Vaguely Personal

I know that the last time I wrote here, I stated quite clearly that I had no plans of making this into anything resembling a diary. Well, I still don't, but a realization dawned on me that I have to write down. Don't get me wrong, I'd like the personal touch of something handwritten that I can envision a grandchild happening upon while cleaning the attic after I've died in a horrific car accident (not my fault) at the ripe old age of 93--it's just that I don't write that fast, and my handwriting is terrible.

All that being said, I feel like I had some kind of breakthrough.

As was previously stated, I had a major realization. Before I get to that, though, some exposition. Just in case I'm wrong about my untimely demise, and I end up with the dementia or something, I've got to give the background on how I got to be the way I am, and how this realization will help to get me back to the way I was. Or the background might be for casual passers-by. Who can tell?

Enough! Now for the story!

Sometimes I look back and wonder if my parents ever regret teaching me to speak. I don't seriously wonder that, that was a joke. Jokes are jokes because they are totally unexpected, or because there is a grain of truth in it that the joke-hearer is meant to understand. In this case, I know me, so I found it funny. You may not know me, so you might not have.

Once I had learned a sufficient number of words, I was unstoppable. I was a toddling force of nature. Something to be reckoned with and completely not disregard-able. I have memories of the things I would do, and say. Some of those memories are legitimately mine, some are mine by proxy and retelling. Any thought that occurred to me, I would say. Any question that popped into my little mind, had to be asked--I probably had more than my fair share of the "Why?" game, invariably ending in a parental "Because I said so."

No one was safe. I'm fairly certain I actually remember this, but it's been retold often enough that I can't be entirely certain the memory is actually my own firsthand account. Anyway, my mother and I were in the line at the grocery store. All the foodstuffs and various other things had been placed atop the counter-top carousel, and I looked around. There were the usual things to look at: gum, candy, magazines, etc. I don't know why, and I don't remember what about, but I began speaking. Not to myself, and not to my mom. I was speaking to the stranger in front of us in line. She was casually paying no attention to the 4 year old(?) behind her and that fact began to vex me. Back then I was a no nonsense kind of guy. I walked up to her, pulled on her dress and said "Hey, lady! I'm talking to you!" I was completely unapologetic. I can't say what story I had to tell her, but I'm sure it was important and her life would be very different today had she heard it in its entirety, but such was not the case. My mom was more than slightly embarrassed and interceded on the other woman's behalf.

That's the most specific account that I can think of, but I know there were others. Alas, though. This isn't meant as some sort of repository for my childhood anecdotes (though that's not a bad idea), there is a point here. The point is that as a child, I put myself out there. I wasn't worried what other people thought of me. My concern was that they would give me a fair hearing, to listen to what I had to say, and take from it what they would. That was all. I didn't need them to become friends with me, I knew that our conversations (for lack of a better term) were one-off events.

I stayed affable and gregarious for the next several years, but then something happened. Well, it took a few prior somethings to happen for the previously referred to something to have the significance that it did, so here goes.

Like so many people in this world, I have a parent with an addiction. She hasn't touched the stuff since I was a teenager, but the memories are still there. The significance of this detail is minimal here, however. You'll see.

Toward the beginning of my fourth grade year in school, my family met with some hard economic times, and our house was foreclosed on. We had to move in with my grandpa--he had a duplex and the other half had been recently vacated. This also meant changing schools.

Making friends had been easy for me up to that point, but the move changed things for me. Befriending people when I was out of my element, when I was on my own, was a little more challenging than it had been when I had support. Before I'd been able to visit with old friends at recess, or in my class. Once I started at the new school, it was more or less a matter of finding out who the other smart kids were and discussing the topics of the day with them. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like I sought out the other smart kids, it was just kind of natural. I didn't have a dirt bike, my dad didn't let me play with his chainsaw, I didn't have a lot in common with some of the kids in my new class.

There were a couple of kids in the class who I did become friends with, however. The teacher offered a 'special prize' to any students who met certain, ridiculous criteria. Three of us did, and we earned a Saturday trip to the Science Center.

That was pretty much the end of the school year at that point. Of the two others, one was a boy and one was a girl. I believe the girl moved away that summer.

When the next school year rolled around, the other boy, his name was Brian, and myself were in the same class. We were good friends.

One day I slipped up, and accidentally said something alluding to my dreaded family secret. I told him that my sister had cooked dinner for the family the previous night. He asked me why that would have been the case. And I, feeling that he was probably the best friend I'd had to that point, felt that it would be alright to reveal the fact that my mom had been passed out. He was a good friend, he said awkwardly comforting things.

