Br0k3n, bruIsed and damag3d

So... all this came from being asked the question

How do you feel about the fact that I won't date you?

Wow.

Let me see if I can sum things up.

I think I'm fine with the fact that we're working on being friends.

I may be an open book, but I'm sure you can see as clear as day that I'm wounded - I have a lot of safe guards up. I still search for the right words to say.

I am not ready.

I don't know if when/if I will ever be at a point where I can open up my heart to anyone.

All I know is that I want to.

The last time...

I could tell a LOT more stories of brokenness, but I always rebounded after those, so the pain... or lack of pain doesn't come from there.

I do remember the last time that I felt for someone tho.

After we had decided to divorce... once it was final I made the mistake of seeing someone named SK.

It was way too early - so to have a "safe guard" I asked her if we could continue to get to know each other - take 2 years... really get to know each other well.

We used to stay up until the wee hours of the morning talking - getting to know each other - developing a great bond.

I actually had a connection with her.

I was letting down my guard. She is still the only person on the planet that knows more about who I am than anyone else. With her, I was emotionally bare.

The problem was... SK wanted to get married. Immediately. And I wanted to stick with the timeline... further, the divorce wasn't final yet - and I promised myself - promised myself, that I wasn't going to jump into anything.

2 years to date someone isn't irrational.

But it was for SK.

I had this friend... SL. He, more than anything wanted to be married.

They sensed each other in the air... they met.

I remember when she called and told me that they were going to see each other and that she couldn't see me any more.

It felt like a hand reached into my soul and tore it out.

I cried.

It was the type of cry that starts from your belly and bends you over in pain.

I remember sitting across from her telling and watching her tell me that she loved him when I knew it was a lie.

They married 30 days later.

Divorced 16 months after that.

The last time I felt was when she said good bye.

Welcome to the family...

Jr. High was interesting in that it was a little more diverse than elementary school. There were 2 black kids in my elementary school... there were at least a dozen at this school.

I remember how they welcomed me.

There was a dance coming up. One day after school a couple of black kids cornered me in the hallway. William C. hit my below the belt, grabbed me by the throat choking me and said...

"You are taking my sister to the dance... aren't you?"

The answer of course... was no.

Not because of the violent afront, but because I wasn't allowed to go.

Even so... based on principle alone I wouldn't have gone with her... but that was my welcome into the family so to speak.

I was disappointed then... but that was a feeling that I was used to by now.

Looking back on it now, I guess I should be flattered. Flattered that Doris C. noticed me. That I was a part of a conversation between her and her brother that inspired such an action. I am sure he was only trying to make her happy.

Compassion

They say that relationally people give what they need.

So... how am I relationally?

I listen.

I give.

I do whatever it takes to make things better.

I genuinely care.

My ex-wife told me that I was emotionally needy.

Perhaps... but at some point... aren't we all?

At arms length

How do I feel about what I've written so far?

Honestly, I don't.

What would it take for me to feel something?

Permission to be weak.

If I knew that there was someone that would hold me, let me get this out... let me deal with this emotionally, I know I would be better.

That's what I loved about Bambi. She would drive half way across the state just to hold my hand. I could put my head on her shoulder, be weak and know that it would be okay. That I wouldn't be judged.

Even when I was married... I didn't have the opportunity to be vulnerable. That safety wasn't there.

But... since it's me... since I have to be my own support system, I'll do what any friend would do in this uncomfortable situation.

Show false bravado. Tell myself that it will be okay. When things get too emotional, glance away uncomfortably.

It annoys me that I'm so detached from these memories...

But I'm in Denver now... 1000 miles from home... I have a job to do while I'm here. So, I'll continue to try to cleanse this wound... but what I think I need is a good cleansing cry.

But that won't happen.

Standing alone...

Elementry school wasn't that bad.

I learned how to play guitar. I was writing songs.

I learned how to play chess. I was good.

I learned binary mathematics and determined that I wanted to be a computer scientist.

I was fluent in American Sign Language.

I was reading at a 12th grade level.

I knew that I was without limitation.

Isolated... at an early age...

So... what happens when you take 1 black kid and put him in a school where he's the only one?

Pain.

They say birds of a feather flock together. And I spent a lot of time feeling like the ugly duckling.

I never got the invitation to participate. I always had to ask. To plead my case... even with people who claimed to be my friends.

2 incidents come to mind that sum up my memories of elementry school...

1) We were in 5th grade. Our art project was to break up into teams and create a film story board, then film a movie. None of my "friends" wanted me to participate.

Every group that I went to gave the same answer.

No.

The feeling was overwhelming. I went over to the counter. Sat down. Pulled my knees into my chest and wept.

2) We were in 6th grade. Lined up to catch the bus home. I was somewhere in the middle of the line when Michael M. pushed me to the back of the line.

"Back of the line, Abdul."

My initial thought was... novel... creative... wrong...

"Dude... I'm not an arab."

"Doesn't matter... you're still a nigger."

I think that's when I hit him.

These were my friends... they helped lay the foundation of why I tend to keep my co-workers and others at arms length.

Learning to be social...

Here are my thoughts from the airplane...

When we moved to Rome, NY from Italy we moved into an incredible lake side community. A lot of families. People actually knew each other and there was a great sense of community there.

I remember my older brothers and sisters really enjoying it and having great friends there.

