I confess that there is a specific amount of pain that comes in keeping up appearances. Perhaps it is the world that I live in, or the expectations that have been set for me, or even the ones that I have entrapped myself in, but it seems to me that there is always a considerable amount that I’m holding locked up from the world. I put on the faces that people want to see, and I hold them up well. At the end of the day, my proudest memories rely on how much truth people have really figured out, or more clearly, how much I have kept in.
I am not disillusioned enough to believe that I am alone in the urgency to mask myself. And I do not consider what I do fake in any way- I am not changing personas, just details. I am proud that my personality is able to shine up despite my sealed lips- but I am saddened that I have such a distinct need to seal them in the first place.
There are symptoms and side effects of hiding you life away from the world; there is the stress of knowing that someone may find out, the exhaustion of sorting through you words at fast paces until you know that they are safe. There are the bruises that form as the weight of the façade that you’ve so long toiled over pushes down on your shoulders. There is the loss of appetite, of loved ones, of the people who find out the truth. All of these are subtle- hardly anyone notices.
I am tired of controlling who I have become. I am tired of getting up and dressing myself with clothes, jewelry, and who I will be that day. I am tired of allowing myself to make decisions which create yet another me.
And yet if I concede, if I give in to my desire to let the world in, I would have to begin to trust again. And while the load I carry gets heavier each year, the very thought of trusting anyone is heavier, and the consequences much more drastic. Even my bruises pale in comparison to the broken heart that I risk when I let someone in.
So on and on I go, creating new safe places, never letting the world see who I am or who I have the potential to become. I have hope that one day, my masks will start to reflect my heart, that the courage to be brave and let myself out will one day surface. Until then, I will hide softly, and pray that the world never becomes the wiser.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
a tribute to Brooklyn; Journey Home
The rough copy:
The black pavement glistens, wet with the overflow of the clouds- they couldn’t hold it together anymore, I guess, and so down they came, breaking apart the tumbled to rebirth- they will ne reformed to overload, and then fall again. But I barely consider this as I sprint for the bus, anxious to get home to my dreams, back to the family I get to be part of once a week, where I fit in.
Home, at least on Friday’s, is a bus, a train, and a subway away. The second the clock hits five, out of work I run, in a rush to start on my long journey. The next two hours are spent in transit, where I find myself in quiet reflection, decompressing from the stresses of a life without sleep. Every other moment, I am a student, a worker, a friend. But on Shabbat, on Friday nights, I am nothing more than a child of my Father, returning for dinner.
Sometimes I try to explain the allure of this event to others in my normal world. “It’s just relaxing,” I try (of why I go). “I just like being there,” (of how it could be worth the long journey). “They just understand me,” (of my love for the people). Just, just, just. As if this is a trivial phase in my life, filling a hole left by something else, saving the space for the next best thing.
What I can’t seem to express is the truth of my desire to be there. I can’t put into words that the physical traits that hinder me in real life have no power on the Sabbath; on Friday, I am not self-conscious. I am not afraid to wear my favorite baggy sweater. I can stutter and stammer and no one laughs. I am effective in what I say, because I am me.
What I cant get out is that it’s worth every mile, whether it takes two hours or six, because the second I get in the door, I start to breathe again. How with each step leading towards that back walk, my problems start to fall away, and how by the time I sit at the table only the most important issues are left to be discussed. The things that don’t matter are brushed away.
What I just cannot seem to say is that when I start to talk, I am respected. That my opinions are valued, that I never have to make things up. I never have to prove myself because my Brooklyn family has decided that I am credible, and worth listening to. They agree with me on many things, and they disagree with me on many more. But we don’t argue, we discuss. We love each other the way only a family does- we will be there for each other despite the world.
What I don’t realize as I tread over the wet ground, is how like the clouds I am., sustaining myself the best I can until Friday, when I can fall apart and start all over again. For a few hours each week, I get to spend some time, to be real and new. It is a passion that you would have to experience to understand, but it doesn’t matter who gets it anymore. My Brooklyn Shabbats are not filling a gap- indeed, without them is when such a hole would occur.
The black pavement glistens, wet with the overflow of the clouds- they couldn’t hold it together anymore, I guess, and so down they came, breaking apart the tumbled to rebirth- they will ne reformed to overload, and then fall again. But I barely consider this as I sprint for the bus, anxious to get home to my dreams, back to the family I get to be part of once a week, where I fit in.
