The
first essay I ever wrote purposefully for this blog was entitled "It's the
Same Old Song," and it is, perhaps unsurprisingly, about my oldest sister.
What
might be surprising, though, is that in the almost six years since I've written
it, the desperate, open wound of my desire for her to like me has somehow--
miraculously-- healed. Or, I suppose, if not healed, then certainly
scabbed over. Sometimes in conversation with her I will experience a kind
of ghost sensation, a memory of my desperation for her to see me, acknowledge
me, like me. It's a very old, very familiar feeling, but it's very much
fainter than it was in the past. It feels as though it belongs to someone
else, and in a way, it does: it belongs to who I was, not who I am. And
to be fair, both of us are making every effort to have our relationship exist
between who we are now, not who we've been. We're entering new territory,
which is slow-going and difficult, but ultimately worth the effort to break out
of our well-worn paths.
The
funny thing about familial relationships is that, at least in my experience,
they are often repetitive: the arguments and the hurts are more often than not
patterned after arguments and hurts long past. Two quotations come to
mind, from wildly different sources. From Albert Einstein, physicist, we
know that insanity is the act of doing the same thing over and over again and
expecting different results. And Frank Turner, post-punk part-time-folk
general bad-ass musician, aptly sings: "We slip back into grooves that we
cut in ourselves long ago."
Same
old insanity, same old grooves: it's the same old song.
I
have a very vivid memory from when I was in college, home for a break, when
after an argument with my sister, I felt as though I was coming over an
emotional rise and could see the entire and entirely familiar roller coaster of
emotions coming at me. I believe my response was something like, "Aw
crap, here we go again." In spite of being able to see my reaction
coming, the complete and predictable succession of emotions I always seem to
have after fights with any one member of my family, at that time I could not
avoid them.
It
was like adding insult to injury: not only was I experiencing less than
pleasant emotions, I was also suffused with a kind of irritation at their
tedium, because I had experienced them all before, in the same order, from the
same cues, many, many times. And I just couldn't quite figure out how to
stop it: lap bar firmly clamped over my legs, and away we go. Oy.
When
we talk colloquially about growing up, I think we're most often referring to
childhood and adolescence, which strikes me as kind of misleading.
"Growing up" as an idea is actually kind of teleological: it seems to
imply a kind of end point after which you will be "grown up," as if
you'll ever be done "becoming" (I do beg your pardon, sometimes my
inner grad student claws her way to the surface). For my part, I was
surprised when my therapist pointed out that some of the progress I've made in
the last couple of years has actually been my growing up.
I
feel that progress most acutely in those moments when I feel the flicker of my
old reactions: faint, peripheral, and seemingly on fast forward.
One
of the longest running insecurities I have harbored in my immediate family is
that my life is less important than my sisters': because they are so much older
than I am, by the time I reach their milestones, they are already on to the
next. When I was graduating high school, they were getting graduate
degrees. When I got my graduate degree, they were having babies.
The things I do in my own real-time seem to pale in comparison. The
babies thing is particularly stinging, as I also have the sensation that there
is a serious premium in our family placed on procreation. Unsurprisingly,
when one of these insecurities is alerted-- either by something as faint as a
potential resonating frequency or something as direct as a button firmly
pushed-- I have a familiar set of reactions. Thankfully, though, the
intensity of my reactions is changing.
Recently,
I kind of got the short end of the stick, because I don't have kids. For
the record, I really do understand that having small children is very, very
difficult, and sometimes you just need help. However, other
people's needing something can become a pattern of their needs being more
important than mine: from visits truncated to bedrooms confiscated to schedules
up-ended, it just kind of happens. And in spite of the apparent necessity
of these situations, it kind of ends up sucking for me. The truncated
visit was a recent one, and the other night I told my mom I understood (and I
did, and do) that the kiddos are the priority.
"But
you're my priority too!" she protested. I could practically hear her
hand-wringing. She's not unaware of the uneven distribution of resources,
though that seldom changes the reality.
"Well,"
I said reasonably, chopping an onion in my kitchen, "okay, kind of.
But by definition, a priority is a priority. Somebody has to win.
And that's not me. And I get it."
The
weird thing was, in that moment, I really did get it: I wasn't acting or being
passive aggressive. I was being as reasonable as I actually felt, which
is exceptionally novel when dealing with my family (I've found a home-field
advantage is extremely helpful in these situations). Faintly, as if at a
great distance, I saw my hurt go through its motions. Did it still
hurt? Sure, but mundanely, not acutely.
The
funny thing was, after I got off the phone, I knew that if I dwelt too long in
my self-congratulation for having become so mature, I'd probably accidentally
back myself over a cliff into the hissy fit I thought I'd avoided. So I
put in my headphones, and "Rollercoaster" came on. I suddenly
had a strange image of myself as an adult on a roller coaster from my childhood
(specifically Six Flag's "Raging Bull," if memory serves). I
imagined myself reading a book: eyes downcast and attention focused on the page
as the world whips around me; hurdling through space, aware of it, but not
particularly phased.
A
very strange image, but a very comforting one too. So yeah, maybe it is
the same old song, but with a different meaning after so long...
