Eccentric Flower:199905/the skeleton in the closet
From Eccentric Flower
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may twenty-first, eight pm the skeleton in the closet I should explain that when I described the topics I do and don't want to have a conversation about, in the previous postcard, I wasn't trying to say that "only the things I want to talk about are legitimate concerns." In fact it was the opposite. The topics I want to talk about - art, music, movies, politics, etc - are the shallow ones. The unreal ones. The ones that don't really affect our day-to-day affairs except in the most minor ways, around the edges. I am tired of talking about real issues. I don't want to deal with real issues. Maybe I never really did. See, here's the thing: I don't want someone to sit and listen to me talk about my problems. I'm not saying I haven't done this - but it wasn't especially rewarding for me to vent that way, and I'm sure it was hell for the other person. I like venting here, where it dissolves painlessly into electrons and does no damage to anyone. When I vent my problems to someone, I feel a little like I'm making an unauthorized disposal of toxic waste. This makes it difficult for me to be on the other side. Again, I can provide a shoulder to cry on, an ear to talk to, a presence to provide comfort. I can and I have. But I sometimes have to remind myself why these things are Good Things, why other people would see some value in having me there. And there are cases where I simply cannot. With all the will in the world, I can't. Or, if you prefer, I won't. These are the major, insoluble catastrophes: Wasting illnesses. Other life-debilitating circumstances. Death. If you tell me that someone close to you has died, I will say to you "I'm very sorry." I will say that sincerely, and I will mean it. You will have my sympathy and my good wishes for a speedy recovery. But you will notice that my conversations with you for the next few days after that are a trifle strained. And once we get back on a normal footing - if we do - you will, if you are observant, be able to watch me dodging and twisting to avoid mentioning the Skeleton in the Closet. If I don't think I can successfully avoid subject A, then I just don't talk to you for a while. And thereby I get a reputation for being cold and distant. Reading this far, you may think that reputation is deserved. Well, I don't. For once I am not going to disparage myself. I may be worthless in a lot of other ways, but this time I don't deserve the rap. I am not heartless. I care a great deal. If anything, I have a problem putting myself in other people's positions, but I'm not heartless. See, I don't talk about death to those who've come near it, because my way of dealing with a death is to lock the grief off into a back portion of my mind and let it burn out on its own while continuing about my business. I have never understood mourning. It serves neither the dead nor the survivors well. As for, say, inoperable cancer .... What would I do if I had some incurable wasting disease? It depends on the pain. If there were a lot of pain, I might kill myself. If there were not, I'd go on the same way I always do until my time ran out. Either way, I would not want it to be mentioned. Why? What possible good could it do? What tangible benefit is someone's consolation going to do me? I don't want to dwell on it. I know you're sorry about it - I do you the credit, if you're my friend, of assuming you're not secretly gloating into your hand. I recognize that my way of dealing with these things is not the way other people do it. I recognize that I have a problem. But I do not, and will not, concede that I am cold-hearted. And sometimes, I confess, I wish everyone else would do it my way so I wouldn't have to have fights about it. Oh, well. Now you know what I mean when I say that I sometimes feel like my proper place is locked away in a small room by myself. The problem is, I also need and love the presence of other people ... even though I didn't learn this until I was nearly thirty. Pity that my human contact can't always be on my terms, eh? © columbine |
