I’m Beautiful And Ugly And Misunderstood

My Grandmother is a gifted writer. A career she should have pursued, but instead went into law after divorcing. I’m confident that if she were to write a novel, it would be on the New York Times Best Sellers list immediately. Her words flow effortlessly, one letter connecting to the next. Her perfect penmanship helps too. She uses her pen as if it were a paintbrush. Her writing is so beautiful! It’s as if the ink lifts itself from the stationary and dances before my eyes. A writer’s waltz. It twirls. It swirls. It swoops and swings. Its art and it’s simply breathtaking to inhale.

I’ve been close with her since the day I was born. As a newborn, she held me in her arms and told me stories, but it wouldn’t be until I was knee-high that I would begin to remember her tales. She is a gifted story teller as well. Silver shimmers in her hair and I can’t help but stare. The scent of her perfume and how her hands feel like paper. Details I remember. Details that hold true to this day. She still tells me stories, but not of fictitious characters with make-believe settings. Today, her stories are made-up of family and theatrical memories that she carries in her heart. So why does she seem to know so little of me when I know so much of her? Is it the lack of my story telling? Is it my failure to openly share every aspect of my soul? Or is it the lack of her wanting to know me? Truly know me. I don’t remember how it came up, but Easter weekend I am sitting beside her on the couch when she asks …

“What is your favorite color?”
“You know my favorite color, Gram. It’s red.”
"Red? Really?"
“Yes, really. It’s red. I’ve always loved red. You knew that, right?”

I wait for her to feel silly and say it slipped her mind and of course she knew, but I don’t get that reaction. Instead I get an “Oh, never knew that. Here all these years I thought it was yellow.” It was never yellow. She wanted me to like yellow, so in her head she made my favorite color be yellow. She did this for both of my sisters too, decided our favorite colors for us. I never understood it, but I accepted it. I pretended to love getting a ridiculous amount of yellow clothing every birthday and Christmas. She made me a walking Big Bird.

It’s not just about my favorite color. It’s about everything. I’m misunderstood. I’m improperly interpreted. I’m wrongly judged. I feel the depth of me is unappreciated. I feel it is my fault because the depth of me has yet to be seen. I fail to show the many layers that lie beneath my skin. Everyone knows my outer shell. Hardly anyone knows my inner core. Sometimes it’s dark and depressing, and for that reason, I burry it down. I keep that part hidden and shielded from outside eyes because nobody likes to view ugly. No one wants to see anger or pain or frustration. Or is that no one wants to see those things in me because they in turn would see those same things in themselves? That would be too overwhelming of a burden for them to bear. So I keep those things to myself, which is where the burden then lies, within me. I permit them to close their eyes, turn their head and walk away. It’s simpler that way. It’s less ugly.

To even my family and closest friends, I sometimes feel that my true identity is obscured. Even the beautiful qualities and talents embedded within me are often overlooked. People don’t even know these parts of me exist because when they are brought to the surface, my eyes are the only windows open to witness.

I feel if I were to share some of the dark and depressing things inside me, that I would hurt my family and friends beyond repair. They would go into denial and lockdown. It’s easier to ignore what you don’t want to see. The pain would be too great and would change the tight unity that we’ve grown into. They wouldn’t look at me the same way. They would question, they would wonder, but they would never ask. They would never approach the subject due to the uncertainty and fear they would feel simply by seeking out the truth. Seeking out what lies deep inside me, by unraveling me down to my inner core. Sadness I won’t even admit to myself, let alone anyone else. It’s not healthy. I know this.

So I do my best to tear down any guarded walls I’ve built around me. Removing one brick at a time, I ease out into the open. I’ll ease them into the reality that is me. To be open. To be understood. To be who I truly am. Beautiful and ugly rolled into one. I’m beautiful and ugly and misunderstood. I’m complex, intriguing and mysterious. I’m probably nothing like you…and at the same time, I’m probably much like you. Or at least I hope someone can identify and relate because it's incredibly lonely being misunderstood.

