Block(ed)

Posted on September 22 2011 by J.W. Richmond

There is a barrier
              wall
              impediment
              one of those fences dogs have
                                       so they won’t go out of bounds –  
                                       that shock them if they get too close
                                                                 so they don’t go too far.

I hit
  grazed
  nicked
  scraped it
      (already).

I don’t write for an audience. (Or didn’t.)
[    ] long ago, I stopped writing creative
                                            interesting
                                            personally-identifying
                                            close-to-private
                                                        anything.

        Only what was straightforward, informational, and asked for.

                                                                 [Journal not included.]

        Forced myself not to have any sort of audience as a motivation.

Because my previous focus was: unhealthy
                                            ugly
                                            self-centered
                                            in the wrong direction(s).
                         Led to: stress
                                   pressure
                                   (Goals = Fail).

I recognized the misdirect. (I think.) And changed course.

Did I overcorrect?
Let the pendulum swing too far – and crash into the other side?
Was I too stringent?

Maybe. (Probably.)

But where is that line?

How do I enjoy
             de-stress from
             be energized by
                               writing (again)?

That another(s) might read? (And allow them to?)

And not get off-course – again.
Not focus on the audience – or on myself.
But still be mindful – of both.

?

[Processing.]

Three

Posted on September 20 2011 by J.W. Richmond

The power was out and thunder crackled. Jeff’s roommates were gone, so we had the apartment to ourselves. He barbecued hamburgers and we ate at the dining room table, with candles flickering.

It was about a month after our second first date.

A year since our first.

And then he said it: “I love you.”

I replied: “What do you mean by that?”

It wasn’t the response he expected. But he went with it anyway. I think he knew I needed it. He was unprepared and totally honest. He explained that it wasn’t just a feeling. He was committed. This was long-term and he wasn’t going anywhere.

I exhaled.

And said “I love you” too.

I had wanted to say it back – immediately.
But I had done that before him. Said it back.
And found out that guy’s declaration was completely flat.
There was nothing in it
                       or behind it.
Not if he could tell me a couple months later that he had “fallen out of love.”

That’s crap.

It was totally false the whole time.
                   Fake.
                   Make-believe.

That was not what I mean(t) by love. Not what I believe(d) love is.

So I needed to be sure that it wasn’t just butterflies this time. Excitement. A rush. That he kinda sorta liked me and enjoyed having me as his girlfriend – for now. That it wasn’t just because it was days after 9-11 and he didn’t want to lose me.

I needed to know what I thought was true: that Jeff saw a future for us. I didn’t expect him to predict it and know what would happen.

But.

If he said those words,
I did expect him to fight for a future with us.
                          Work for it.
                          Walk with me through it.

Those words aren’t casual.
They aren’t nonchalant.
They actually mean something.

And because I asked for clarity,
       because he was willing to answer,

                    10 years later

       I know what he means when he says it.

Spaces

Posted on September 16 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Words. Tone. Inflection. Body language. Microexpressions. They can all be important when trying to understand someone.

And they all have the potential to be deceptive
                                                    misleading
                                                    misunderstood.

Sometimes the most telling parts are the spaces in between the words, letters, shrugs, eye twitches, hair twirls, foot tapping, crossed arms, smirks, grins and frowns.

The silences.

The things people don’t
                      or won’t say.

The clinking of forks on plates could mean the food is amazing. A meeting where only the leader speaks could mean the people are inspired. The couple in the restaurant may be watching the game while they eat. The family sitting in the living room looking out the windows could be enjoying the cool, autumn breeze. The girl who always wants to be the center of attention and loves to talk about herself loves her life – and everybody loves her.

Or maybe not.

Maybe she is starting to get a migraine. He is worried about being fired if he disagrees with his boss. She is disappointed in her son. He is afraid of the conversation that might happen. She is holding her tongue because she has been told to. They spent all day talking and are enjoying a few minutes of quiet. She is insecure about her weight. He is thinking of his grandpa, who died a few months ago. She is still processing the fight she had with her boyfriend. Or that’s how they grew up – and that’s just what they know.

