Lies Crazy Lies (or No Comfort There)

No Comfort There

There are just some days that seem dark. Today is Good Friday, the sky is gray and I remember as a child my mom telling me that it is always gray and rainy on Good Friday, because this is the day that Jesus died. This was not a historical day, this was not a mythological construct, this was real, and this was if not the very day, then the anniversary day of the day this beloved, perfect man chose to be nailed upon a cross to die an agonizing death for me, a mere child, yet imperfect, and so sinful, that this torturous death was the only way to make me good enough, lovable enough to be accepted by God, both Jesus’ and mine only real and true father. 

Just yesterday I started reading a book called Willful Blindness: Why We Ignore the Obvious at Our Peril, by Margaret Heffernan, an intriguing read, one that makes sense in some ways and one that makes me want to send Margaret an email and argue some of the assumptions that she makes about us, as humans. So much of even our research-based academic assumptions are based on the worldview we’ve held for so many hundreds of years, that that in itself is willful blindness, and then I get myself into this making sense mode that leaves me feeling very alone. Who thinks this way? Who cares? Who can I talk to about these thoughts in my head? Because all of us, in so many ways, love our comfort in wherever it lies, usually in keeping our lives the same, over and over again. Well, ok then. 

And earlier this morning, my oldest daughter, Kathleen calls me to share her concerns and challenges in raising her teenager, Elliot, whom, of course I love dearly. She worries that he is lying to her, and I challenge her construct of lies and truth, which is probably not very comforting to her, when she is merely worried. But aren’t lies, both to ourselves and others, our own way of trying to keep things the same, to avoid conflict, both within and without ourselves? Lies, we believe, keep us safe, as the lies we believe, such as that we are unworthy of love, just as we are, fresh out of the gate, without someone dying a horrible death to somehow make us alright. Well, not alright with me, I mean that a mom would tell her kid this weird shit. But we do it all the time, right? 

And so after talking with my oldest daughter, I call my own mom, to let her know I will be by this afternoon to visit, maybe, we can go out for tea and cake. But before I can let her know, she has to tell me about a friend of my brother who died this week. He fell on the ice this week, hit his head, went to bed and died. This is sad, very sad, and just weird, in that I am nursing a bruised knee from a fall earlier this week. Megan also fell this week, and a co-worker also fell on his head, ending him up in the emergency room. The ice this week has been literally treacherous. And so, my mom, in her way, does not tell me she is sad, does not acknowledge the loss, but instead of emotion words, says, “It’s crazy.” And in this moment, I realize that my 86 year old mother uses the word “crazy” as a substitute for any word that might illuminate or communicate emotion; something my oldest sister does also. 

I too then, fall into the sameness, and I don't call my mom on this. I don't ask her about it, I just tell her I will be over in a little bit, and I know that she is happy  and excited to look forward to me coming over; this I know, but we don't talk about this, either. I also don't tell her that it messed  with me, the weird stuff she taught me about the church, because I think she will equivocate, or change the subject, and there will be no comfort there, no validation, again, just a river to cross between her and me. I will swim it, braced for the current. And this is my legacy, to struggle to comfort and affirm my own daughters, in their emotions, in their integrated bodymind emotional whole selves. I struggle to affirm myself. 

And in this illumination, in this Good Friday “Aha Moment” I know why I find solace so hard to come by. I was not given tools to self soothe, and so I write. I was not given words for my feelings, for my emotions, other than crazy, and so I read, and read, and read all that I can on feelings/affect/emotion. I don’t want to miss this part of myself, this part of my life, this part of our history. The part that some crazy people thought we could cut ourselves off from and live our lives rationally, which, ends up irrational, right? Someone, please. tell me I’m not crazy. But I am sad, sad for my brother’s loss in his friend, sad for this man’s close family, and sad for my mom, that she can’t tell me what she feels, other than to say, it’s crazy.