Puppy Breath

“It’s been a year, don’t you think it’s time?” My sister questioned me as she walked into my kitchen. There, off to the corner of my refrigerator, two stainless steel dog bowls lie. They haven’t moved since last spring. They are now empty, clean and neatly placed side by side. Waiting for…waiting for I don’t know what. There for no reason, other than the simple fact that I can’t let go. Sometimes I’m not good at letting go and this is my worse case of holding on. No matter how many months went by, I couldn’t pick them up. I couldn’t put them away. The thought of not seeing them every day when I come home makes me sadder than the realization that I am never going to come home to the sound of her four pattering paws ever again. It’s been an entire year since I’ve heard a tag jingle, a pant or her tapping toenails on tile. Tick, tick, tick. I use to find that noise so annoying! Now I pine for it.

Over 18 years of her being by my side, that’s a long time. I was just a kid when I got her. An 8 week old pup licked my face. It was love at first sight and the puppy breath sold me. I had to have her. So my father made her mine. Unknown to everyone, except me, this dog would go on to save my life when I was just 12-years-old. A story I’ve never told and probably will never tell. A story that would cause my family and friends great pain, but a story that would clearly show the vast importance and tremendous role a little dog had on a young boy’s life.

My father helped me bury her last spring, on day much like today. It was freezing rain mixed with some snow flurries. Although the calendar read “1st Day Of Spring”, the icy weather seemed rather fitting to be saying a final goodbye to my best friend. It was close to sunset and the ground was still frozen from the recent passing of a cold winter. The thud of the shovel hitting the hard earth, the echo still sticks with me. I stood holding the cardboard box, shielding the wind from whipping over it, as if it mattered. I looked on as my Dad tossed the initial shovelful of dirt by my feet. That single action caused an uncontrollable reaction in me. The grief immediately set in. I began bawling like a little girl and I don’t remember when the tears ever stopped flowing.

Death is a part of life. And so is change. These things I know. However, knowing them doesn’t make it easier. In fact, in some ways it makes it more difficult because we know we must accept, adapt and go on. I’ve accepted. I’m still adapting. And now I must move on. It’s time to fill that void in my life with a new furry friend. I’ve mourned long enough. I want to look at a dog and smile, rather than cry. I don’t want to feel like I’m “cheating” when I pet another dog. I don’t want people to think I’m weird for having dog bowls lying on my kitchen floor when there isn’t a dog in sight. I’m going to find a reason to have those dog bowls and a reason to feel happy when I come home at night. I’m getting a new puppy.

On the 1 year anniversary of my dog’s death, I allowed myself to hold a puppy in my arms once again. Puppy breath. It’s been a long time, but I remember it well. I will be getting a Bulldog pup. He’s too young to be separated from him Mom right now, so as I wait for his arrival into my home, I need to choose a name. Help me name my soon-to-be buddy by selecting the name you like best in the Voting Poll (listed on my sidebar). If you have any other names you would like to suggest for a male Bulldog, leave your suggestion in the comment section. If I had puppy breath, I would lick you with it as a show of thanks. Thanks.

Eat Your Damn Peas David!

Sometimes in life we have to learn the hard way. Growing up, I can remember sitting at the dinner table staring at a scoop of peas on my plate for literally an hour! The rule was I had to at least try them, before I decided I hated them. To take at least one single bite. To put one single pea into my mouth. But I refused. I just could not eat them. I couldn’t even stomach the thought of that tiny green ball touching the tip of my tongue, not to mention they smelled like feet. So at the table I sat. And sat. And sat a little longer. They were colder than my glass of milk by the time I dug up enough courage to roll one across my fork. I stabbed it a few times and pushed it around my plate, but it never pushed pass my lips.

I had already made my mind up, without trying them. I hated peas. I hated everything about them. And no matter how long I sat at that table, I wouldn’t change my mind. Peas were the enemy. Public Enemy #1. Somehow my father thought that I would eat a pea if I sat at the table long enough. That I would finally cave into the pressure so I could be excused to go play with my He-Man dolls. After all, He-Man was (and probably still is) “the most powerful man in the universe” and I was certain he NEVER ate peas. So you see, I could grow up to be big and strong despite not eating my veggies. Of course my father didn’t like my “kid logic”. He was the Dad and father knows best. “Just eat the damn peas David!”

