I love to write. It's an art. It's a release. It's a form of communication. And yet...
I am terrible at "using my words". When a child is upset and shutting down, it is common to hear the phrase, "use your words", to get to the bottom of the situation. If they can't communicate, it's hard to know how to help. That is one of the difficulties of caring for a baby. They can't speak. They can't give you details about how their gums hurt, or how their diaper is wet and uncomfortable, or that they are hungry. They have no words. I still remember the panic of being a new dad and struggling to figure out how to soothe my little ones.
But, I'm an adult. At least, by most definitions I qualify as one. I often don't feel very adulty, however. Sometimes I feel like that baby, not knowing how to express myself. But, technically, I am an adult. What this means is that no matter how I feel, no matter how I am coping (or not coping) with what life is throwing at me, I am expected to be able to communicate. I am physically able to speak intelligible words, so I should use them.
But oftentimes I don't. And I don't exactly know why.
I've shared how I sometimes struggle with recognizing how I'm feeling. When I'm upset, I'm not always aware of that fact. And if I'm not aware, I'm certainly not able to tell anyone else how I'm feeling. This is just one scenario where I fail to communicate. There are many.
Earlier today, I began to formulate plans to visit my mom. I hadn't talked to her about it yet, but I mentioned the idea to Trish. Later, I got in touch with mom and discovered that she already had other plans. So, that was that. However, I failed to communicate that part to Trish or the kids. Trish had to ask me later if any plans had been made yet. "Oh yeah, sorry. Not this weekend, she's busy. Maybe next weekend. I forgot to tell you." That is such a common phrase of mine that Trish and the kids have a game where they rack up points every time they hear me say that I forgot something. I suspect that the game was created to lighten a situation that proves quite frustrating for them. Though I find it a little passive aggressive, who could blame them? It's better than getting angry.
Another example. Friday, after work, I got my truck washed on my way home. It really needed it, the road salt built up from the winter was eating holes in my rocker panels and my previously rust-free truck no longer fits that description. I neglected to mention to anyone that I wouldn't be home right off after work. I didn't communicate my intentions.
Sometimes, my intentions change in the moment, making it less convenient to stop what I'm doing to shoot some texts. Then, when I do have a moment, I'm distracted and communication isn't in the forefront. It should be.
And sometimes, such as washing my truck after work, I have a rough plan in my head, and ample time to let someone know. But I still don't. Why? Short, unsatisfying answer: I don't know.
Trish and I have explored the idea that I'm not built to be part of a group dynamic. That maybe I don't really fit into a family. I'm a loner. I'm an introvert. I'm in my own head. Does this make me selfish? Narcissistic? Maybe. Probably. I'm uncomfortable with that description, but if the shoe fits... The thing is, I absolutely love my family. I feel so incredibly lucky to have my wife and kids in my life. I adore them all and would be heartbroken if they were no longer a part of my family. That said, I'm not entirely functional around others.
I remember once when the kids were littler, they were occupied with their toys or activity of some sort. I fixed a snack for myself while I had a few minutes. Later, Trish asked if I fed the kids. I had to think about it, then realized that I hadn't. I ate something, but I didn't make them anything (don't worry, the kids are fine today, no permanent damage). Who does that?! What kind of parent makes themselves a snack and doesn't think to feed his kids? That's a real humdinger, right there. Not a real proud moment.
It's not like I don't know there are people around me with needs, but it's like I... well, ok. It is like I don't know there are people around me. Self-absorbed, much? (Still trying to find the right description) I'm still disgusted with myself from that memory. But it's not the last time I've done something similar. No. I have still more reasons to be disgusted with myself.
Side note: There are subtle warnings going off in my head as I write this. Don't tell people this stuff. They already think you're a bit of a weirdo. You don't want them to also think you're an asshole, do you? Well, no, of course not. But... well, here's the thing. We are all assholes sometimes for one reason or another, whether we like it or not, whether we can help it or not. We don't like those parts of ourselves much (well, maybe the real assholes do...), but we all share that commonality. None of us are perfect. Some (I'll present myself as Exhibit:A), are even less perfect than others. Imperfecter, you might say. Or maybe you might not say that; it's not actually a word, but it should be. The point is, even though I hate this part of me, I feel it is important to share my story, with all the grit and rough edges. While you may not share this particular experience, I would guess we all have a story or two we don't tell people because, well... we want people to like us. And I do still want you to like me. But I also want to share the real me. I'm not putting a filter on my selfie. You're getting the raw Jamie. The real deal. Flaws and all.
