The problem with honesty is . . . it is not allowed.
Before you jump to the conclusion that I was raised by wolves, I, like most of you, was raised by a mother whose motto was: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So I remained silent for a great deal of my childhood. Whenever I slipped up and pointed out something real or something honest, someone was quick to throw a blanket over it, extinguishing the flame of my truth.
Same thing happens these days, except now I'm the mom, and I no longer have to remain silent.
That being said, I also do not wish to impugn anyone's character or cause an uproar. I share my stories as I experience them, hoping someone else can relate to the scenarios I describe.
When someone is not helpful when I am asking for help, or someone is rude when I am being polite, my first instinct is to laugh at them. That may sound callous, as if I am not living the way I have professed to live. It may help to know my second thought is to see if there is something I can do to help the person who is struggling, even though I am the one requesting assistance.
I was not even aware how much that is my way until I was nearly run into one morning by a woman who apparently had not noticed my vehicle was stopped, signaling to make a left turn. I saw her car in my rearview mirror approaching too fast, and I barely got out of her way in time as she nearly drove into the ditch. My first reaction was to inquire about her. Something must have gone wrong in her life for her to be driving so recklessly, though I had no way of knowing. Because there had not been a collision, we mouthed the words through our closed windows: Are you ok? I was fine.
One thing I try not to do is make assumptions. So when someone makes them about me, it takes me a minute to regain my footing.
I think there is a tendency to project oneself into a situation, interpreting it through a different lens, and not the thick lenses for extremely near-sighted eyes through which I view the world. When I am no longer permitted to be the main character of my own story and someone else is playing the lead role, the story can take a trip down a forlorn path into the dark and scary woods.
Someone with a take-charge attitude is going to be greeted differently than someone who looks like she is easy to control. But looks are deceiving and just because one is soft-spoken does not mean she is afraid to take a stand. It also doesn't make her rude, though according to this new narrative imposed upon her story, she has gone from victim to villain in five seconds flat. Perhaps neither is the truth.
There is a problem in ever truly knowing the heart of another. Our smiles can betray our sadness. Our words can either soothe or ignite an encounter with another who is also unknown. In the mind of a writer, no detail is missed. The smell of the room, the color of the papers on the desk, the girl sitting with her head down looking sick, the eyes averted, hesitant tone of voice, and the general feeling of this entire experience is lodged deep within the psyche of the writer. I read recently that people with my personality type remember impressions more than facts which is why many of us are writers. We are concerned more with how the experience made us feel than if each detail could hold up in a court of law.
There are verbal processors, people who have to hear themselves say what they are thinking to make it real, and internal processors, people who have way more going on in their heads than will ever make it into sound. I speak through my written words. It is my truest voice. I can lie to your face and tell you I am perfectly fine, but I cannot lie in what I write. It is there I express who I am for all to see, always hoping I will be understood, yet knowing it may not make any difference ultimately. We are each unique and for that reason, communication can be an insurmountable obstacle.
If we find even a handful of others who can interpret our coded messages, laugh with us at the absurdity of daily life, get our symbols, and know what we mean when we say what we do, we have found love.
Before you jump to the conclusion that I was raised by wolves, I, like most of you, was raised by a mother whose motto was: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. So I remained silent for a great deal of my childhood. Whenever I slipped up and pointed out something real or something honest, someone was quick to throw a blanket over it, extinguishing the flame of my truth.
Same thing happens these days, except now I'm the mom, and I no longer have to remain silent.
That being said, I also do not wish to impugn anyone's character or cause an uproar. I share my stories as I experience them, hoping someone else can relate to the scenarios I describe.
When someone is not helpful when I am asking for help, or someone is rude when I am being polite, my first instinct is to laugh at them. That may sound callous, as if I am not living the way I have professed to live. It may help to know my second thought is to see if there is something I can do to help the person who is struggling, even though I am the one requesting assistance.
I was not even aware how much that is my way until I was nearly run into one morning by a woman who apparently had not noticed my vehicle was stopped, signaling to make a left turn. I saw her car in my rearview mirror approaching too fast, and I barely got out of her way in time as she nearly drove into the ditch. My first reaction was to inquire about her. Something must have gone wrong in her life for her to be driving so recklessly, though I had no way of knowing. Because there had not been a collision, we mouthed the words through our closed windows: Are you ok? I was fine.
One thing I try not to do is make assumptions. So when someone makes them about me, it takes me a minute to regain my footing.
I think there is a tendency to project oneself into a situation, interpreting it through a different lens, and not the thick lenses for extremely near-sighted eyes through which I view the world. When I am no longer permitted to be the main character of my own story and someone else is playing the lead role, the story can take a trip down a forlorn path into the dark and scary woods.
Someone with a take-charge attitude is going to be greeted differently than someone who looks like she is easy to control. But looks are deceiving and just because one is soft-spoken does not mean she is afraid to take a stand. It also doesn't make her rude, though according to this new narrative imposed upon her story, she has gone from victim to villain in five seconds flat. Perhaps neither is the truth.
There is a problem in ever truly knowing the heart of another. Our smiles can betray our sadness. Our words can either soothe or ignite an encounter with another who is also unknown. In the mind of a writer, no detail is missed. The smell of the room, the color of the papers on the desk, the girl sitting with her head down looking sick, the eyes averted, hesitant tone of voice, and the general feeling of this entire experience is lodged deep within the psyche of the writer. I read recently that people with my personality type remember impressions more than facts which is why many of us are writers. We are concerned more with how the experience made us feel than if each detail could hold up in a court of law.
There are verbal processors, people who have to hear themselves say what they are thinking to make it real, and internal processors, people who have way more going on in their heads than will ever make it into sound. I speak through my written words. It is my truest voice. I can lie to your face and tell you I am perfectly fine, but I cannot lie in what I write. It is there I express who I am for all to see, always hoping I will be understood, yet knowing it may not make any difference ultimately. We are each unique and for that reason, communication can be an insurmountable obstacle.
If we find even a handful of others who can interpret our coded messages, laugh with us at the absurdity of daily life, get our symbols, and know what we mean when we say what we do, we have found love.
No comments:
Post a Comment