Perhaps my taste buds never matured or perhaps I was traumatized because I still hate peas to this day. Little kids are known to be picky eaters and complainers. I was the pickiest eater of all! I wasn’t much of a complainer, but I did try my hand at debating my anti-pea side to my Dad. However, I lost by a landslide. Actually, I don’t even think there was a vote. Democracy didn’t exist at my family’s dinner table. My father ruled the land and that was that. My vote would never count because we were never electing a new leader.

I learned the hard way, not about peas, but rather about keeping my mouth shut because not everyone wants to hear my opinion. My Dad did not care to hear my opinion on peas. He did not care to listen to my reasoning as why I shouldn’t be forced to try them. I watch my 2-year-old niece shovel peas in like they are candy. I wonder what “kid planet” she’s from because it’s certainly not the same one I came from. I wonder if there is any connection as to why I nicknamed her “Peanut”. Because she’s nuts about peas or because only a nut would enjoy peas? I’ve also been known to call her “Sweet Pea”. I have no idea where that came from. I actually hate pet names, but for her, well anything for her.

About 5 years after the “Eat your damn peas David” incident, I tested my father yet again. Let me think how to delicately word this…my father has a way of not always speaking kindly to my mother. It was something that infuriated me as a child and at the same time, I was left powerless to stop. However, one day I was brazen and stepped in. My parents were in the middle of a heated argument and when that happened, I wanted to be as far away from it as possible. I hated the sound of them yelling at each other. I hated the hurtful words that were said and most of all I hated the fear I felt in my chest. The fear that this fight may be the final fight that ends their marriage. Like a panic attack, it struck me hard and constricted my breathing. The thought of being a latchkey kid who had to choose which bitter divorced parent he wanted to live with was paralyzing. Words can’t express how terrified I felt of that scenario coming true. It would be my worst nightmare, far scarier than the Boogie Man that hid in my closet and slept under my bed.

So as their argument carried on, I decided it was time to retreat to my happy safe place – my bedroom. As I began walking up the steps, I paused, turned and said in my bravest "I will defend you Mom" voice…”Hey Dad, you know what?” He stopped shouting immediately and his eyes zeroed in on mine. A lump grew in my throat. A knot tied in my stomach. I should have pretended I had peas on my plate and kept my mouth shut. I had some big balls to talk to my Dad like that, too big for my own good. I can still remember his tone. “What! What is it that you have to say that is sooo important?” My reply…”um, nothing” and I sheepishly scurried off to my room and tightly shut the door as if the big bad wolf himself would huff and puff and blow it in.

In hindsight, I have no idea what I planned on saying to him. And if I did have some tough He-Man response in mind, it was frightened right out of me with his eyes alone. How in the world did I ever think that I could tell my own father off and get away with it? I would be willing to bet my Dad doesn’t even recall any of this, but it left a lasting impression on me. It will forever be remembered as the day I let myself down when I attempted to stand up for my Mom. I could hold my own with a plate full of peas, but I was no match for the Pea Enforcer himself. In my world, he was the He-Man and the most powerful man in the universe. And I was nothing but a small pea on a big plate, squashed down to size and then some.

Original Sin, Part 2 - Lela's Laugh

Just a warning, you may not want to read this post. It touches on a subject that is highly sensitive and may hit too close to home for some people. It will go down as one of the few posts I've written that has actually made me cry. Although that isn't necessarily a bad thing. It could be a healthy release of some underlying feelings of guilt that I seem to have. If you haven't read Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional, you may want to read that first. Below is the continuing part.

She smiled at me during reading class. I smiled back. I'm not sure what made me do that because normally I would of looked away, perhaps even made a face. I still found girls to be icky at that age. I kept my "Cootie Spray" on hand at all times, just in case a girl would get too close, or God forbid touch me. Lela was new in school. Flowered tennis shoes. It's all I can remember of what she wore. Pink and green flowers on white low cut canvas. Her laces matched the shoes. One lace pink, the other green. They were cute. She was cute. She was shy. Although, for whatever reason, she wasn't shy with me. Initiating eye contact and sharing a smile was a testament of that. Rotating from the swings to the monkey bars. It took just one recess and a handful of spins on the merry-go-round before we became fast friends. She lost her hairclip during all the dizzy fun. I promised her I would find it. I was late lining up to go back into class, but her once lost hairclip was now safely resting in my corduroy pants pocket.

