Compassion
Someone I know is going through a hard time. I won’t pretend to know the details. She is one of those people I seem to be drawn to in some way, maybe because I am fascinated by her personality for a hundred beautiful reasons. She is a complicated person, imperfect in ways I can see in myself, often misunderstood. The commonality between us is staggering in places. We are both strong willed and butt heads for that very same reason. We’re both hurt, trodden down souls and our blatant distrust for each other is the result of several misunderstandings, open wounds, and fear. She might be quick to place the package of blame in my lap, and I in hers, if it ever came to light how we got here. Though if I were to truly fix the crack in what little foundation was once there, I could open the parcel, take some out, roll it around in my palms and then let it go without even bothering to pass it back. It would be a lot less heavy if that were to happen. We would grow. Yet neither one of us dare make the first move. Hell, maybe this is my first move. Then again, she may never darken my step and that will have to be okay too.
I’m seeing criticism about her situation in places I dare to venture. The equivalent to back alleys in urban decay, dimly lit and full of shady characters that could be the same people we pass in the street in the light of day. People with too much time and too little restraint seem to poke the bear when she is down and while I don’t participate, I suppose reading it all is, in some way, guilt-ridden participation. Stupid strangers behind stupid avatars pseudo-analyze her every word and like adding acid to water, they say stupid things that aren’t really there and throw it back, aiming for her face, her heart. It’s human behaviour at it’s worst and makes me sad for her as I know I wouldn’t want someone kicking me in the belly when I was already writhing on the floor in pain, my heart scattered and torn. I’ve been there and it stings just like you think it would. Even though these people seem to have no grip on your heartstrings, the fact remains that they could be the same people who gather to rub your back or put their arms around your shoulder. I want to scream out against the sheer nausea I feel when I read these words about the person I once tried to befriend and failed, but to do so would only be shouting into a black hole and I don’t dare get sucked in to that garbage.
If there were a Weblog US Weekly, I would hope that I would not subscribe. This isn’t the playground where you stick up for the kid on the ground. At least on the playground you can see faces and know names. Behind the wires and digital displays you don’t have that advantage and no amount of knowledge of IP addresses and tracking software will make you feel any better when and if you do find out who is mocking you behind a sweet smile. In fact, it’s worse to find out. Trust me on this.
The thing is, it’s not okay. It’s like commenting on Jon & Kate, as if you know them personally. While they put their lives out there on a daily basis, they do not deserve to be labeled ‘pussy’ or ‘bitch.’ It wouldn’t be fair to label yourself or your friends with such a permanent sticker, because you know your friends and yourself well enough that you don’t fit into one category of good or bad. I’ve done some very good shit and I’ve done some bad shit too. So have you. Same goes for every person in the world. If you were on display, going through a personal hell, you wouldn’t appreciate parenting through the storm assvice, littered with vicious digs at your mistakes. Mistakes, I might add, that faceless people decided were fact, not fabrication. We know our own faults and don’t need those faults magnified and put on display in the museum of This is Where You Fucked Up. I’m in that museum and people never forget. I can’t call up the curator and have my mistakes removed. Time has passed and the dust settles on top of them all. Suddenly it’s Found Art of Where I Fucked Up and I just have to live with it. The fact of the matter is, we all Fuck Up. It’s how we get better.
Call me a fool for putting all this out there when my own past is tarnished with mistakes, but we are all worthy of compassion. Every single one of us.
I have friends that are more abrasive than others, and though I’m grateful they are on my side, I also know the soft underbelly that they keep for only loved ones to see. I’ve touched that underbelly. I peer into their psyche and I’m thrilled to be a part of their lives in some way that not everyone sees. I’ve seen with my own eyes as these friends get labeled by quick-to-judge people and I feel the pain on their faces like a fierce slap when they find out what others seem to think of them. They then decide that they won’t subscribe to those opinions and their shell hardens once more. I can relate to those feelings immensely. My vulnerable underbelly has been touched by a few who thought to slap me in the face despite me letting them in. Not knowing who to trust, not sure what to put out there anymore, not having faith in people, in humanity, in people you once called friends. Then you go through the whole, “who needs friends like that anyway?” and you try to move on. You come to trust again when new people enter your life, and mostly it’s joy and fun though the first chapters, for me anyway, are laced with trepidation.