Here's what I remember:

"Mom... can I go outside?"

"Yes, but don't leave the front yard."

Even in my teenage years... "Mom... can I go outside?"

"Yes, but don't leave the front porch."

Mom had this fear of letting me out of her site. I had to beg to be able to go over peoples houses and I was always forbidden to go into peoples houses or even sleep overs or anything of that nature.

I even thought about wanting to be an Eagle Scout in the Boy Scouts. My scouting career ended with the Arrow of Light. Why? Because after that ceremony, the first Boy Scout meeting was a camp out.

I wasn't allowed to go. Why?

According to my Mom... "Grown men wanting to sleep outside with boys... there's something wrong with that."

Even as an adult... having 3 sons... I would frequently be down on the ground rolling around playing with them - enjoying our time together...

What would Mom say? "You shouldn't play with your children like that..."

The truth is, I have a lot of resentment towards my Mother. My relationship with her is very strained.

She doesn't listen to what I have to say. I'm 38 and she still disapproves of friends of mine. I would love to be able to sit down with her and have a conversation... but she won't ever listen. She always goes into what I should do... before she even understands what I'm talking about.

In all honesty, I would rather not talk with her at all than put up with the frustration.

And that... bothers me.

She wants me to be the little boy on the porch and will never view me as anything other than that.

I think to some degree everyone wants the approval of their Mother... or at least to know that they have her unconditional love.

My Mom says she loves me.

But she doesn't know me.

A needle in a haystack

People talk about how difficult it is to find a needle in a haystack.

I've never looked for a needle in a haystack, but I've felt like a needle in a haystack.

Exactly how does a needle in a haystack feel?

Like everyone around it belongs and like you're this sharp and dangerous thing ready to do harm should an unsuspecting hand land on it.

I grew up in Rome, NY. Population 28,000. I used to say that the population was 49.9% Irish Catholic 49% Italian Catholic, 0.2% other, but in all honesty, that's not exactly true. It was more like 99.99% Irish, German, Polish, Italian... 0.01% other.

I could tell hundreds of stories about being on the outside in a society like that... but I don't want to bore you.

I will pick the ones that I think have shaped me the most.

I'll think about them on the flight and probably post this evening when I arrive in Denver.

Emergency incision!!!

Okay... I'm still in Birmingham. Flight doesn't leave for a few more hours, but I have to make this emergency incision. It's been on my mind all day... So I have to examine this.

I started going to kindergarden in Italy. Since our family "lived on the economy" (not on the air force base, but in the city with the native Italians) getting to and from school for a half day was something that needed to be planned.

The Air Force base used to send a station wagon (official, military blue variety) to pick up Jon W., Vicki H. and me.

I don't remember much about the trips except 2 incidents.

1) Jon, Vicki and I used to play "show me yours and I'll show you mine" on the long trips to and from school. Now, this in itself is actually pretty normal because all kids play the game. The only thing odd about the game was that I remember the driver watching.

I don't remember him saying anything or participating... but I do recall him watching. Sometimes, if I close my face and think hard enough, I can almost make out what his face looks like.

2) I remember a big fight between Jon, Vicki and me. I'm not sure what it was about. I do remember it being awfully violent for 5 year olds. And again... I remember the same driver being there - almost encouraging the activity.

After that, I have no recollection of ever riding with them to school again.

I do have memories of waiting for my older brother and sister after school. But that's it.

I often wonder what really happened and why I can't remember it.

I can count the number of times a year the memories of this incident climbs into my head. Maybe 10 or 15 times a year... every year... for the last 33 years.

Always equally as vivid.

It's usually followed by an intense desire to find Jon and Vicki and find out what ever happened to them... what they remember... but I've never been able to find them.

How do I feel about this?

I don't. It's usually fleeting

It's always just been a memory that I've had. I have never had any feelings associated with it, nor have I ever talked about this with anyone.

Ever.

How do I feel about it now?

I don't.

I've never thought about it or spoke the words a loud.

How do I feel about putting this out there for all to read?

Afraid... no... afraid may be the wrong word.

Disappointed.

To the Death? No...To the pain...

I have got to excise this wound because it is literally killing me.

My world is getting smaller. Myopic. Blurred.

I don't feel and it doesn't bother me. Well, it does cognitively... I think.

I am going to have to probe, cut away, open and expose in order for this to get better.

Consider this a warning... this is not going to be for the faint of heart... you may want to come back later if the sight of brutal honesty bothers you.

Surgery will begin... when I get to Denver.

Right now, I have to scrub and prepare.

Yeah... I'm broken...

I had another non-date with someone that's turning out to be a really good friend. To my closest friends I describe her as follows: "She is me..."

As we sat down tonight over pizza, sharing life stories back and forth it amazes me how many things we have in common.

If I weren't broken, I believe I could actually fall in love with her... but, I don't feel... anything... at all. Mentally, I know that she's a friend. Mentally, I know that I'm comfortable with her. Mentally, I have a good time with her.

But my heart refuses to let there be an emotional bond - even something as simple as an emotional friendship tie. But I know mentally that that emotional friendship would be there if my heart worked.

But... alas, it doesn't. Br0k3n, bruIsed and damag3d so much that all elasticity and capacity to feel is gone.

I'm frustrated... and broken... and tired...