Home, at least on Friday’s, is a bus, a train, and a subway away. The second the clock hits five, out of work I run, in a rush to start on my long journey. The next two hours are spent in transit, where I find myself in quiet reflection, decompressing from the stresses of a life without sleep. Every other moment, I am a student, a worker, a friend. But on Shabbat, on Friday nights, I am nothing more than a child of my Father, returning for dinner.
Sometimes I try to explain the allure of this event to others in my normal world. “It’s just relaxing,” I try (of why I go). “I just like being there,” (of how it could be worth the long journey). “They just understand me,” (of my love for the people). Just, just, just. As if this is a trivial phase in my life, filling a hole left by something else, saving the space for the next best thing.
What I can’t seem to express is the truth of my desire to be there. I can’t put into words that the physical traits that hinder me in real life have no power on the Sabbath; on Friday, I am not self-conscious. I am not afraid to wear my favorite baggy sweater. I can stutter and stammer and no one laughs. I am effective in what I say, because I am me.
What I cant get out is that it’s worth every mile, whether it takes two hours or six, because the second I get in the door, I start to breathe again. How with each step leading towards that back walk, my problems start to fall away, and how by the time I sit at the table only the most important issues are left to be discussed. The things that don’t matter are brushed away.
What I just cannot seem to say is that when I start to talk, I am respected. That my opinions are valued, that I never have to make things up. I never have to prove myself because my Brooklyn family has decided that I am credible, and worth listening to. They agree with me on many things, and they disagree with me on many more. But we don’t argue, we discuss. We love each other the way only a family does- we will be there for each other despite the world.
What I don’t realize as I tread over the wet ground, is how like the clouds I am., sustaining myself the best I can until Friday, when I can fall apart and start all over again. For a few hours each week, I get to spend some time, to be real and new. It is a passion that you would have to experience to understand, but it doesn’t matter who gets it anymore. My Brooklyn Shabbats are not filling a gap- indeed, without them is when such a hole would occur.
Monday, March 15, 2010
No Complaining
The Assignment: Have a day of no complaining, and then write about it. Here was my submission.
Disposition is an interesting thing, especially when you realize that you have control over it. We go through these emotional roller coasters and times when the entire world feels so hopeless. But taking a day not to complain is an excellent way to realize that it’s what we feed ourselves mentally that really alters our outlook. Not complaining for a day came at a funny time for me. For the last few weeks, I’ve been on the search for happiness. I started a month ago, after a really good friend admitted that he hated how sad I’d been lately. Always the cynical one, I hadn’t realized that my mood was affecting him as much as it was me.
So my happiness quest, so to speak, was born. I found myself counting my blessings instead of ticking off the things going wrong. I started reading stories about others in unfortunate situations and how they cope- not because I was looking for someone to pity, but because the human experience is about not being alone. There were people who were in much worse situations, doing much better than I was. And the common denominator that kept them all happy was that they wanted to be happy.
I wanted to be happy too. The weather started to get better, and so did my mood. I changed what I was listening to on my IPod- the beats got better and so did the words. I started to find joy in things I had once loved and had been ignoring, like reading the bible or playing video games. These things seemed trivial, but to me, they were mood stabilizing. They gave me something to look forward to.
And then I started to change my interactions. I stopped letting my shyness get in the way and started making friends. I invited the cute guy from work to my birthday party, and made a good friend because of it. Things were getting better, because I was letting them get better.
Enter this assignment- one day without complaining. I loved the idea the moment I heard it. I was already seeing what a change my frame of mind was making, and it seemed more than plausible to imagine that not complaining could have good results as well. So I took the challenge, posted it to a few other friends, and looked forward to Saturday, the time I’d chosen.
Saturday morning rolled around, sunny and gorgeous. Despite the late night I’d had before, I felt pretty good when I rolled into the classroom to teach. The kids were in good spirits too, and so getting them away from topics they normally complain about was a cakewalk. Spring was finally coming, and everyone was excited about it.
But then I thought about other people who might be complaining. I thought about my grandmother, who was in a lot of pain because of an inflammation she was suffering from. What would help her not to complain?
The sure-fire answer was a visit, and so off my older sister and I went. We put the top down, blasted cruising music, and headed off to Tom’s River. The sky was bright and despite the cold, it felt good to be out and about.
We got to my grandmothers just in time to get her to her favorite Saturday event, Bingo. When we go visit, we go with her to play the game. The firehouse floor quickly fills with people waiting for their big break. It is a fascinating experience to be part of.