Imagine for a moment, if everyone stopped putting themselves out there. How alone we might all feel. No one to relate to. The sadness would be unbearable. This is not a soap opera, with a script, rolling credits and children that age overnight. These are real people, with real feelings who have decided to share with you. Many have their hands extended out to you, handing you a piece of themselves on a regular basis and perhaps some of it is self-serving, perhaps they welcome the attention, need the validation, like I so admittedly do at times, but on the other hand it’s very difficult to cut a piece of bone or flesh day after day, post after post and let things out that they know they can’t take it back.
To rob the cliche about the book and it’s cover, you really can’t judge. I couldn’t tell you what this person is going through logistically, emotionally, and physically. We aren’t close except by similarities that she may never recognize in me since my shell hardened several layers not too long ago. My heart goes out to her though, truly and fully as I try to comprehend the severity of what she is facing. Reaching out to her would only come off as trite now, I know that. Too little too late and all that bunk. My hope is that her journey is one where she will find herself happier and stronger at the end. She doesn’t need an audience of thorns on either side of her path though. I do hope she has many that are willing to hold her hand and walk with her through the gnarliest of parts. I think she does.
All of us are so much more than what we choose to place out on our blog, our front step, and while it’s easy to slap a sticker on each of us, I know I don’t appreciate being called ‘bitch,’ ‘crazy’ or anything else tiny minds have decided I must be, and I’m sure you wouldn’t either if your life were suddenly upside-down.
I don’t want you standing on my front step anymore. I want to be able to open the door, to let you in, to show you the underbelly, to make both you and I feel less alone in this shell-shedding we do. I want to trust you, to take your hand and find it warm. I’ve gotten so far as to open the storm door and stand, peering at you through the screen. My hand is on the handle.
Come on in.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
6:25 pm |
Little, Part Four
The clink of brown bottles on the front porch echoed softly behind a curtain of giggles between her and her mother. Little, dressed in pink shorts and a faded pink shirt with her name in puffy blue letters, was incredibly conflicted when her mother was like this. There was usually a lot of fun to be had, but it could turn quickly into something confusing. Like when Little dreamed about falling and was always unable to wake herself up. She just kept spinning out of control and there was nothing she could do to stop the force of gravity. She willed her brain at night to please please please dream about flying, to catch herself mid-fall and soar, but that dream hadn’t happened yet.
It was though the tone in her mother’s voice could dictate each pull on the strings of every single muscle in Little’s belly. Little’s brother, a mere 3 years younger than Little, was enjoying the laughter and silliness and didn’t seem at all concerned of the ribbon of glass they were teetering on. Mom was funny. Period. Mom was funny and she kept looking at Little with a grimace as if to say, “I want to love you.” Of course, Little may have been wishing so hard that is what her mother wanted, she believed it to be true. Her mother asked leading questions about school and boys and “Do you have any kids named Jesus in your class?” Little lapped up the attention like a stray dog, even if it was delivered altered and slurry.
Little never knew the right answers to these obscure questions. Did she like a boy at school? Was she supposed to? Her brain fired a million times every time she was expected to come up with an answer.
As their mother announced a need to pee and swept herself into the house, Little’s brother paused a moment, looked at Little and asked with innocence about the obvious. He was covering his mouth as though he knew the answer but Little whispered it to him anyway, “She’s drunk. That’s why she’s funny tonight.”
Little’s brother did not know the meaning of the word and asked his mother to define it when she came back out, fresh drink in hand. Little was instantly in trouble and denial of such a state was high, loud and stung. Little’s ears rang and she was filled with regret in telling her brother anything. He was oblivious to this conversation or what it meant.
Her mother let the elephant go a little quicker than Little expected but made a point of poking it a few times before she sent it back to the circus. Little was still treading water in the heat of the thick summer air and her mother’s insistence that they have fun despite the stupidity of one little girl and her big mouth. The mood eventually lightened as her mother engaged her brother instead and with purpose. Little was hurt that her mother wouldn’t even speak to her now, but she said nothing.
Little tried to relax though she felt as though her mother had one hand on her neck at all times. She buried herself in daydreams of the cottage and half-listened to the conversation between mother and son.
As they sat there drinking in the evening with childish banter, it began to rain. It was summer-time, the air was very hot in Toronto and the rain felt warm on their skin. Little and her brother, both barefoot, crossed those sixteen breaks on the walk, stood in the driveway and looked up to the dim sky. Big fat drops fell onto their tongues, and swept back the bangs of their foreheads like Granny checking for a fever or coming in for a kiss. Little could breathe deep out here in the big driveway and gulped in the cooler air as it rained down on her. She brought her arms out on either side of her and spread her fingers, palms up to the sudden deluge. Her brother copied her movements and started to spin. Little laughed so loud she startled herself and spun too. Knees a-swivel, ankles turning, feet in constant twirl, the two of them shrieked with joy into the open sky and when Little stopped, she looked at her mother, still on the porch.