I can still picture her like it was yesterday, if yesterday was 20 years ago. That small beautiful face. The pinkish hue in her cheeks. The warm chocolate color in her eyes. She had puppy dog eyes. Big and round. Soft and brown. They were adorned with the longest lashes I have ever seen. Her laugh - the kind that's contagious. She tried to conceal the dimple in her right cheek, but it made it's presence known even when she wasn't smiling. I secretly felt it was her best feature. It may of been a turning point for me when I started to discover that maybe some girls were not really icky after all, but rather adorable. How that single dimple in her smile now haunts me.

The smell of oranges. She loved to eat those. Her hands were always cold and sticky from the citrus. I feel her hand in mine as we race to the pool. Thorn bush scratches on our ankles, shins and knees. The thorn bushes were thick. We had to cross thru those. Beyond the thorn bushes to an empty pool. No water. Just cement. It all makes sense now. This is where she always wanted to go. To wash it away? But there was no water. Nothing was pure. Innocence was lost, long before the pool ran dry. There is no water pure enough to wash away the sin. I never told my Mom. I never told anyone. There was something wrong at Lela's house. Something was going on that wasn't normal. Something didn't feel right. Something felt piercing and comfortless there. Like the way worn cement from a drained swimming pool feels on the bottom of bare feet.

Her mother was soft spoken. She seemed to be kind and caring. That was all I could gather about her because she was hardly around. When I would go to Lela's house to play after school, her mother was always on her way out, either to the store or to work. Lela's father was always home. Back then, I didn't know why that was. I just knew my Dad worked long hours and Lela's father never had to. Or maybe he didn't want to? Looking back, I know he was an alcoholic. Looking back, I now realize he was alot of things, none of them good. If you would ask me to describe him in one word, I would choose "intense". He was a very, very intense man. I didn't like him and neither did Lela. Although he seemed to be very fond of her, too fond. Stuff it down and avoid the admittance of hard truths. That would be my motto to survival. She must of floated above her body and became numb to reality, or at least that is what I imagine. Sometimes you have to live that way in order to survive.

There is a law that states...if you see a car accident and you don't stop to offer help, then you are committing a crime. I may be guilty of keeping my hands clinched firmly in my pockets while witnessing a train wreck. What was occurring in Lela's home was nothing short of that. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't help but see there was something very wrong going on. In all honesty, I didn't want to know. I just wanted it to get better. I was only 7. I didn't know exactly what was wrong, I just knew something didn't feel right and she didn't talk about it. Lela's relationship wasn't normal with her father. (I use the phrase "wasn't normal" to spare myself from conjuring up the repulsive memories that to this day, still turn my stomach.) I wasn't fully aware of the situation. It was confusing to me. Lela just seemed unhappy, even scared. And it scared me. I stopped going to her house. I didn't want to play there anymore. I started inviting her over to my house after school instead. She never accepted. She said she wasn't allowed. That probably was the case, but I took it as "she didn't want to be my friend anymore."

School was out for the year. The summer came and went. I returned to class late in August eager to see Lela, only to find no Lela. After the first week of school was over, it became apparent to me. Lela wasn't in another classroom this year. She didn't enroll in the private school a few miles away. She was gone. I had no idea she was moving, where she had moved to or even if she had moved at all. I have no idea what happened to her. I just knew Lela and her laugh had vanished. I hope that Lela's Mom took her to someplace nice. Someplace where thorn bushes or anything else couldn't hurt you. A place where all the swimming pools were filled with fresh, clean water. A place where she became exhausted from laughter. Where she giggled so much that she got hiccups. Where her giggles echoed across the playground as she spun out of control on a merry-go-round of fun. I hope she packed her dimple with her. And I hope she left her Dad behind.

