Shoes

"You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...Until you climb inside his skin and walk around in it."

-Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

I remember back in middle school when I first read that book, as I'm sure a lot of other kids did at that age, and having my teacher drill that notion into my head.

As I've gotten older, I confess I've made the mistake of doing the opposite more than once. Making assumptions of who somebody might be or why they're the way they are based on only a partiality of who they are, and not the whole. That said, I've also tried with greater fervor to understand and reach a level of empathy with those around me, be they friend or enemy.

Over the years, I've had people tell me in what I believe are honest attempts to relate to me on some level, that they know how I feel and understand both what I've gone through and how hard my life now is. And the thing I've wanted to say most in return is the one thing I've never said.

"That's great, but honestly, you can't possibly begin to imagine what it feels like to be me, and I doubt you could handle it if you ever tried."

I'll say this now that I know where this accusation is coming from. It's coming straight out of the Yang that thinks I'm special, and not in a good way, either. It's that angry, resentful part of me that wonders how anyone can possess the empathy necessary to reach the emotional strata that I feel like I reside in all day, every day?

One of the things I've learned over the years is there comes a point where you can't reach that equilibrium with another person. You just can't. Case in point, I have a friend who went through what has to be the heartbreaking reality that she can never have children. As a man who happens to have a child now, there is no possible way that I can put myself in that same scenario and do more than scratch the surface of what that must truly feel like. And to me it would be insulting to look at her and say what we all do in those moments.

"I know how you feel."

There are limits to how far empathy can take a person in understanding someone else, and I wouldn't ask anyone to dare try and immerse themselves in what I live with. I wouldn't because I wish I didn't have to either. They're my decisions, my feelings, my mistakes, my fears, my memories and my regrets, and some days I wonder how even I have managed to do it this long.

Does that mean I think such things are impossible? No. If anything, I would advise anyone willing to try just to be very cautious.

You may not like what you find.

Course Correction

There's a good chance that I might end up making a colossal hypocrite of myself before this is over. That's not my intent, but I'm just getting that out of the way up front.

I guess I'll start by saying I've never tried to think of myself as a victim when it comes the things I have to live with. One of the first things I had to come to terms with starting out was I don't get to blame other people for how it's gone. It wasn't my parents, or my ex-wife, or my education, or the country I live in, or the system I am anchored to.

If I am a victim of anything, it's my own lack of self-control, understanding and judgment which has put me where I'm at. I knew that when I was a teenager and still do now. Does that mean they are without responsibility for their own actions and choices? No. But I can't place the entirety of the "blame" squarely on them any more than I can put it squarely on my own shoulders.

In this instance, there truly is enough to go around.

That also doesn't mean there's not been times where I've been frustrated and applied that blame irresponsibly and portrayed myself as indeed a victim. I would like to think that with the human propensity of not owning up to our faults or errors in assessing personal responsibility, it's not a problem exclusive to me either. Like it or not, we've all played the victim card at one point or another, and it's part of our growing up, I guess, to learn how not to do so.

Be that as it may, I thought for the last few months I was doing okay and not letting myself get bogged down in those familiar patterns. Then I went back and did some research on the concept of victim stance. It's not something new to me as when I first started going through therapy as a teenager, the doctors I worked with drilled it into my head in the first few months. How it was explained to me, in basic terms, was not assessing blame unnecessarily to those around me and owning up to the mistakes I've made in totality.

I suppose because I was so determined to not play myself off as a victim going forward, at some point I took it to the extreme and blamed myself for literally everything that I've gone through. It was no one else's fault but mine and that is because, try as I might, I'm not as good a person as I want to be. That was my mindset for the better part of a decade. And while I thought I was being responsible and not avoiding my culpability, there's also a kicker I wasn't aware of.

You're still acting like a victim if you keep beating yourself up over it.

In doing my research, I came across this list, and I just about stopped cold. I've been telling myself for over a year now that I'm doing what a survivor does. That I'm still not a victim and that I'm moving in the right direction.

And yet, I've been doing just about everything in the left column, and not nearly enough of what's in the right. I've become more reclusive, been overwhelmed, scared and confused by my feelings and thoughts, embarrassed and timid in talking with people (which I seldom do anymore). My temper is still an issue, my self-esteem and self-confidence are still at major subterranean levels and I have a fresh scar on my arm which isn't even a year-old.

I may tell myself that I'm surviving, but I'm not actually doing it. And how do I know? That's why this blog is a good thing, because I can go right down the list of examples which fit each of those dubious criteria. It's not conjecture if there's evidence to support it.