The spaces aren’t always obvious
                                or clear.
They don’t lie.

But those spaces may never be understood
                                        or known.
Because as soon as they are spoken, they are no longer spaces.

And new ones emerge.

Say

Posted on September 13 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I had something(s) to say.

But now I’m not so sure I want to say it – or them. At least not yet.

The thoughts aren’t ready – yet. (Or I’m not ready. Yet?)

Once formed and almost out there, I don’t think they are really what I meant to say. I don’t take them the way I thought them at the time.

The thoughts are unclear. It would be bad communication. I could be nice and say poor. But most of the time, it’s just bad.

What I would have said used to mean something else, even just a few days ago. But now, the connotations are different. The situations have changed.

This is my life (so) much of the time.

I don’t want to hold back (too far). But based on my experiences (etc.), I would rather wish I had said something different – or at all – that time (or twelve) – than regret the things I have.

Recur

Posted on September 10 2011 by J.W. Richmond

After only a short time, I see some small patterns forming:

“I” (hate that).

And yes, this may be some (twisted) version of therapy. But nobody else cares about that.

Am I too focused on myself?
Am I being selfish in writing all of this?
                        (In thinking all of this?)

It may not be straight across the board, but as a generalization, I’m not sure I can trust my feelings. At least not all the time. Overall, they are not a fully reliable source.

The problem is some are (too) real, and some are dead-on reliable, so I’m still trying to reconcile that.

All the questions about God? I knew those already.

I’m not funny.

Friends have told me I am. But I don’t see it. I try to be, but I don’t think I am. I mostly just laugh at how stupid I seem at times.

Am I being too honest? Does the humor only come out as a defense mechanism?  Or some kind of self-deprecation?

Or, as I suspect, I’m just not funny.

And that’s okay. (I think.)

Humor may be more of an ideal than reality.

Because it makes me (seem) fun.

But maybe that’s just what I want to be. What I wish I could be.

And maybe I’m just not.

Therapy

Posted on September 8 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I’ve tried therapy.

By force.
     and
By choice.

When forced in junior high, I couldn’t buy into it. It was so silly. I knew the approach was to get me to play stupid games so I would open up. Or smack a bat at something I wasn’t even mad at. I couldn’t help but laugh. And be pissed off that I was forced to be there. And cringe that I might be forced to go back again. I saw right through their games.

When forced in high school, I quickly figured out that nothing I said was confidential.
               Because I was a minor?
               Then what was the point?
               Why should I bother?
               Where was the trust?

When I decided to try therapy as an adult, many years later, by my choice – acknowledging my past experiences in counseling – I was ready to try.

The therapist and I were not a good fit. We were done long before that 50-minute hour was over.

Of all the psychology approaches, I cannot identify with humanism. As selfish as I can be sometimes (sometimes more than sometimes), I know and believe that life is not entirely about me.

I am a part of life – somehow. Not sure how, exactly. But I am clearly not the center.

So I tried again. Counselor #2 focused on feelings, past experiences, how my past shaped – but not defined – who I am now.

Feelings (expressing them, at least) may not be my strength. (Okay, aren’t my strength). Feelings are (mostly) fine if I don’t have to talk about them.

I feel the entire spectrum fully
                                 completely
                                 strongly.
But figuring them out – the why, where did they come from, how do I change them to move on? – I can analyze all that to death.

I worked hard to be all in with my feelings
                                                 experiences
                                                 all of it.
I tried to go there. Strived to be present. Be open. Accept whatever (hopefully constructive) criticism came my way.

My counselor said maybe therapy wasn’t a good fit for me. Maybe it wasn’t the best avenue to help me through my stuff.

I thought (knew) that too.

And I had forced myself to go through a few more sessions, to put myself out there – just in case. Because maybe I was wrong. I didn’t want to run away or avoid it, if it could help. Or avoid it because I was afraid, or because with every other counselor, I had a bad experience.

Most of what I got from those sessions was reiteration of things I already knew. Stuff I had already gone over (and over and over). Already figured out. (Mostly, at least.)

