(no subject)
When something happens that early, I think it's safe to assume that it's only natural...that it couldn't have been learned somewhere.
"I didn't want to interrupt," I said. Nevermind that "interrupt" is a big word for a 3-year-old from West Virginia - somehow I had bumped myself down to the bottom of the list of priorities at that age as well. Sitting in the back seat while my mom and Aunt Toni chatted away in the front, I decided it was better to stay covered in my own vomit than announce that I had, indeed, thrown up. I don't remember this happening, but when it was told to me it seemed logical. There was no question that I would do something like that. Even so young.
It's not a matter of self-hatred. I really rather enjoy myself, in fact. I think I'm pretty rad. This "interruptist" self-image may have been reinforced as I got older by my siblings, though. And my classmates. And my neighbors. I had friends. I had a happy childhood. I have no regrets about my interactions with people as I developed, my family included. My defense mechanism was to bury myself in things I enjoyed doing alone. I read constantly. Hours at the library, several times a week, weren't uncommon. Video games helped. Cartoons and television, too. I did crafty things - I had countless friendship bracelets wrapped around my wrists and ankles and the shelves in my room were full of the tiniest origami my growing fingers could fold. It was easier to entertain myself and keep myself happy for long periods of time, rather than put myself in the direct line of fire for the rebuffs of my assumed sexuality that were so freely unloaded on me. That isn't to say that my summers weren't spent swimming from 10am - 9pm almost every single day. That isn't to say that I didn't have several friends that I played with regularly, all within a couple blocks of the house. That isn't to say that bike rides and roller skates weren't used constantly. That isn't to say that the Lourdes Grotto and the parking lot for the funeral home and the little mom-and-pop grocery store down the street weren't all frequented by this little pack of mostly-well-behaved kids. That isn't to say that I didn't have a paper route. That isn't to say that I wasn't well-liked, even by the people who hurled the epithets.
I just got used to spending time alone and being ok with it.
My sister's friends liked me and she hated it. I'd spend time trying to avoid them, but I kind of liked them, too, and would insert myself into "girl time" on occasion. The rest of the time, they came to me...usually because Lorie didn't stay up much past sundown. But she hated it and made it clear that she did. It got old being yelled at because she'd scream as if I was doing something wrong, so I just avoided her most times. Walking up the stairs was always a task as her bedroom was at the very top of the stairway and my room was at the end of the hallway, across from my brothers. The boards just outside my sister's door would creak if you didn't step on them just right and far too often, without even turning around, she'd shriek "GET OUT!" knowing full well I'd learned my lesson and wasn't going to set foot in her room. Not while she was there, anyway. She had tons of Barbies and at one point I took a few when she wasn't around to play with my Ninja Turtles. The mystery and mysticism of Barbies for me is another story for another time, though. Regardless, it was scripted: "GET OUT!" "MATTHEW! Get out of her room!" "I'm not IN her room!" And then we'd all go about our business. My brother wouldn't acknowledge that we even shared a mother. I was usually made to walk a particular length behind him if we went anywhere together on foot. In the car, I had to slink down in the seat...but I think I was only in his car on two occasions. He even had a station wagon...I could've ridden all the way in the back, but no. I was to go nowhere. Unless there were booby traps set up in the yard and they needed a guinea pig...or just someone to pick on. Ah, the joys of middle-child-hood.
When I was old enough to make grown-up connections, Christmases and birthdays became hard for me. This past year my mother and I had a bit of a tense conversation regarding the netbook she bought me for Christmas. I'd bought a laptop only a few weeks before since my computer petered out. It's a nice thought, but I couldn't accept such a thing even if I hadn't. I know about their financial situation. They're not dire, but I'd rather the money spent on that laptop was put toward something more productive and profitable. And then to find out that it was purchased because there was enough room on the credit from Dell? I just can't shoulder that sort of responsibility. It's hard for me to enjoy something like that under those circumstances, as nice as it would have been. I appreciate the desire to give me gifts, and an expensive gift at that...I do. I love giving gifts...but am cursed with the awkward inability to graciously receive them. Even though I work on it.
But for as long as I can remember...I've had a fear of being a bother or a burden or interrupting or having my intentions for opening up to people misunderstood. I usually excuse myself from simple offers of beverages or food because to me it's more polite to only take what's needed when hungry or thirsty, rather than allowing the host to be hospitable. Of course, the rules are reversed when the shoe is on the other foot. Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours. I'm available for anything you need...but I appear to not be able to ask for what I may need. Mostly because I feel like anything I "need"...I can get for myself. The rest is just want. I want all sorts of things, but not having them isn't detrimental. Sometimes I wonder if I lost the ability to judge and prioritize my wants versus my needs. Perhaps not. I have no idea. I believe in a level of humility as well as complete honesty and try to take up as little space as possible with both, unless invited. Occasionally, though, my honesty and a desire to be closer to people...to let them into the soft parts of my soul, has to come out. It scares me to death because I know it'll usually be received in a way that any other person would intend for it to be received - full of hidden messages and underlying motives - but I really, truly only mean what I say. And despite the frustration and disappointment I get from putting people on the defensive when all I want to do is share those soft parts...I'll still do it. Sometimes with plenty of hesitation, which can give the impression that I'm hiding something or that these things are larger than they really are. It's annoying as hell for people. It's annoying as hell for me.
It's not because I feel like I don't deserve it. It's not because I feel like I'm not worth it. It's not for anything, really. It just is. It's the way I've always been and for some reason it's one of the hardest things for people to accept as anything but an exercise in self-deprecation.