I don't know exactly what went on in Lela's house, but over the last 20 years, I'm 99% sure her father should be serving time in prison if he isn't already. I am nearly positive that something evil took place. Things that should only be heard in a confessional. I don't like watching the movie Forest Gump. Lela is Jenny. The scene where she runs into the field and asks Forest to pray with her. "Dear God, make me a bird. So I can fly far. Far, far away from here." I hope that is all that happened to Lela - that she was turned into a bird and flew far. Far, far away from here.

to be continued...

Original Sin, Part 1 - The Confessional

There is a tiny room with one small window. Not a window that opens to look out, but one that opens to look within. As if the light pierced a stained-glass window and sliced right thru me. Illumination is not always pretty. The light is not always kind. But cold hard truths are something we all have to deal with. My Mom made me venture in. "You're big enough now that you don't have to sit in front of the priest. You can talk to him thru the window screen." I recall rolling my eyes. Just the thought of going in there made my skin crawl. The queasiness in my stomach. Beads of sweat forming on my palms. I was visibly scared. I didn't know what I should say. What exactly does an 8-year-old need to confess? What sins could I of possibly committed at that age? I was a little young to be smoking crack and sleeping with hookers. Plus I had forgot parts of the "Our Father" prayer. Would I get in trouble for that?

I dropped to my knees, slid the window screen open and began my anonymous confession. Beyond the screen Father John listened intensely. Our church was small and surely he knew who I was, hiding behind a patch of mesh. Recognizing the nervous jitter in my voice, he told me to take a deep breath and start again. He coached me along, asking leading questions. "Have you fought with your sisters? Have you said any naughty words?" Next thing I know, I find myself lying to the priest! I'm actually making-up sins to confess because I have few real sins to confess. That alone is surely a sin in itself. I could hardly breath in there and it wasn't because of claustrophobia. To say the room is just 6x8 is being generous. To Catholics, it is known as the Confessional. A place where you bare you soul. Confess your sins and ask for forgiveness. A form of emotional, mental and spiritual cleansing. Ironically, you will find the Confessional room beside the Holy Water. Even more ironic, not even the purest water can wash away original sin.

Nearly every religion has their own definition of what "original sin" is and is not. However, they seem to all agree on one thing - original sin is the first sin. I am not deeply religious. I don't pretend to be. I don't try to be. I don't even want to be. I was raised Catholic though. It's all that I've known. Although it's not all that I'm open to. Perhaps that statement right there is a sin? To look into other religions. To veer away from the Catholic church. The same church I don't even attend these days. Sometimes I don't know what I am. Obviously, I'm not a good Catholic boy. Apparently, there are many "sins" I have committed. Sins that I have carried with me well into my 20s. Sins that started when I was in the 2nd grade. Similar sins that have reoccurred throughout my childhood and into adulthood. Sins I've never before confessed. Sins I've never asked for forgiveness from. Not forgiveness from God or anything like that. Forgiveness from myself.

They are often in the back of my mind. In that unbearable lump I swallow in my throat. In the weight that lies on my shoulders, the weight I can't shrug off. I've seen their faces in my sleep. Maybe that is my punishment. For not speaking up. For not stopping it. For not doing something. Anything. Their cries for help were quieter than a whisper. Their pleas in fact were silent, but not unnoticed by me. It was just that I failed to act on what I witnessed. They didn't ask for help. Although they needed it. And I never offered it. I ignored the signs even though many of the signs were right in front of my eyes. Candid accounts I can't pretend didn't exist. Even if I close my eyes, I see them...and even more clearly. For years I pushed those memories down deep inside me, only later to find them resurfacing. In the form of a new face. With a new name. Same scenario. Rewind and repeat. I feel as if I'm watching my life on a film and I hate the role I played. The bystander.

Her name was Lela. That is where it began. The original sin.

to be continued...

