What if we Knew our Neighbors?

Israel, Terri, Laura, thanks for taking me to the reading last night. I loved it.

I wish I had been more awake... All night I felt I couldn't quite react to things as I felt them. My face was slow to respond...

The truth is, all day Friday I was really struggling with the medicine.

I don't want to dwell on this, because I really want to avoid sounding as if I'm complaining, and I don't want to be the kind of person who constantly talks about her problems. I do want to say a few things about it, though, and quickly give a little context for whomever may be reading this.

After the month or two or however long it's been, after my research, opinion-gathering, and thinking, I decided to try medicine. I doubt my decision. I believe I would have doubted it either way, but this way I can say I gave it a try. I started it Tuesday night, so this is day four.

I've done my research, but I still feel weird taking it. It isn't actually fully effective until the third or fourth week, so it isn't supposed to do much right now. So far it's just given me a slight headache and a vague sense of drowsiness. I didn't really feel very affected by it until Friday.

Friday, I felt sick and sleepy all day. It was mild, and that's a normal reaction, but it was really scary anyway. I felt disoriented and embarrassed. I felt very drugged. I know those are just psychological reactions, but I couldn't quite redirect some of those thoughts... I wondered how much other people could see it, if my eyes looked as blank as they felt to me, and if my reaction time seemed as slow as I thought it was. I think probably I did look a little off or something, but I don't think people perceived it as badly as I suspected. I'd like to think they didn't.

I wanted to apologize to everyone I was around, wanted to tell them "I'm sorry. I feel really weird today because of this medicine I'm taking," just to explain myself in case they did see it as much I thought they did... but I was too embarrassed. And I didn't want to put anyone in an awkward position by saying something about it--how do you respond to that? So I thought it was best if I put it here, because you can feel free to read it without responding.

I wished I was a better audience member for Janisse Ray, an honest-to-goodness Nature Writer and an honest-to-goodness poet. I was feeling worse physically by that time. I felt too distracted by it to write things down in my notebooklet. I wasn't sure during the day if it was actually the medicine making me feel that way or not, but I believe now it was because when I took it again upon getting home, I felt better. So I think I was feeling the effects of it wearing off. It was sort of like benadryl with a strange headache. I couldn't concentrate, and my eyes kept drifting away...

She talked about how unhappy America is in spite of all her achievements. She mentioned the record numbers of people on medication for depression and other mental illnesses. At the time, while I was feeling really sick and weird, I felt a pang of guilt for adding to that number. Then I revised the thought. The problem is not the people on medication. The problem is all the pain that weighs down on so many people. My taking medication isn't furthering the problem... it just means that I'm beginning to get an insider's perspective and I can contribute to the healing later.

I did feel bad for a while, anyway. I just really wanted her to know I appreciated her coming. It was really sad to me that she thought she wasn't Friday Night worthy and thought we'd all rather be somewhere else. I think I'll say something about that when I email her, because I don't know how sincere I sounded when I said "What better way to spend Friday the thirteenth?" I really meant it, but I felt so weird. But how could I not be happy to be there? How often do I get to hear honest-to-goodness writers speak?

And speak to them personally?

First, I was freaking out because I was actually walking up to her. Then I was freaking out because she shook my hand and asked me my name. Like my name was at all important. That was amazing. And to talk to her, have a conversation with her all of the sudden in the middle of the lecture room... For her to express interest in my little college freshman essay, write her email address in my notebooklet, and hug me??? I can't believe she hugged us. Hugged each of us, and asked our names.

It felt amazing to me to belong to that group, the two writers and two artists talking to a poet. I'm really glad that you came with me... I don't think I would have done it without you.

This sounds melodramatic, but that's just what was going on in my mind.  
 
When I email her, I've got to remember to tell her how helpful her advice was, too. I've thought about things from my parents' perspective plenty of times, but I think because of that I've started leaning toward complacency. It was good to be reminded, and I've started looking deeper.

I think this had the most powerful effect on me out of everything she said. I wanted to write it down, but didn't, and I'm glad I managed to remember it:

"You are my father,
I love you,
I'm not going anywhere." 

I almost cried when she said that. She spoke a little about her father beating her, about his struggles with illness, and I was awed just by imagining the incredible strength she has. That she could feel such a powerful love for him, for someone who hurt her so much, and at such a terrifying, painful moment... that she could stand strong and say that to him, asserting her love even in the presence of that anger.

And to write about that... even after talking to her, it's hard to imagine how she sent her manuscript to her family. It's incredible.

I also really liked what her father wrote... I think it was... "This is my daughter's truth, not my truth, but I honor her telling." So beautiful. Such a powerful thing for both of them to do.

So she got me thinking about my father. I make an effort to see things from as many sides as I can, and this is far from the first time I've considered my father's point of view, but I thought it was worth looking at again.

He's caused me a lot of pain. But can I imagine with my 18 years how much he has suffered? How little he's talked about any of it, how painful it must be to let that compress inside and fester over the years... And now he's watching his mother die, watching his children drift away from him. What do I know about that? And me, the things I've suffered in my little span of life to now, what does he know about that? Very little. How can we know when we don't talk?

I'm not a talker. I'm trying to learn, because talking is important. As much as I wish I could, there just isn't time for me to write an essay every time I want to express something. Still, I can't talk to my father.

But I can write.

Letters are amazing. I believe writing letters to my father is the perfect idea, but I've been thinking of it the wrong way. I've been taking everything too fast. There's no reason I should resolve everything as quickly as I can, trying to fit all this in a semester.

What I need to do is write my father conversational letters, letters that have nothing to do with the state of our family. Right now, I don't have a relationship with him at all. My relationship is with the character I've created in my mind. I don't know my father.

Letters are perfect because my only connection to my father, the real man, exists in our books. He loves to read, and often reads what I read... he used to leave books he thought I'd like on my desk for me. If we talked about anything that wasn't business, it was about a new Koontz novel, the next Maximum Ride or Paolini book. We didn't discuss them. It went about this far:

"Have you read that book Inkheart?" he asked when the movie previews were circulating. "Yeah," I said. "It's good. You would probably like it." Then we went on with whatever we were up to.

We didn't discuss them, but we had a connection through them. Just a thread... but I believe it's real. When I read those books, I had a vague sense that I was talking to him, and I wondered if he thought anything like that. Like maybe we were trying to tell each other that we're good characters in the end.

I've edited some writing for him before on applications he put in for work. He used to want to be a writer when he was younger. I can see it.

He read a couple of ridiculous autobiographies I had to write for school and a couple of my ready writing essays... he always had really kind things to say about them. When he read one of those autobiographies I wrote at 16, he said he was really surprised by how "mature" I sounded. In the months after all that ready writing business, which I still don't really believe happened, he persisted in calling me Champ... and before I left for Tech, in the midst of the conflicts over my choice of emphasis, he told me he thought I could write novels. I still have no idea what to think of that.

This is where our relationship must begin. He works in security, but he is a writer. So I will connect to him that way. I'll give him the opportunity to speak his mind without having to worry about time. I'll get to know my father, and he'll get to know me. I don't want to change him, and I won't use letters as an attempt to do that. 

This is the right way. I need to do this with Mom, too. If I can do this, I believe there is a chance we could all become more like people to each other, instead of perceived characters in each others' minds. People, instead of strangers we have obligations to.

I know what would mean the most to my father out of anything I could do. Someday, if I can learn so much and grow so much, I would hug him and say "I love you." I haven't hugged him back in years, and I can't remember the last time I said I love you. Probably before I learned how not to love. One of the saddest things to learn...

I'm not going to commit to that, but I think I'll call it a goal.