

What do you do?

It’s like the third question you ask or are asked upon meeting someone. And the subtext is really how do you make money? What is your job/career? How do you spend the bulk of your days?

I’ve always wanted to tell my story. Abused children have to be good secret keepers. I had to be very careful to not tell anyone the truth. As I got older I thought I could write my story. What happened to me. My feelings. My hurts. My desires. My view.

There is a baby in the house.
And honestly?
This world seems to scare her.
And I get it.

Have you ever seen a photo of yourself that captured everything that matters about you? While cleaning out my attic this spring I found just that photo. I believe I’m in about the third or fourth grade. I’m wearing my beloved tennis shoe roller skates.

Open. I really like this word. It is probably my favorite. It holds within its four letters an invitation, a call, a welcome. Words that mean the same tend to by overt antitheses of its opposite; unlocked, unbolted, unlatched, not closed, unfastened. If we are talking about doors and gates, these states of being are reassuring and logically straightforward.

I grew up going to church,  I was an acolyte. That means during services I would wear a robe and cross, light and extinguish candles, hold the giant Bible for the pastor to read from, and help serve communion.  I always felt very special when it was my turn to acolyte.

This week I was told by a new doctor that I have sensory processing sensitivity. Another description is that I am a highly sensitive person or HSP.  This isn’t a medical condition but rather just another innate way of being. It is a personality trait that seems to be inherited.

Keeping a resolution all year was challenging, educational, and in the end, rewarding.

Anger.  What is it?  It’s a feeling, I know.  A powerful one. The most powerful one, it seems.  People do powerful things when they are angry. They lash out physically.  Fists come up, doors get slammed, cars swerve, weapons are brandished.

Christmas.  Not feeling it.  I am used to being behind the season.  Even after tulips have come and gone I still feel that it is winter.  It is not until we are well into May that I put the boots and jackets away.  It usually takes me until it is high time to carve the pumpkin before I have given up the hope of summer.  But Christmas? I am nearly always the first on the block with the tree.

I have never liked clocks.  The tracking of seconds, minutes, and hours.  The movements, the displays, the sounds. The tics, the tocs, the winding, the chimes.  Don’t even get me started on the alarm. All reminders of the passing of time. Why do I hate this so much?

I have never learned the fine art of candor.  I think when I was young I had it briefly. Children come by it naturally.  Yesterday I subbed in the first grade and was bathed in it all day.

We have always been attracted to the sparkle. And the world, while seeming to have an abundance, has portioned it out to hidden places, fleeting moments, and sacred times.  This is probably why it has kept its allure so long. Sparkle holds for us all the excitement of encountering something rare. Our reaction to it is built into our very genes.  We get an emotional charge when we see it. But what happens when this sparkle is no longer hidden, or fleeting, or sacred? 

We have always been a family that made much of good-byes.  Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, or even just a summer get-together.  It doesn’t matter the occasion or who or how many people are in attendance. When the day is done and it is time to disperse, the coats and purses carefully returned to their owners, a full half-hour is given over to everyone crowding to the area by the door, hugging and kissing and exchanging heartfelt statements of love and affection to each and every other person.

I have a bit of a super-power. I can see where the truth lies. I can sense when I should not follow the advice of the wisest sages. I have good instincts of who to trust and who not to. I can see people's fragility. Yet, I have spent most of my life doing my best to look away from this wisdom, to not act on it, to not even fully embrace this wonderful part of me..