She was looking back at her daughter and grinning ear to ear. Little watched as her mother’s face turn to a full blown smile, then, a hint of a chuckle. It set Little’s heart into flames, emboldening her spirit beyond anything she could ever remember.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
9:15 pm |
Little, Part Three
Little sat still on the top of two steps of the town house, and smoothed her dress over her knees for what seemed like the millionth time. She looked down toward the entrance of the complex again. Her finger traced the tiny beige flowers on her faded brown dress and she fiddled with the lace on the hem. Sinking her chin onto the groove between her knees, she counted the cracks in the walk. Sixteen breaks in the concrete snaked their way to the driveway.
Her shoes were black Mary Janes. These were her favorite shoes in the whole world. She curled her fingers over the tops of them and felt the smooth of the curve, then the gritty underside. Her wrists slid alongside the buckles on each side. Her toes were starting to cramp in the shoes, but she didn’t tell her mother because she wanted to be able to wear these shoes a little longer. Giving up her last pair was easy since they were only white sneakers from Woolco, but these? These were bought by Daddy.
He was coming to take her for visitation today. It was after nine and the sun was already warm. He said on the phone last week that he would be here by nine, but sometimes he was late.
Little loved going for visitation. Her Daddy listened when she spoke, played his guitar and sang funny songs to her about squirrels and little red riding hood. He told hilarious jokes too. When she was with Daddy, it was easy to forget everything else. He made her feel so very special. She dreaded going home. Whenever he brought her home, she wasn’t allowed to say she had fun. Not ever. She once said it in front of him as he stood in the doorway, handing over her knapsack, and once he was gone, her mother got very angry. Once, she told Little that her Daddy didn’t even want her when she was a baby. Little wanted to ask him about that but was afraid to ruin their fun.
The sun was growing hotter and Little was thirsty. She was scared to go back into the house to ask for a drink in case her mother changed her mind about visitation. So she shifted a little on her perch and looked toward the entrance to the complex again. She strained her ears, hoping she could pick out the sound of her Daddy’s white compact car. It had a thin blue stripe along the side and four doors instead of the two her mother’s car had. The seats were light blue fabric and Daddy had to move the shift stick to make it go. In the winter, he would take her to the Bluffs and spin donuts with his car.
Little knew what her mother would think of that if she knew, so she never told.
The low hum of a car was approaching and Little looked up to see a red car pull in. Not him. Rats.
She wrapped her arms around her legs and placed her chin on her knees again. The concrete under her was starting to hurt.
“Not here yet, huh?” her mother asked through the screen.
Little shook her head no.
“Come in and have some lunch, kiddo.”
Little’s tummy was growling, so she stood up and turned to face her mother through the door. The woman looked at her carefully and creaked the door open, her arm over Little’s head. Little barely had to duck to come into the house. She took off her shoes and placed them side-by-side.
“They’re getting too small,” her mother said. She marched ahead of Little to the kitchen and muttered, “Maybe that deadbeat father of yours can buy you another pair. If he ever shows up. God knows I don’t have any money.” She slathered peanut butter over white bread, drizzled honey on it and slapped another slice on top, cutting it in half with one swoop. Little loved watching her mother in the kitchen. She was so efficient and quick. She placed the sandwich in front of Little and poured her a glass of milk.
“I don’t know why you wait on that damn porch all day for him, Little. The last four times he didn’t even show up.”
Little didn’t know what to say. She was certainly disappointed Daddy hadn’t come yet, but didn’t want to think he wouldn’t come for her again. She found the peanut butter sandwich very hard to swallow and couldn’t seem to get it down. The lump in her throat was starting to hurt. She wished her mother would stop talking about him like that.
“You should tell him, you know. Tell him this isn’t right, that he makes you wait and lets you down. You’re putting too much stock in him. He’s a bum, he was always a bum and he will only disappoint you. He only cares about himself. Why, do you know…”
They both heard the familiar slam of Daddy’s car door. Little dropped her sandwich on her plate, ran to the front hall, squished her feet into her shoes and darted out the front door.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @
9:04 pm |
