LJ Idol X.16: Thunder Hidden Inside
If you're lucky, in a weird sort of way, you can live your life and hold onto ideals that you never have to test. You can call yourself any number of adjectives - brave, fair, kind, compassionate - and never actually know the truth of it. Ignorance is bliss, they say, and maybe it is.
I am not that lucky.
I grew up in a household with a bully. He was big and strong and alternately mean as a snake and charismatic as the snake charmer. I cannot count the number of times I heard shouts and slaps. I cannot count the number of times he made others cry. I cannot count the number of times I hid in the shadows of being his "favorite" and the "one who didn't cause problems."
I was a child and while I do not look at my childhood fear with disdain, I ache for that little girl, who so wanted to be brave, but couldn't find a way.
As an adult, I promised myself I would never walk away from someone being bullied and not do what I could to help. It sounds simple, pretty words and a pretty premise, but it isn't simple. Sometimes, it's impossible - and I have failed countless times. Those failures gnaw at my marrow, weakening my spine, and bowing my head.
To my surprise, I find that each test of this resolve happens in the same way. First, I see something - and I always wish to God I hadn't. "Please," I pray to no one. "Not me. Don't make me responsible for this."
Too late. It's always too late.
Second, my brain jumps like it's been struck by lightening. My heart races, my palms sweat, my knees start knocking, my belly threatens to lose its contents and my throat tightens to the point I can't breathe.
Third, I look for an out.
"Self," I say. "You can pretend it didn't happen. "La, la, la,"I say, you can sing to yourself, "Nothing is wrong here. Ignore it! La, la, la!"
"You can always tell yourself that's what everyone would do. You can bury it deep down, with shame. "No one will ever know," you can lie to yourself, pretending that you don't count.
Often, I will get belligerent. "This is Not-My-Problem! This is the Not-My-Place! This is Not-My-Job!"
I think, if you're really lucky, you never have to test your mettle against something that will grab hold and rankle you to your soul for your own perceived failure.
I don't know anyone that lucky.
Fourth, I make a decision. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?"
My therapist recently told me that there is a special kind of dissonance that comes from needing to take care of a parent. It's worse, she said, when you're taking care of someone who never took care of you.
That man who used to be such a terrorizing force in my life, is bent and broken now. He doesn't know what year it is, he doesn't know how old he is, he doesn't remember how to take care of himself. It happened so fast, like a lightening strike on an otherwise clear day.
"Who will take care of him?" The Judge asked.
There was silence, with my siblings and his siblings, staring at their hands and feet. I prayed.
Then, I stepped forward. "I will."
That was not the answer to my question, by the way. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?" is dangerous. It's loaded.
I stepped forward for one simple reason, because, that is the person I want to be. It is not the person I am and that is a dramatic difference.
Now, a month has passed, and I still hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. I don't know if the storm has subsided, if we're in the eye of it and have nearly weathered it, or if this is the first round.
And that's where the terror lies. You never know. You never how things will turn out.
The fight I stopped to monitor, to make sure that the woman was okay, could have turned ugly. The runaway child on my doorstep could have been a cover for a thief - or worse. The screams for help could have led to bodily injury for me, as I intervened.
Taking care of my father may be the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe I should, as my mother suggested, let him become a ward of the state.
But, I had to ask myself more question. Who do I want to be? Not, who am I. Never again, who am I.
Because, truth be told, I am a coward. I am a 9 year old girl, in a grown woman's body, wishing so hard for covers I could pull over my head. I am a conflict avoider, a pacifist, a person who takes no pleasure in wading into battles. I am afraid of being hurt. I am afraid of losing my property. I am afraid of dying.
But, I'm more afraid of being a person who stands to the side and lets someone treat others the way I was treated as a child. That is not who I want to be.
"Get stepping, Bewize," I tell myself. And against all odds, I listen.
