I have to take stock for a moment:
I have a chronic, and I hurt every day. Also, I'm exhausted, always. Those things will make your perspective (or your lack of perspective; honesty is best here) skew towards whatever it is in your world that isn't working perfectly right then. It can be anything: your spouse said a thing that you could infer was some shade thrown, or your kid is being childish, or your dogs just suck for no particular reason. So then you have to talk yourself down, as if your rational self was Kevin Spacey in The Negotiator: stiff with intelligence, intense, compelling, kind of a dick. Meanwhile you're on the edge of a building, sobbing into a stranger's cell phone about how things are never, ever, ever going to improve, and your inner Kevin feels a revulsion for the blubbering one. But your inner Kevin does the work and gets your sad self down from the building's ledge, again. (I usually see my sad self as being in a tree rather than on a ledge, as if it's more of a lost kitty than a potential suicide; the image of Kevin Spacey with a bullhorn yelling at a person in an ordinary public-park-type tree is much closer to the perfect metaphor of my inner struggle than the building ledge image.)
It kind of works, right? You have your own version of the above, right? Everyone has to deal with feeling bad or getting it wrong or losing their luck or their nerve. Except for one thing, the thing that makes the wheel go round: our inner Kevin is a douchebag, sneering quietly at our traumatized tree-sitter, and that means that we sneer at our own emotions. We sneer at the weakness in our own psyche, because it's the normalized thing to do. No one cries with abandon after the age of five- can you imagine? What kind of freak would we be if we just cried with our eyes up and our hands on our hearts instead of over our faces to hide whatever raw expression we're wearing? We learn it, and it keeps us from letting it really go.
This week has been difficult. Actually the past two weeks, beginning with New Year's Day. I walked my dogs along with friends in the inhospitable British winter darkness, around 4;00 PM. When I got back my hands had turned white and purple-blue (I have Reynaud's syndrome.) When the blood came back into my hands, it felt like rats were chewing my fingers off for fifteen minutes or more, and all I could do was lie on the couch and cry. I couldn't unbend them and hold them against the hot water bottle my husband had brought me because I was worried that it would hurt more and cause them more damage. Then I spent the remainder of the day- of the next day, too- making excuses for my weeping because crying for pain isn't something one should do unless one is having battlefield surgery to amputate your exploded leg.
I went to the doctor for my ten-minute appointment that I was lucky to get. The doctor listened to my story and even my semi-theories about Rheumatoid Arthritis that I'd semi-formed while Googling "REYNAUD'S PHENOM RHEUM ARTHRITIS FINGERS?!? in my free moments. She told me to make an appointment to have blood taken, and I have. Meanwhile, a mere hour after this conversation, I got a call from my child's school's special education co-ordinator or counselor or team leader or whatever she is. She's empathetic and disciplined, and overworked because of the Council's slashing of funds for special needs students (because it's not like they were using them for, like, everything.) She told me what had been said at my offspring's most recent talking-to, which had happened the day before:
Mrs. School Empath:
I told your child that the path they are choosing is one that will lead inevitably to failure.
What I Heard:
I think that between you and your child I can't decide which of you is the bigger fuck-up.
What I Said:
Yes, of course- I understand- this issue is long-reaching and we have to be direct in our actions...
Mrs. School Empath:
Your child is extremely clever and has figured out various strategies for getting out of any amount of work.
What I Heard:
I'm going to blow smoke up your ass about how smart your kid is in the hope that the flattery will make you listen more closely; now that I've done that I can tell you that your only child is a real asshole.
What I Said:
Yes, but the child needs to focus on their education- I know, I know- I'm so sorry about her learning to not work...we talk to her at home, too-
Mrs. School Empath:
We need to see some accountability on your child's part, and we're doing what we can now to build that feeling. I believe that we'll be able to help your child so that they can work up to their ability, which is very high.
What I Heard:
If your kid doesn't start toeing the public-school, uniformed, pre-regimented line, they are going to be kicked out. Onto the street. I mean "kicked out" literally, BTW...GOD, you are the worst parent.
What I Said:
Thank you.
It wasn't the worst thing that I've ever heard about my baby, but it was close. And it wasn't the first of those speeches, either: the child has ADHD, complete with all sorts of other Spectrum symptoms and sensory neediness. It gets in the child's way, as above. And even though I know there's a real- non-tangible, but real, very much so- reason for the problems, I hear about it and there are two things I'm bound to do: the first is when I'm feeling full and fine, because something awesome just happened that bolstered my sad self, and then I listen with equanimity and make a plan on paper. The second is more frequent because my sad self hasn't had any smoke blown anywhere near it's ass lately, and in that case I just sit there and try to make the right sounds until it's over. Then my inner sad self crawls up into a tree, and my inner Kevin Spacey has to come out and holler at the sad one until it gives up, climbs down. It's a stupid and destructive cycle and I'd like out, please.
I'm fairly sure that everyone knows what a diva Mr. Spacey is, or is supposed to be; I can tell you that the one in my head needs his perfect organic seedless green grapes- gently misted, not dripping thank you very much- in his trailer promptly at 2:00 every day. He is the kind of attention suck that needs everything to be about him, which explains the sneer and the loaded tone he uses when he's on the bullhorn. It explains why I feel so shit for feeling so sad, as if sad is a half-eaten sandwich I opted to pick out of a dumpster when there's perfectly good sandwiches at home. I'm sure this leads somewhere. Can I offer my Inner Spacey a better role in something? Would he be better as my panic voice, pulling out that bullhorn only when I don't check both ways when crossing the street and hear a car horn I wasn't expecting? If Inner Kevin is watching for mildly alarming events, he won't be all over sad self's ass.
Presumably I can just shed a few tears in peace and quiet. I'm hoping that once I do that, I'll be able to make a plan, write it down, and maybe find the child for a big, squeezy hug.
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