But that night, the bingo caller was bad, and the regular players felt cheated. Since I could not request they all stop complaining, I tuned myself out and onto my board, ignoring their comments. My older sister, however, listened intently, and her mood grew worse as the night poured on. When we talked about it later, she described the other players as vicious and bitter. I tried to explain that they felt cheated- this man did not respect their game (he ate during it, mocked numbers when they were called, and took his time). The reasoning did not help- her bingo night had been ruined, despite the fact that she won fifty dollars.
But for me, the night felt good. I spent dinner afterwards entertaining my grandmother with stories of my job and the things going on in my life. We were having so much fun, that our waiter kept stopping by to hear our tales. He was a nice guy, and I may have even flirted with him a little. I was feeling really good.
The car ride back left me reflecting on all the things going right in my life. I didn’t have much to complain about. Sure, the next day was bound to be exhausting, but I felt right about how I’d spent my time.
I look forward to comparing with my friends. Many of them are happy people to begin with, so I think we’ll be in good shape to chat. But I can see how what you dwell on changes how you feel. The sunshine of my Saturday cannot be entirely attributed to the weather.
Disposition is an interesting thing, especially when you realize that you have control over it. We go through these emotional roller coasters and times when the entire world feels so hopeless. But taking a day not to complain is an excellent way to realize that it’s what we feed ourselves mentally that really alters our outlook. Not complaining for a day came at a funny time for me. For the last few weeks, I’ve been on the search for happiness. I started a month ago, after a really good friend admitted that he hated how sad I’d been lately. Always the cynical one, I hadn’t realized that my mood was affecting him as much as it was me.
So my happiness quest, so to speak, was born. I found myself counting my blessings instead of ticking off the things going wrong. I started reading stories about others in unfortunate situations and how they cope- not because I was looking for someone to pity, but because the human experience is about not being alone. There were people who were in much worse situations, doing much better than I was. And the common denominator that kept them all happy was that they wanted to be happy.
I wanted to be happy too. The weather started to get better, and so did my mood. I changed what I was listening to on my IPod- the beats got better and so did the words. I started to find joy in things I had once loved and had been ignoring, like reading the bible or playing video games. These things seemed trivial, but to me, they were mood stabilizing. They gave me something to look forward to.
And then I started to change my interactions. I stopped letting my shyness get in the way and started making friends. I invited the cute guy from work to my birthday party, and made a good friend because of it. Things were getting better, because I was letting them get better.
Enter this assignment- one day without complaining. I loved the idea the moment I heard it. I was already seeing what a change my frame of mind was making, and it seemed more than plausible to imagine that not complaining could have good results as well. So I took the challenge, posted it to a few other friends, and looked forward to Saturday, the time I’d chosen.
Saturday morning rolled around, sunny and gorgeous. Despite the late night I’d had before, I felt pretty good when I rolled into the classroom to teach. The kids were in good spirits too, and so getting them away from topics they normally complain about was a cakewalk. Spring was finally coming, and everyone was excited about it.
But then I thought about other people who might be complaining. I thought about my grandmother, who was in a lot of pain because of an inflammation she was suffering from. What would help her not to complain?
The sure-fire answer was a visit, and so off my older sister and I went. We put the top down, blasted cruising music, and headed off to Tom’s River. The sky was bright and despite the cold, it felt good to be out and about.
We got to my grandmothers just in time to get her to her favorite Saturday event, Bingo. When we go visit, we go with her to play the game. The firehouse floor quickly fills with people waiting for their big break. It is a fascinating experience to be part of.
But that night, the bingo caller was bad, and the regular players felt cheated. Since I could not request they all stop complaining, I tuned myself out and onto my board, ignoring their comments. My older sister, however, listened intently, and her mood grew worse as the night poured on. When we talked about it later, she described the other players as vicious and bitter. I tried to explain that they felt cheated- this man did not respect their game (he ate during it, mocked numbers when they were called, and took his time). The reasoning did not help- her bingo night had been ruined, despite the fact that she won fifty dollars.
But for me, the night felt good. I spent dinner afterwards entertaining my grandmother with stories of my job and the things going on in my life. We were having so much fun, that our waiter kept stopping by to hear our tales. He was a nice guy, and I may have even flirted with him a little. I was feeling really good.
The car ride back left me reflecting on all the things going right in my life. I didn’t have much to complain about. Sure, the next day was bound to be exhausting, but I felt right about how I’d spent my time.
I look forward to comparing with my friends. Many of them are happy people to begin with, so I think we’ll be in good shape to chat. But I can see how what you dwell on changes how you feel. The sunshine of my Saturday cannot be entirely attributed to the weather.
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