An Unhappy Home

Home isn't where my heart is. I hate being home. Not in my parent's house where I grew up, but in my house. My parent's house is what will always be known as "home" to me. No matter how far I go or how long passes before I visit, that is home to me, where I'm always welcomed. The house I bought a few years back as the "fixer-upper", that is my second home. It's where I reside as I write this. The house where I remodeled the kitchen, starting with the ceiling. The house where I remodeled the foyer, starting on my knees. Stripping hardwood floors and making them new again. Sanding, sealing, waxing and buffing. I was bringing the once vacant house back to life. The long days turned into nights and the muscles in my arms and shoulders eventually caved. Although I was growing weary and sore, I refused to cave. My reward - I could see my reflection beginning to appear between the knots in the wood. The knot in the wood led to a lump in my throat. I let out a heavy, happy, heartfelt sigh. Running my hand over each imperfection felt nothing short of exquisite to me. Gazing into that lustrous mirror-like shine was my first taste of the fruits of my labor. A sweet reward. The floors may of been finished, but I was not. Progression. I was truly seeing it. In my house. In my life. The days would turn into weeks and the weeks into months. An entire season had come and gone.

I was taught to measure twice and cut once. But at age 23, this first time home owner learned the hard way, thru trial and error. From one room to the next, I would tear down and build up. Even when I painted, each passing wall brought me a sense of accomplishment and a fresh outlook on my new budding life. It's remarkable what a coat of the right color paint will do for your attitude. It was hard work, but I wasn't going to stop. It had become my mission to own the perfect house. Correction, the perfect home. Warm and inviting. Modern and unique. It had it's own special charm and the hardwood floors would not only show the reflection of those that would walked upon them, but also show the reflection of the man who labored to create them. It would be the house that David built. Well maybe not "built", but redefined. It was a reflection of me. Who I was and where I wanted to be. If home is where the heart is, then my heart was radiating beyond every wall.

A mixture of paint, saw dust and sweat permutated the room when she entered. I had been working for nearly 12 hours that rainy Saturday when she stopped by. Lacquer on my hands, drywall bits scattered on my t-shirt, I didn't look my best. I hadn't shaved and was in need of a shower. It was second nature for me to great her at the door with a hug and kiss. But I was stinky and dirty. She was "prettied up", as always. She didn't have to try. She just was. Pretty. Naturally, by nature. It was one of the many things I loved about her. Before I could explain why I didn't want to give her a proper greeting, as if my pigpen appearance wasn't obvious, she dismissed the grit and grime by wrapping her arms tightly around me with an enthusiastic..."This looks amazing! I love you for doing all of this." She was pleased. And I was happy.

"My boots aren't going to nick or scuff the new floor, are they?" she nervously asked.

"No, you're fine. These floors are made for walking. (a dumb joke, the song - These Boots Are Made For Walking) Here, check this out..."

I went to the far end of room, kicked off my shoes and slid in my socks across the freshly polished floor. To her, my simple often child-like heart was one of my most endearing qualities. Although at 23, I knew what I wanted and I was achieving it. My goals were not just marks to shoot for, marks scribbled on some random piece of paper. My goals were plans set forth into action. I was living my dream and inviting her along for the journey. I had become a grown-up, but yet this little kid would pop out of me to play. To slide across the floor in his socks. Like a modern day "Risky Business" movie reenactment. After the 3rd time whooshing past her, she grabbed the front of my t-shirt. A firm handful. She held onto it tightly and pulled me in. "I love you." She said it serious. Like I didn't know. Like I was hearing it for the first time. She emphasized the "you". She wanted me to know that who I am is enough. Over the course of dating her, I had struggled in my head trying to figure out how I could maintain the lifestyle she was accustom to living. I wasn't able to give her all the fancy things she grewup on. She wanted to reinforce the fact that even though she loved the house, it was me she loved most. Just then my dog ran into the room, wiping out on the floor, of course. She quickly scooped up my little buddy and cuddled the furball. Her compassion, that was one of her most endearing qualities.

Today I could provide those fancy things, but it doesn't matter. It's just material possessions. I've learned real value can not be measured in dollars and cents. Real value you have a hard time replacing. Real value is sometimes invaluable and can't be replaced. My dog has since passed. My almost fiancée has since left. They are irreplaceable, but I keep trying. I miss the sound of 4 pattering paws and the click clock of her heals on my hardwood floors. I come home to a quiet house. Not even the hardwood floors squeak. The silence is deafening. It fucking sucks. I'm not bitter. Just awfully sad. I'm starting to despise these floors. I hate being home. And hate is a strong word. I hate being home.