And yet, here they are...my soft parts.
"I didn't want to interrupt," I said. Nevermind that "interrupt" is a big word for a 3-year-old from West Virginia - somehow I had bumped myself down to the bottom of the list of priorities at that age as well. Sitting in the back seat while my mom and Aunt Toni chatted away in the front, I decided it was better to stay covered in my own vomit than announce that I had, indeed, thrown up. I don't remember this happening, but when it was told to me it seemed logical. There was no question that I would do something like that. Even so young.
It's not a matter of self-hatred. I really rather enjoy myself, in fact. I think I'm pretty rad. This "interruptist" self-image may have been reinforced as I got older by my siblings, though. And my classmates. And my neighbors. I had friends. I had a happy childhood. I have no regrets about my interactions with people as I developed, my family included. My defense mechanism was to bury myself in things I enjoyed doing alone. I read constantly. Hours at the library, several times a week, weren't uncommon. Video games helped. Cartoons and television, too. I did crafty things - I had countless friendship bracelets wrapped around my wrists and ankles and the shelves in my room were full of the tiniest origami my growing fingers could fold. It was easier to entertain myself and keep myself happy for long periods of time, rather than put myself in the direct line of fire for the rebuffs of my assumed sexuality that were so freely unloaded on me. That isn't to say that my summers weren't spent swimming from 10am - 9pm almost every single day. That isn't to say that I didn't have several friends that I played with regularly, all within a couple blocks of the house. That isn't to say that bike rides and roller skates weren't used constantly. That isn't to say that the Lourdes Grotto and the parking lot for the funeral home and the little mom-and-pop grocery store down the street weren't all frequented by this little pack of mostly-well-behaved kids. That isn't to say that I didn't have a paper route. That isn't to say that I wasn't well-liked, even by the people who hurled the epithets.
I just got used to spending time alone and being ok with it.
My sister's friends liked me and she hated it. I'd spend time trying to avoid them, but I kind of liked them, too, and would insert myself into "girl time" on occasion. The rest of the time, they came to me...usually because Lorie didn't stay up much past sundown. But she hated it and made it clear that she did. It got old being yelled at because she'd scream as if I was doing something wrong, so I just avoided her most times. Walking up the stairs was always a task as her bedroom was at the very top of the stairway and my room was at the end of the hallway, across from my brothers. The boards just outside my sister's door would creak if you didn't step on them just right and far too often, without even turning around, she'd shriek "GET OUT!" knowing full well I'd learned my lesson and wasn't going to set foot in her room. Not while she was there, anyway. She had tons of Barbies and at one point I took a few when she wasn't around to play with my Ninja Turtles. The mystery and mysticism of Barbies for me is another story for another time, though. Regardless, it was scripted: "GET OUT!" "MATTHEW! Get out of her room!" "I'm not IN her room!" And then we'd all go about our business. My brother wouldn't acknowledge that we even shared a mother. I was usually made to walk a particular length behind him if we went anywhere together on foot. In the car, I had to slink down in the seat...but I think I was only in his car on two occasions. He even had a station wagon...I could've ridden all the way in the back, but no. I was to go nowhere. Unless there were booby traps set up in the yard and they needed a guinea pig...or just someone to pick on. Ah, the joys of middle-child-hood.
When I was old enough to make grown-up connections, Christmases and birthdays became hard for me. This past year my mother and I had a bit of a tense conversation regarding the netbook she bought me for Christmas. I'd bought a laptop only a few weeks before since my computer petered out. It's a nice thought, but I couldn't accept such a thing even if I hadn't. I know about their financial situation. They're not dire, but I'd rather the money spent on that laptop was put toward something more productive and profitable. And then to find out that it was purchased because there was enough room on the credit from Dell? I just can't shoulder that sort of responsibility. It's hard for me to enjoy something like that under those circumstances, as nice as it would have been. I appreciate the desire to give me gifts, and an expensive gift at that...I do. I love giving gifts...but am cursed with the awkward inability to graciously receive them. Even though I work on it.
But for as long as I can remember...I've had a fear of being a bother or a burden or interrupting or having my intentions for opening up to people misunderstood. I usually excuse myself from simple offers of beverages or food because to me it's more polite to only take what's needed when hungry or thirsty, rather than allowing the host to be hospitable. Of course, the rules are reversed when the shoe is on the other foot. Make yourself at home. What's mine is yours. I'm available for anything you need...but I appear to not be able to ask for what I may need. Mostly because I feel like anything I "need"...I can get for myself. The rest is just want. I want all sorts of things, but not having them isn't detrimental. Sometimes I wonder if I lost the ability to judge and prioritize my wants versus my needs. Perhaps not. I have no idea. I believe in a level of humility as well as complete honesty and try to take up as little space as possible with both, unless invited. Occasionally, though, my honesty and a desire to be closer to people...to let them into the soft parts of my soul, has to come out. It scares me to death because I know it'll usually be received in a way that any other person would intend for it to be received - full of hidden messages and underlying motives - but I really, truly only mean what I say. And despite the frustration and disappointment I get from putting people on the defensive when all I want to do is share those soft parts...I'll still do it. Sometimes with plenty of hesitation, which can give the impression that I'm hiding something or that these things are larger than they really are. It's annoying as hell for people. It's annoying as hell for me.
It's not because I feel like I don't deserve it. It's not because I feel like I'm not worth it. It's not for anything, really. It just is. It's the way I've always been and for some reason it's one of the hardest things for people to accept as anything but an exercise in self-deprecation.
And yet, here they are...my soft parts.