Processing

Somehow the people who try hardest to love me, give me gifts or really listen, make me afraid of them. My favorite teacher is constantly asking me to do things and I find myself looking down and leaving class the minute she dismisses us, to avoid her. I somehow believe they must be mistaken about investing in me, must want something from me, or will soon realize I am shallow.  So I let them grow up in my weeds or rocks or bad soil for a few minutes, before squelching them so they can never flower in my garden.

One of my college roommates wrote me a story about the day I was born, a five page deal with beautiful detail and lots of love. She made thirty paper flowers and coordinated with thirty people to hand them to me throughout the day. To top it off she threw me the only surprise party I can remember. I was cold in response. I secretly wanting her to miss things and be less important so I could say, no big deal, you are not that amazing or important and neither am I. It pains me to think about how I refused the joy and delight of her unconditional love.

Five years ago, a best friend stopped calling me to see if I would pick up the phone and initiate and I didn’t. I was afraid that if I let her in, I would not be able to hide the dark personal stuff I was facing.

Recently a close family friend chose not spend time with us during my mom’s memorial. I found pleasure in my own indignation. I could focus on stories about how they don’t care, making me feel justified in my distant.

My entire college career has teachers commenting about my papers with things like, “what do you really believe.” I hear them say, “you are a Parrot repeating everyone else, but what matters to you?” Or in art they said, you copy what has been said, but what do you want to be?

I have a print of a woman’s arms moving a black iron across fabric, which was stolen from Picasso’s Ironing woman. My husband has always loved it and while in NY with me on a business trip he stumbled on the original and recognized where mine came from.

Sheesley encouraged me to find my own way, Lundin constantly spoke of “not same love in copy speech, but counter love, original response. Then for my senior show, Shrek raked my layers of armor in questioning my pregnant lady sculpture, demanding that I figure out what the lady was really holding (which was in no way a fetus). In my pregnant sculpture, I wanted to pretend something profound and he saw through it. It turned into the mask of an angry man and still haunts me to this day.

This is one more unfinished thought as I look at deep failures in relating to others. I know that I want people and gifts to matter and I want to respond in love. I don’t want to push you away. I want to sit and listen, without any obligations to pretend. I don’t know what I am supposed to say and so I might just close my eyes and watch your words in my head! 

I know that the starting point is being honest with God and writing down my skeletons so they can be released or at least spoken to! I ask God for patience and to free me for real interactions!