After promising 6 days prior on a whim to attend a football game with a group of people from church, I found myself sluggishly zipping up my jacket over my sweatshirt when the night finally arrived.
“Come on, you jerk,” I mentally pep-talked myself, “it would be good for you to get out with some people.” I glanced in the mirror and hopelessly tried to finger-comb the tangled mass on my head into something that looked acceptable, gave up, and hastily grabbed the first beanie I saw on my way out the door.
I drove alone a half hour before the game started, and was annoyed when traffic came to a total standstill miles from my destination. Where was the accident? Having been home schooled and being unwilling to attend “social” events hosted by my college, I had never been to a school sporting event save one small baseball game with a few benches scattered with tired parents. That’s why I was totally and completely unprepared for the sight that greeted me upon arrival once the line of traffic led me straight to the town’s biggest high school. After weaving through the maze of cars and finally finding a spot in the back of the school next to the dark forest line, I stepped out of my car into the cold and heard the roar of the crowd from the distance.
The sights and smells that greeted me were an assault to my senses. Over a thousand people had come to show their support for the Arlington Eagles, who were playing their biggest rivals from a few towns over. The posters, t-shirts, glitter, paint, flashing colored lights, news crew, and spotlights turned into one giant blur of color, and I grasped the elbow of the person I was meeting as she led me through the crowd to the two rows her family and friends had taken up.
I squished between the people in an effort to make myself as small as possible and sat down, looking at the smaller turn out of support on the opposite side of the field for the dreaded rivals. I turned around and looked again at the vicious crowd chanting cheers amidst their wild gesticulations and insults that were aimed at the other team, and I was grateful I’d changed my t-shirt prior to coming …since I had been wearing a bright red tee that sported the rival team’s name and mascot in block letters that I’d found for a dollar at a thrift store. I would have been eaten alive.
The band played the Star Wars theme song and the cheerleaders rallied the crowd, and a big mass of pad-clad boys moved from one end of the field to the other, constantly landing in violent heaps on the bright green grass.
People kicked, tapped, or pulled hair to get each other’s attention since the volume level was so high. I found I couldn’t focus on a single thing.
Finally, at half-time, I got the group’s attention, pointed to my cramped and bent knee and made a grimace with my face, then waved and slowly shoved my way down the bleachers and through the crowd, not even caring when the wind bit into my face again after the close quarters of the stands. I walked through the dark parking lot and sat in my car until my beating heart slowed to a normal pace.
Too many people. Too many people.
I didn’t leave the house for the next two days. The fever came in quickly, and left me sweating in our chilly house at all hours. And when Sunday rolled around, I was selfishly grateful for the excuse to stay home. After last week, that is.
In general, I feel that I have the ability to be pretty outgoing. I’m fine with meeting new people, I can keep a conversation going, and I am semi-comfortable standing in front of people and leading anything from music to English classes. But there’s a catch…
I am not good with people knowing the specifics of my private, personal business, so this last week and a half has been a bit hard. I can talk till I’m blue in the face about my life, but when it comes to…feelings? That takes a bit more work. That takes a special relationship to that second party. That takes…that takes work.
Some of you might find that funny, since I have a public online blog created for the express reason of getting my feelings out. Go ahead and laugh, I think it’s funny too. But to be honest, I think that in a way, this is the exact reason I created a blog – because it’s hard for me to talk about things to actual human beings. Computer screens that don’t talk back or look at the expression on your face in an understanding way is oh-so-much easier. If life is like Halloween, then my computer is the mask I prefer to hide behind. Sounds corny, I know. Get over it.
I’ve never been one of those people who has a ton of friends. I have a very small handful, and those that I do have, I love with all my heart. I like it this way. I like having my own thoughts remain my own. But when you live in a small town, sometimes you have to learn to get over your privacy issues and tell people what they want to know. Masks off. I have some serious issues with this.
Last Sunday, I was up at the crack of dawn to arrive early for our church service to help prep. We ended up staying in the parking lot until the last car was leaving, talking to everyone who had the breath for a word.
“So, what’s this I hear about the school teacher having her heart broken?” Variations of this well-meant sentence rang out that morning after the service, and they seemed so very loud to my subject sensitive ears that they might as well have been echoing off the mountains surrounding us. Boy, news travels fast. How had they even heard? I’ve learned that small towns don’t allow much room for rudeness if you hope to keep up a relationship with your neighbors and those they talk to – which is pretty much the town.