The point of all of this is... well, the original point was that I'm a lousy communicator. But then I went off the rails somewhere. Oh, right. I was trying to demonstrate that I don't communicate well because I'm often unaware that other people also inhabit my environment. My actions affect those around me. When I forget that, I don't consider that I would have someone to communicate anything to.
I just looked up the definition of narcissism. "Excessive love of oneself". Yeah, that's definitely not the right word. More like an excessive lack of love for myself. Honestly, it's more of a form of tunnel vision. I have blinders on. I'm wearing a blindfold. My eyes are flipped all the way around so I can only see inward. And it's not usually love that I'm feeling as I look inward. It's disgust, and loathing, and sadness. Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad. I also find myself delightfully clever when given the time and quiet space to thrive. But life doesn't provide a lot of time and quiet space. Not without sacrifice. Not without alienating those around me. Not without shutting out the rest of the world.
As I continue to explore my brain (and take you with me on this journey of self discovery in my mid-forties), I hope that some of you can relate. I mean, I don't hope you have this same experience, I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. But I hope you find it interesting. It's possible this post got away from me a little. But, like I said, this is the real deal. And, I suppose, my posts getting way from me is not exactly out of character.
Trish, my loving, patient, compassionate, incredibly capable, intelligent wife... what a wonderful woman! Besides her full time job, she also works part time as an advocate for individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. She really is an amazing human being. When aliens come to visit and judge our planet, we would do well to have her as our ambassador. If we were smart enough to do so, they might refrain from blowing up our planet to prevent us from becoming a future nuisance to the rest of the galaxy. They'd see our kindness and acceptance and love for all kinds of peoples, and then maybe they'd embrace us.
That said... she is slightly sick of my bullshit. And who could blame her? Her job has her dealing with some very unique personalities, helping them navigate through a world not really suited to them. And then there's me at home. She's not getting paid for me. But there's a toll, I can tell you that.
Part of the challenge is that I can function in society (mostly). Any of my coworkers or acquaintances would tell you I'm a bit of a weirdo, a little off-beat maybe, but I'm just a regular dude they know who does the same job they do. I function well, within my capacities. But then there are the little things. Like my difficulties communicating. And remembering things I should know. And crippling anxiety in certain situations. Like setting up appointments, and taking care of official school or medical stuff for the kids. Little things, but big things when it comes to helping raise a family together. I'm not always the rock she needs. That poor, gentle, loving, patient woman got the shitty end of the stick when she married me. Yeah, yeah. I'm a kind, loving, man. But sometimes I'm forgetful to a point where it feels cruel and thoughtless. Sometimes I'm clueless to what's going on around me and it must seem like I don't care. That has got to be tough to live with. And with her background, she understands better than anyone. But that doesn't make it not hurt.
And here's the kicker. All of these words in this blog are mine. Clearly, I can communicate! On paper. In text. When I have the time and quiet space to organize my thoughts and reorganize my words and edit and re-edit and re-re-edit... I can turn a phrase quite nicely. But verbally? In the moment? I stumble and stammer, I backtrack and rephrase, I leave out crucial nuggets of information for context... I fall apart under the pressure of real-time. I wish the world would just slow down a little so I can keep up. But that isn't going to happen (side note: I listen to a lot of audio books and podcasts, and I have them all running at 90% speed, and I still do a lot of rewinding to catch stuff I miss when my brain goes on side quests).
I'm a mess. In more ways than I can count. But I feel one of my strengths are the written word. It seems so incongruous that I'm also a lousy communicator. But, there you have it. I'm a complicated man, full of dichotomy and paradox. My therapist should be getting paid far more than she is for the work she does for me. And double that for my wife. Quadruple it. What would I do without that wonderful woman? I'd probably be a homeless raving lunatic, talking nonsense to passersby in the street from my box decorated with magnificently scribbled prose.
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