I was back to confronting issues that I had confronted before. But not getting anywhere new. Just repeating. Rehashing stuff I had already previously hashed out. (I think.)

But one thing resounds (echoes) in my head.

“Where is God?” she asked.

I always pictured Him up in heaven. Busy with other things. Just there. Doing whatever He does. Involved, but in His own (bizarre) way. Moving the chess pieces around on a giant board. On a bad day, He was up there laughing at me. Or ignoring me.

Or He was somewhere near me, just out of reach. Like He was playing keep-away and never let me get near Him. Or would tap me on the shoulder, I would turn around, and He was gone.

But then she said: If I asked Christ to be in my life, if I had chosen to follow Him, then – the Holy Spirit was in me.

<Breathe out.>    

It was like I just learned what letters were. And that those letters could form words.

Why was that such a new idea? I had never put those simple concepts together.

I didn’t look down when I prayed, even. Getting into the zone or focused or whatever. Unless I might be (too) obvious or distracting to someone else.

I looked up. As if He were up there – somewhere. Out of reach.

I still do that – sometimes. Habit. Ingrained.

But this one small (maybe huge) thing from therapy – still resonates.

And now when I look up, I’m not so sure I’m looking in the right place.

Roof

Posted on September 5 2011 by J.W. Richmond

I used to sit out on the roof at night. I would take the screen off my window and crawl through.

The sky was amazing.

There were so many stars. And I could hear the frogs croak near the lake.

I’d sit out there, listen to music – low enough that my dad wouldn’t hear it – and I would make up my own constellations
                         and think
                              dream
                              breathe.

My parents freaked when they found out. It was the third story, so there were two full ones below…

But I was nowhere near the edge.

And I wasn’t afraid of falling.

I was fearless.

What happened? When did that change?

I used to take chances.
I used to enjoy the awesomeness of the world.
I used to dream.
I used to have fun.

And now – I am an adult. I work. And think through everything – every little decision.

I’m not normally anxious. Situationally, sometimes. Not as a norm.

But when I look out our window now, the roof looks (is) steep. I see the concrete below.

Jeff would probably kill me for even thinking about getting out there.

Love.

I know. My parents did too.
Still do.

Which I appreciate.

But sometimes –

I miss that fearless part of me
                   that is muted now.

(Un)shy

Posted on September 3 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Some people have called me shy.

Of course, those people don’t actually know me.
My friends – family – know otherwise.
Sometimes they know me too well.

They understand that I don’t talk just to talk. I don’t speak just to fill the air.

But I speak up if I have something to say.

They are okay with me participating through observation. They know I am still fully engaged. And that when I have something to say, I’ll say it.

They know me.

They have seen me do stupid, crazy, silly things. They were there the times I made a totally fool of myself.

Asking a guy I liked to dance, when the song that was starting to play was dedicated to him – by someone else… I was so focused on asking that I never heard the dedication.

Saying yes to Prom when I didn’t even want to go with the guy. But I hadn’t learned how to say no, yet. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. My friend wasn’t into her date either, so she and I said goodbye to our dates and took off together.

Walking up to Hugh Hefner when we saw him at Disneyland. I wasn’t sure what to say, even. Something about our Psychology class studying him and his personality… Didn’t matter because his bodyguard stopped me way before I got close.

Getting a friend’s car stuck – at her wedding. Having to ask her drunk brother to help get it out.

Singing a U2 song at a coffee house night. (Why my friends didn’t stop me then is still a question.)

We have had the hard
                          deep
                          intense conversations too.

Lies. Cheating. Breakups. Divorce. Custody. Dad’s stroke. Moving. Abandonment. Daughter’s stubbornness. Rape. Abortion. Molested. Suicidal. Daughter’s abuse. Crazy parents. Broke. Dad’s death. Son’s death. Mom’s murder. Drugs. Anorexia. Overeating. Infertility. Unexpected pregnancy. Single. Step-son’s tenacity. Anxiety. Depression. Incarceration. Unrequited love. Surgery. Therapy. Bad memories. Nightmares.

One side or the other, I have been there with –
                                                       for – my friends.
Through it all.