(In case you were wondering, the hardwood floors will soon be for sale...they are going along with the house.)

Voidance

I'm an avoider. I avoid. It's what I do. I avoid what I can't stomach. What I can't face. Who I don't want to stand face to face with. Somehow the vacancy and emptiness fills me up...or so I try to convince myself that it makes me whole and not weird. I'm not a coward, but I don't care for confrontation. I don't look to fight, but I'll stand to fight if need be. Conflict is not a friend of mine, but it's a part of life that I'm aware I must deal with. I deal with emotional voidance when it comes to my family. If I ignore it, it will go away, eventually. It's that mentality. If I pretend it doesn't exist, it will cease to exist. If I will it not to be, my will will be stronger than it's being. The ugly will disappear if I close my eyes and count to 10. In the dark it will die and in the light, I shall escape.

It's a terrible trait. Perhaps it's the worst part of me. I know I'm made-up of many pieces, but this is one piece of me I loathe. It's my demeanor. It's cold and bare. I'm not welcoming. It's much like the black suit. This is not me. I'm not that guy. But to my Mother, she fails to see anything but this right now. And it's not her fault, it's mine. I won't allow her to see more of me. And for that, I blame myself. Things of me I openly could share with a girlfriend or even a perfect stranger, but with my Mom, I clam up. Why is that? My emotions go into lockdown. I brush it all off. I'm brave and unscathed from anything thrown at me. Or so my hard outer shell likes to proclaim. It's strong and resilient to pain. It's that mask. The protective shield. And I wear it well.

I'm usually cuddly and warm. Open and honest. In touch with my softer side and willing to share. Open to listening. Desiring the closeness and the connection. I'm the guy who goes in for the hug. Not the guy who's spine stiffened and who's body became ridged when she laid her hand on my shoulder. I feel awkward and uncomfortable. Disconnected and distant. Even nauseas and angry. The space is becoming greater and I fear one day I'll be in that dark room where I'll count to 10, wishing things will fade away, and that my wish will actually come true. I'll be alone and it will be too late. This is what I'll be granted. I need to open my eyes now.

Dum Dum

She speaks of thoracotomy, endotracheal tubes, EKGs and stories of resuscitation. Medical jargon. They are common words in her world. In mine, it's like a foreign language. If it wasn't for Grey's Anatomy and Hollywood scripted movies, I would be lost when our worlds collide, when she tells me about her day. I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, but sometimes I feel like a dum dum in her presence. I'm listening when she talks. I am interested and trying to learn, but I can't help it if from time to time my eyes glaze over. My head gets a little clouded and I feel like saying "whoa, dude". Of course I don't say that, but that's how I opt to articulate myself when I feel like a big dummy.

She's not showoffy (I just invented that word). She doesn't throw these terms at me trying to impress me with her brains or to test my brain. She's simply sharing her world with me and that's a good thing. I just wish sometimes that her world didn't make my head spin. I get lost among the rubber gloves and needles. It all becomes a blur. Still, I follow along. I ask questions. I nod. I smile politely. She has to know this is going over my head. She's no dummy. She surely sees that. It's then that she changes the subject..."Hey, you didn't tell me. How did your (long pause) thing go on Friday?" Hmm, it seems she gets a little lost in my world too. When she's out of her element, she replaces the unfamiliar jargon with the word "thing". Tech jargon isn't her thing.

It's become apparent. We speak 2 different languages. It's a lesson in linguistics. It's also a lesson in simple communication as she tells me she brought me a little surprise. Like a child, I am eager to see what awaits me in the pocket of her scrubs. It's a lollipop. "I remembered you had a sore throat and I wanted to cure you. I stole it from the hospital, but I figure they owe me after pulling a double shift." She's sweet...and a candy criminal. It's cherry - my favorite! It's also the exact same kind I use to get from my doctor when I was a kid. She knows me well. I glance at the wrapper. The brand, "Dum Dum Pops". Fitting.