Now does that mean I've done nothing on the other side of the equation? No. I do talk to people and listen to what they have to say. I ask questions and have been making an effort to take care of myself. I just haven't done those things in quantities high enough to cancel out the other side yet.

The thing about long journeys is that there inevitably comes a point where you have to make sure you're still going in the right direction. In this age of GPS-assisted travel, it's admittedly easier, but even when I'm on a drive to somewhere new, I check it to make sure I don't end up getting lost.

Time to do so again and get back to where I need to be.

Delicate Steps

Ever had the feeling where you think you need to tread so carefully with someone that you don't really know what to do or say from one moment to the next?

It's how I've been feeling for about the last six weeks, and I think I know why. Question is, do I want to admit it or not?

I can't imagine that I'm unique in saying I don't enjoy making people annoyed or angry when I talk to them. I also would like to talk about happy and light-hearted things, have some laughs and maybe even be philosophical in conversations as I find them more enjoyable than all the down and dirty stuff I deal with all other hours of the week.

That said, I was sitting at home the other night, taking a break from my novel writing, and opened up a chatbox with a friend on Facebook, wanting to say hello and maybe talk for a bit. Nothing wrong with that at all, I'd like to think. Millions upon millions of people do the exact same thing every day and the world has not gone completely off it's tilt yet.

But when the time came to actually write something in that little box and hit "Enter," I froze up.

Now there's a lot of reasons why I did that. One, is I know she is hellaciously busy this week wrapping up her first semester of grad school, which means long nights, high stress and not much free time to do a whole lot of anything.

Second, time-wise I'm three hours behind her so considering how late it was, the chances of a long conversation weren't going to happen anyway.

Those two things I can accept without any issue because it's a fact of life in the 21st Century. People are busy and we have things to do, and if I can't accept that and give those around me the space necessary to do them, then that's on me. I don't have enough hours in the day to get even half of what I want to do accomplished, so understanding that is definitely not the issue.

The issue was I genuinely felt like I was doing something wrong by simply saying the word, Hello.

To my knowledge, there's nothing wrong with saying hello to someone. It's the gold standard of greetings, for Pete's sake, and I've used it more times than I can count in this life. I cannot think of a single reason why my doing so now would be some egregious error in both conduct and judgment.

But as I sat there on my couch, looking at my laptop screen and those five letters waiting to be dispatched into the wide world of the internets, I found myself arguing with the Yang about whether or not it was a good idea. Back and forth we went for several minutes before I finally forced it to shut up and punched the Enter key.

The good news is that I got a hello in return. The bad news is I was totally unsure of what to say next, so I didn't say anything at all for the rest of the night.

I wish it was relegated to conversations, but I've been feeling the same way when it comes to going out, buying Christmas presents for people, and just being a part of things.

I don't think I've ever been so uncertain of where I can or should walk in my life.

That really worries me.

Total Recall

My memory is freaky.

I say that because during the course of a given day it will kick out things that I thought I'd have had the common sense to forget or discard even decades ago, and they come back with such accuracy that they feel like they happened yesterday.

How freaky is it? How about this...

I remember being born.

That's not a joke. The first memory I have is of going from total darkness, to such blinding light that I can't see anything and after a few seconds, the sound I hear is my own crying. The truly weird thing is that I don't have another cognizant memory that stuck in my head until I was about two years-old. But that minute moment in time has remained locked in my memory banks ever since.

The even crazier thing is what can trigger one of those memories to come right back to the forefront of my mind. It could be a song lyric, a picture, or even something totally unrelated to what it brings back to me.

Case in point. I was sitting here at my desk yesterday doing my work and out of nowhere, I got blasted by a memory of my trip to outdoor school in fifth grade at J.R. Briggs Elementary School in Ashburnham, Mass. We went to a camp in Connecticut for a week and did the whole outdoor school experience, but this one day we were doing a nature hike and came across another group in a clearing, oblivious to our being there in the brush. The counselor decides to we need to do a "sneak attack" on them, and being amped about the idea, I of course went along.

We get set, he says go, and we all come flying out full-speed and for whatever reason, I shout out "AIR RAID!!" which totally spooks the other group and blew the element of surprise we'd had. Nobody talked to me again for the rest of the day because of that.

Now where that came from, I don't know. Why it decided to replay in my head at that particular moment, I also do not know. I wish I did, but it seems so rooted in my subconscious that it's almost like playing a game with me.

"Let me throw this out there for you and see what you can do with it," it says.