I wanted to open up an imaginary Mary Poppins bag and pull out that comfortably broken in mask that I so desperately wanted to fit back over the tired planes of my face and let the people look at the plastic, unmoving expression all they wanted. But oh! Their eyes – how gently curious they all looked, with a sympathetic up-twist to their eyebrows that made the lines of their foreheads wrinkle in concern.
I quickly formed a decent offhanded response that simultaneously answered their question and told them absolutely nothing whatsoever, and kept the resigned look pasted on my face for the next approaching person. I hoped that would sufficiently feed their appetite for town business.
That seemed to be working out for me until one man pulled me to him for a hug, grabbed my left hand and said, “So when is that boyfriend of yours finally gonna pop the question?”
Before I could respond, the second assault came.
“You mean he hasn’t yet?”
As I held up a naked fingered hand to stop him, his grandson ran to my rescue with the details, and I ducked towards my car before another word could be spoken.
That’s when I was really and truly ready to go home.
Feelings suck, and talking about them sucks even more than just plain feeling the feelings.
Feelings feelings feelings feelings. You all must be sick to death of reading about mine by now. But hey, is this or is this not my online journal? Oh ya, it is.
It has become habit to skimp on the truth when it comes to my feelings, whether it’s hiding my hurts from a church of concerned and loving people, hiding the extent of my anger at unfair work circumstances, or hiding my nerves when talking on the phone to someone that I care about. But doesn’t everyone do this? I understand that a certain amount of censorship and filtering is necessary for life in general, and I respect that unspoken boundary. But I wonder sometimes if I’ve taken that further than I should.
Like talking about my feelings on my health, for example. I have been urged to attend CRPS support groups since my initial diagnosis by a number of doctors, and I have defied anyone who tried to bring it up with me again. The idea of going to those meetings was horrific to me. I envisioned a circle of metal chairs with a leader in a prim cardigan holding a poised pen over his leather bound notebook, telling us how to follow our 12 step program to mental wellness in the face of pain. I pictured us having to go around the circle, sniffing and crying as we told our stories, patting each other on the shoulders and passing tissues beneath the florescent lights. The leader would listen without interruption as he’d been taught, and then ask us how all the pain made us feel.
I would also picture my inappropriate response to him. I’d imagine sending his clipboard flying with a knock of my hand as the metal chair crashed to the floor behind me, and I’d make my exit through the chipped and peeling double doors towards fresh air – pain or no pain.
No group therapy meetings for me, thanks.
But recently, I was asked to re-evaluate my loathing for a meeting I had never been to, and later I finally took a few moments to sift through the determined refusal in my mind and tried to look at it objectively. Why, oh why was the idea so offensive to me? I didn’t mind meeting new people. I didn’t mind listening, or even sitting through lectures. New things didn’t scare me that badly. So why was I balking at the very idea??
Because. I can’t handle my turn to talk. I don’t want to tell them how it makes me feel. I don’t want to explain to them the thoughts that go through my head on a daily basis, making me wish for an escape to…anywhere. I know I will never repeat some of my thoughts, so why go to a meeting set up for the purpose of sharing your thoughts? CRPS sucks, get over it, right? Why do we need to draw it out in a formal setting?
But here’s the thing: Now that I know why I’m so against going, I’m working on myself if for no other reason than because it’s wrong to judge something before I even know what it’s going to be like. Maybe the leader won’t be wearing a cardigan. Maybe there will be no notebook in sight – maybe there won’t be a tissue to be found in the entire building. Maybe we’ll all sit around playing Scrabble…the point is, I have no idea.
If it does turn out to be as bad as I imagined in my sour little mind, I’ll open up my Poppins bag and pull out an obscenely large umbrella, open a window, and let the wind take me.
I wish I could do that now.
It’s a blustery Fall day outside, and I’m sitting within a warm Starbucks, sipping a Pumpkin Spice Latte and watching the leaves fall through the window. My heart is still so sad. I thought a festive drink might help.
It didn’t. I guess I should have realized that non-alcoholic beverages don’t generally have the ability to change your outlook on life. 
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