Always will be. And they know that. I think. (I hope.)

My friends challenge me
                love me
                come alongside me.

I love them. And I know them. (Mostly.) I think.
They know me – mostly.

I love each one of them for who they are.

And they don’t try to make me be someone else.

Discern

Posted on August 31 2011 by J.W. Richmond

When can you trust your feelings? When are they reliable? How do you know when a feeling means something real, even if the (available) logic may not add up to something substantial?

When is it clear that God is telling you something –
     that may not be obvious
                             defined
                             recognizable to others around you?
That there’s just something off about someone. And you can’t explain what that something is.
               vs.
You feel something that isn’t.really.real?

I don’t want to rely on feelings.
So strong.
So subjective. (Usually.)

I don’t like when life isn’t logical.
When there isn’t an explanation.
When I cannot justify how I got from point B to point C. Or what even happened to point A.

Does this feeling come from my past experiences? Times with my friends? Teachings from my parents? Bosses? Trusted advisors? A revelation of sorts from (the often-elusive) God?

Some of my friends have an intuition that leads them somewhere
                                        specific
                                        real
                                        true.
It’s tangible and other people still recognize it.

But there are situations where I cannot say something.
Or I already have.
Or I don’t stick around long enough to find out the results. The hairs on the back of my neck stick up and I’m gone. (If I can.)

But what if it’s not about me? What if I am perceiving an imperceptible danger that may be directed toward someone else?

How do I discern the source? Know what’s true?

Did He reveal this?
Did He make me feel this way?
Why is it not clear to everyone – sometimes anyone – else?

Examining myself, I don’t see transference – previous patterns, or relatable connections with other people in my memory.

And I hate this feeling. This neverending feeling.

I know what doesn’t fit in this context.
I know who doesn’t.
I think.

Is it discernment?
Intuition?
Transference?
Situational awareness?
Am I paranoid?
Crazy?

What do I do?

I pray that He will reveal His truth.
Or make this feeling (intuition/crap/whatever) go away.

And I pray that again.
And again.

Again.

Real

Posted on August 27 2011 by J.W. Richmond

Youngest. By far. So also an “only.” But not really. Something in-between.

INFP.* Dreamer.**

Different. Think (too much) first. (Sometimes.) Question. A lot. Bold. (Bold?) Bold-er. (Maybe? Maybe.)

Some might see me as noncompliant. There is a little of that. But mostly I just don’t view things the way many others do, so I don't do things the way others would.

I am not the fighter
                 argumentative
                 obstinate one in the family
        (although I have some of all of those in me).

I need people to be real
                           authentic
                           true.
There are always essences of stuff in the air that we still need to work out, still need to work through. But the truth is essential. – Hard. Crap. Sucks. Painful. – And I don’t always like it. But I need it.

And I don’t want to walk on eggshells. 

I try to have (most) conversations earlier. Before the conflict becomes conflict. Before it becomes hard(er). Might be my way of avoiding it. Might be my way of getting us all through it before it becomes big(ger).

But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes hard conversations are unavoidable.

(Dread.)

But when did the Dreamer become the spokesperson?
The one who would say it out loud?
The one who would even have the conversation?
Sometimes the only one who will.

I hate this position. I didn’t ask for this.

But I need to be here.

I need to say what none of us are saying. I need to be able to speak up. Not be mean about it, not be harsh (I hope) but I need to speak the truth.

I need to say it in the way that is the least hurtful
                                                     but truthful at the same time.

I need to be able to say what we all need to say.
                                  What we have been feeling
                                                                thinking
                                                                not saying
                                                                         for so long.

And I’m sorry for how you may feel.

But the relationship with you/him/her/them is worth more than feelings.

It means more because you mean more.

 

*Myer’s-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). INFP: Introversion/Intuition/Feeling/Perceptive.

**Your Unique Design: Originally Developed by Taibi Kahler; Adapted by Dr. Bob Maris and Dr. Jerry Richardson. Dreamer: imaginative, reflective, calm. Just to save you some time, bold is nowhere in the description.