Now to be fair, not every flashback I get is a bad one. I've had just as many with friends and loved ones that I'm glad I haven't forgotten as they provide a good counterweight.

It shocks the people around me sometimes with the things I remember and to be honest, it does for me too because of the quasi-randomness of it. Some make me happy and some are embarrassing or highly regrettable. The problem is that in a given day, I don't know what I'm going to get hit with, but they always come whether I want them to or not.

Second case in point. In the time it took me to write this out, I went back through a memory of being in first grade and my brother and I walking to school, nearly two miles away from our apartment in Gardner, Mass., in a driving snowstorm. Because we weren't sure if we had to go or not, but we didn't want to be late, out into the cold we went. We got to the front doors of Holy Rosary only to be told by one of the nuns that they'd closed, so we ended up having to walk all the way back.

*Editorial Note - Yes I walked uphill, both ways, and there was already about a foot of snow on the ground because it had already snowed that week. But I had shoes on and no, I didn't have to fight off a grizzly bear with my spiral notebook.

I also had a recall of being on stage for the first time, as a fourth-grader, dressed as a clown in bright orange pants, black suspenders and a white dress shirt, and I was singing no less. It was a song about being in the circus, because otherwise, why would I have been dressed up as a clown?

How many more of them I'll get before the day's over? I have no idea. I don't know if I'll entirely get used to it either.

They're just the things I find myself thinking about all the time.

Introversion

I had a friend throw out a question earlier today which gave me some pause.

"Dear introverts," he asked. "How do we tell if you are fine, enjoying your solitude and don't want to be bothered or are you mad, isolated, struggling and want us to notice and ask how you're doing?
Is there some kind of sign you can give because it looks the same from here."

Now, a little background on my friend. He's a professional counselor and therapist, so to have him ponder this kind of question, when I expected he would already know the answer to the rhetoric because of his training, I found a bit funny.

I'm used to dealing with doctors and therapists who presumed they knew everything about people and therefore didn't need to ask. It's refreshing to see one not nearly so conceited.

I pondered it for a little while, trying to figure out how I as a now ironclad introvert, could define what he was asking. Here's how I see it, in terms of myself, at least.

It's an existence based on a dichotomy, because I've had many days where I find contentment in being secluded and left to my own devices while simultaneously wishing I could be around people and not just sit in my apartment. I've also had countless times where I wanted to talk to someone and tell them what I'm feeling or thinking, only to not because I'm either afraid to or are unsure of how to say those things.

It's also not a question of whether or not I want people to notice what I've got going on or if I need someone to talk to or hang out with. I've always wanted to be noticed and be given attention and affection as much as anyone else does, introverted or not. But I've also learned over the years to choose my words and what I convey very carefully when I'm talking with people for a basic reason.

I think most of them ask me how I'm doing out of a sense of politeness and general etiquette, not because they actually care or really want to know.

Not saying I'm right. It's just how I see it and have done so for a long time. Why waste someone's time when all they seem to want is the shortest answer possible?

So as a result, I developed the coping mechanism of just responding to the question, "How are you doing?" with the most vague two-word response I know of.

"I'm me."

In all honesty, it's because of that mindset that this little blog exists. It's one of the few places that I feel the most comfortable to open up and empty out whatever is simmering or boiling under my skin on a given day. If I didn't have this, I don't think it would be outside the realm of possibility to suggest that I wouldn't say much of anything to anybody.

It's because there seems to be another dichotomy at work where we're all expected to be social and friends with one another, while also being expected to handle problems entirely on our own and not bog down those around us in the process.

Holidays: Stage III

So I got to interview Santa Claus last Friday.

Told you I have a cool job.

I spoke to the jolly ol' elf who by day poses as a guy from upstate, but is such a dead ringer through just sheer luck that it makes Edmund Gwenn's portrayal in Miracle on 34th Street seem almost pedestrian.

I told him that because it's not every day I get to interview such a famous figure anymore, I appreciated that he was kind enough to play along with me and we had a good 15-minute chat that will hopefully make for a fun article for my paper's readers.

When I got off the phone with him, I got another call about five minutes later. It was Santa again.

"I forgot to ask if you've been naughty or nice this year and what you wanted for Christmas," he said.

Now I'm what Cedric the Entertainer refers to as a "grown-ass man." I haven't stopped to tell Santa Claus, or anyone else for that matter, what I want for Christmas in a LONG time. I sure as heck wasn't going to tell this guy whether I thought I was naughty or nice, either. Such things tend to get you listed on federal websites nowadays as a less-than-savory character.