I had other friends during that school year, well, maybe friends is too strong a word. They were the funny kids, or at least the kids that the other kids all thought were funny. I considered myself to be funny, so I wanted to be a part of what they had. In retrospect, I think what little tagging along they allowed on my part was more to make fun of me than it was to actually include me.

Toward the end of the school year there came a day when the sun shone out warm and bright. The bell sounded for recess. We all blinked the incandescent light from our eyes as we headed for the exit, and Brian asked me if I wanted to play football with him. Ordinarily I would have said yes. I liked playing football. That day though, my mind had been set on tetherball, I believe.

That's when the bomb was dropped. My best friend in the whole world... threatened me with the darkest secret I had. The only real secret I had, and the only secret I had shared with him.

Words like that can haunt you. An emotionally fragile fifth grader being blackmailed into a recess sport. This is dangerous territory.

It was in a low, threatening--if conspiratorial--kind of voice, "If you don't play football with me, I'll tell everyone why your sister made dinner that night."

There it was. And there was nothing I could do.

I played football that day, but I wasn't good, and I didn't have fun.

Our friendship was never the same. We had classes together periodically through middle and high school, but we went our separate ways. Our social circles ceased to overlap.

Aside: If anyone reads this and figures out the details, let it be known that I'm not saying anything about his character now. I haven't talked to the guy at all in probably 10 years. He could be among the world's greatest humanitarians and regret that decision with all his heart. That's fine, but that's not what this is about. This is my realization.

Over the summer I grew my hair out and during the school year I was a self-proclaimed 'loner.' I didn't really make any new friends until the end of the year when I was paired up with a kid in my shop class for the bridge-making project (in retrospect that's really funny, because he would become my best friend throughout the remainder of middle school and all throughout high school... bridge building... you can't make that up).

From that point on, I was pretty much only friends with people that I had classes with. Looking back, I call that 'built in friends.' My second year of high school I joined the drama group (because of a girl... but after that meta-drama was over, I really enjoyed the whole experience and stayed with it for the rest of high school). I did make some friends in the drama group as well, but somehow without that constant, regular, basically scheduled time together, my friendships suffered.

I wasn't really able to make many friends in college, either. There are a few, but I think the friendships owe more to their persistence than mine.

There have been a few people from various jobs that I've had that I would call genuine 'friends,' but not many, and they're usually fleeting. There again, it comes back to a schedule... once that fades, it seems that my friendships do as well.

Bear in mind that all of that was set-up. That was the exposition. Now for the realization.

I went running today. That's something that I hardly do at all. I didn't stretch before I went, and ran about 2 miles before walking the rest of the way back. I'm sure my legs will be very angry with me tomorrow, but I don't really care.

On the walk back, I was just thinking about the things I need to do to change the course of my life. I'm not exactly with the way things are for me, right now. Don't get me wrong, things aren't bad, but I'm not happy with them. Because of this, at least one of two things needs to happen. I either need to accept the way things are and be happy with them, or change them in a direction that I will be more satisfied with. Of course, the first is ridiculous, I'm not just going to accept that which dissatisfies me, I find the premise laughable--not because that's not an option, but because I think that option would quite literally drive me insane. That leaves me with the second option, or to consider unnamed alternatives.

Second option it is. I was thinking about what I needed to do. My dad has periodically asked me a question. He'll ask, "Whatever happened to my talkative little guy?" It's not that he's unhappy with me, it's that he's unhappy with my being unhappy. I've never had an answer.

It was that thought that brought it all home. On occasion, I had remembered the incident with Brian. I'd be annoyed, but that was over and done with. Simple, elementary betrayal.

It was on my walk home in what remained of the day's rain, that the full weight of that recess event finally struck me.

Partly moving to a new school, but mostly being betrayed by my first, best friend in such a complete and total way was what made me self-conscious. It gave me expectations of people, and begged the question of what they were expecting of me. I have been plagued by that ever since, sometimes to an almost crippling degree.

So, what's next? I'm not sure. Obviously this isn't the end. I can't just snap my fingers and be the way that I want to be. I know it's not that simple.

But now at least now I can draw my inadequacies back to something. It has meaning. It allows for a more substantive kind of optimism than I've felt in a long time.

I can finally answer that question posed by my father. I now know what happened to his talkative little guy.