This entry was written for therealljidol 10.16: “Thunderclap." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll. The title of this piece is taken from "When I am quiet, there is thunder inside."
~ Rumi
I am not that lucky.
I grew up in a household with a bully. He was big and strong and alternately mean as a snake and charismatic as the snake charmer. I cannot count the number of times I heard shouts and slaps. I cannot count the number of times he made others cry. I cannot count the number of times I hid in the shadows of being his "favorite" and the "one who didn't cause problems."
I was a child and while I do not look at my childhood fear with disdain, I ache for that little girl, who so wanted to be brave, but couldn't find a way.
As an adult, I promised myself I would never walk away from someone being bullied and not do what I could to help. It sounds simple, pretty words and a pretty premise, but it isn't simple. Sometimes, it's impossible - and I have failed countless times. Those failures gnaw at my marrow, weakening my spine, and bowing my head.
To my surprise, I find that each test of this resolve happens in the same way. First, I see something - and I always wish to God I hadn't. "Please," I pray to no one. "Not me. Don't make me responsible for this."
Too late. It's always too late.
Second, my brain jumps like it's been struck by lightening. My heart races, my palms sweat, my knees start knocking, my belly threatens to lose its contents and my throat tightens to the point I can't breathe.
Third, I look for an out.
"Self," I say. "You can pretend it didn't happen. "La, la, la,"I say, you can sing to yourself, "Nothing is wrong here. Ignore it! La, la, la!"
"You can always tell yourself that's what everyone would do. You can bury it deep down, with shame. "No one will ever know," you can lie to yourself, pretending that you don't count.
Often, I will get belligerent. "This is Not-My-Problem! This is the Not-My-Place! This is Not-My-Job!"
I think, if you're really lucky, you never have to test your mettle against something that will grab hold and rankle you to your soul for your own perceived failure.
I don't know anyone that lucky.
Fourth, I make a decision. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?"
My therapist recently told me that there is a special kind of dissonance that comes from needing to take care of a parent. It's worse, she said, when you're taking care of someone who never took care of you.
That man who used to be such a terrorizing force in my life, is bent and broken now. He doesn't know what year it is, he doesn't know how old he is, he doesn't remember how to take care of himself. It happened so fast, like a lightening strike on an otherwise clear day.
"Who will take care of him?" The Judge asked.
There was silence, with my siblings and his siblings, staring at their hands and feet. I prayed.
Then, I stepped forward. "I will."
That was not the answer to my question, by the way. "Who are you, Bewize? Who are you, in your secret heart?" is dangerous. It's loaded.
I stepped forward for one simple reason, because, that is the person I want to be. It is not the person I am and that is a dramatic difference.
Now, a month has passed, and I still hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. I don't know if the storm has subsided, if we're in the eye of it and have nearly weathered it, or if this is the first round.
And that's where the terror lies. You never know. You never how things will turn out.
The fight I stopped to monitor, to make sure that the woman was okay, could have turned ugly. The runaway child on my doorstep could have been a cover for a thief - or worse. The screams for help could have led to bodily injury for me, as I intervened.
Taking care of my father may be the biggest mistake of my life. Maybe I should, as my mother suggested, let him become a ward of the state.
But, I had to ask myself more question. Who do I want to be? Not, who am I. Never again, who am I.
Because, truth be told, I am a coward. I am a 9 year old girl, in a grown woman's body, wishing so hard for covers I could pull over my head. I am a conflict avoider, a pacifist, a person who takes no pleasure in wading into battles. I am afraid of being hurt. I am afraid of losing my property. I am afraid of dying.
But, I'm more afraid of being a person who stands to the side and lets someone treat others the way I was treated as a child. That is not who I want to be.
"Get stepping, Bewize," I tell myself. And against all odds, I listen.
This entry was written for therealljidol 10.16: “Thunderclap." There may be voting; if so, I will link to the poll. The title of this piece is taken from "When I am quiet, there is thunder inside."
~ Rumi