But, I figured since he was nice enough to play ball with me, I'll humor him.

"I'd like to think I've done enough to be considered nice this year," I said.
"And what is it you want for Christmas?" he asked.

My first thought was to say something snarky like either my two front teeth or an Official Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle, just to see what he said. Only I didn't. Despite my co-workers sitting not five feet from me and getting hit by a sudden onset of rather turbulent emotions, I told him what I actually, honestly, wanted this year.

"I'd like a phone call," I said. "From someone I haven't actually talked to in a long time."

I didn't tell him who, nor will I say here, as that was none of his business or yours either, really. Christmas wishes, like all others which are heartfelt, are lent a certain amount of privacy I'd like to think.

He asked me if there was anything else and while there was, I couldn't bring myself to tell him without probably breaking down in the middle of work, which would raise a lot more questions I didn't want to answer.

I don't want any thing this year. I have enough things to last me for a while. No. What I'd like this year, what I'm wishing for...is to know that I still matter and I'm as cared about as I'm told that I am.

If that sounds silly or somehow passive-aggressive, it's not. It's genuine, because some days I'm genuinely not sure if I am and I'd like to know if for no other reason than to shut up the recurring voice in my head that reminds me every day.

I would like to think that's not too much to ask.

Thin Skinned

I've been a practicing journalist for five years now and I'd like to think I'm good at what I do. Being a part of the vaunted "Fourth Estate," I knew coming into it that my work would be held to as much scrutiny as those whose work I sometimes have to scrutinize.

One of the first things I had to understand is that I can't make such things personal and take it as a sign that I'm not competent as either a journalist or as a writer.

So when I opened up my inbox this morning and saw a rather scathing indictment by a local politician over an article I wrote where he claims to be misquoted and then proceeded to take some personal shots at me, I'd like to tell you I just rolled with it and didn't let it bother me. After all, I have three solid pages of notes from the meeting I invested three hours of my last Monday in. I sat in the gallery, acutely paying attention to what was said and transcribing it as fast as I could onto my laptop, just like I do every time I walk in there.

I'd like to, but I'd be lying, because I've been sitting here for the last three hours debating with myself about just what the hell do I think I'm doing and who am I trying to kid when I say I'm good at this or anything else?

I don't take criticism well. I try to, but I don't. And whether you think it "constructive" or not, to me it all comes back as the same thing.

I suck at what I do. I have no skill at all, and there is no point for me continuing with this ridiculous farce I call my career.

It's why, even though I've wrote a complete novel six years ago, I never even dared to get it published. I asked friends and people I knew to be writers to read it. They said they would, and then they never did. To me, that comes back to the person who wrote it and the message, implied or otherwise, was it wasn't worth the time or effort.

Because if the book was good even by an elementary standard, then I'd have gotten feedback, corrections and ideas on how to make it better. Instead, I got nothing other than one person who said they stopped after five chapters and another who said they'd edit it, but then to my knowledge threw the manuscript away at the end of the year.

Not exactly rousing displays of support, wouldn't you say?

It's why I don't have many relationships and why I'm really not interested in one anytime soon. Everything I've been told, I take personally, even though I know I shouldn't. Having people I care about hone in on my deficiencies or the mistakes I make and emphasize them is nothing new to me, and I don't want them to lie and try to inflate my ego or just be "Yes" men telling me my shit doesn't stink.

But when you've been told for so long that you are nothing, that you will be nothing and that you always were nothing, I don't need people around me pointing out something I already have locked away in my head as a fundamental truth of my existence. My Yang takes care of that all by itself and does so with a level of efficiency that is unmatched.

My sophomore year, I had a college professor tell me to my face that I should probably consider doing something else with my life, other than being a writer.

"You haven't lived enough," he said.

Whether he meant it to motivate me or not, I really don't know. All I know is I walked out of that meeting about a half-breath away from doing precisely that. Quitting and walking away from something I've done my whole life and cannot really imagine not doing for the rest of it.

Had he told me something like, "Devin, I see something here, but you've hit a plateau you need to overcome and the only way you're going to do it is to get out there and experience a little more of the world," THAT would be constructive criticism to me.

The thing about criticism is we all think we're saying what a person needs to hear, and I am just as guilty of that as any of you. I guess what bothers me is that I'm tired of being told things that make me feel so damn small and insignificant that they make me seriously question just what the hell I am even still doing here.

I'm happy that my skin is able to stand up to the things it can. I just wish it had been made a whole lot thicker.