Things that make me feel special

I have this pervasive fear. It is a fear which rattles me to the very core; it is a fear I have battled for seven years. This fear can find me in blithe conversations--this fear can break into my intrinsic behavioral patterns and dissuade me from normalcy--leaving paranoid, awkward actions in its place. This fear and I have gone head-to-head through long rounds of tears and prayers, yet sometimes it still sticks like to me, like silly putty to my brain. Sometimes I CAN'T SHAKE IT.

I fear that I am bothering people just by being me.

Blame it on a two-year period when I felt, and was told, on a regular basis, that I WAS bothering people by being me. That I was weird. That I was crazy. That something was wrong with me because I was different, unconventional, or colored outside of the lines--however you want to put it, it stuck. Sticks and stones disproved.

So the other day, as I was having a conversation over dinner with one of my best friends--I was asked why certain people hold a place of adoration in my social circle. I gave an answer which surprised me.

"They each do something very different that comforts and speaks to an inner fear or vulnerability; something that stops it, dead in its tracks, and it is no more."

What were these things? My subconscious rose to consciousness and lucidity occurred. I was particularly excited to listen as I categorized each action before my very ears.

1) A consistent "you're not bothering me."

I was told, once, bluntly (in an intuitive stroke of inspiration) "I don't want you to ever feel as though you're bothering me by talking to me or sharing your thoughts. You're not." BAM! Before this was uttered I didn't realize how very much I needed to hear it.

2) An, "I love you just the way you are."

I am very insecure about my epidermis. I'll just say it. My skin isn't the seamless porcelain vibrance that you see in magazines. It is battered and worn, and hides under layers of makeup, which I cling to like a comfort blanket, shield, or buckler. I am terrified of waking up some future morning with an unsuspecting husband, who consequently look overs, and goes "aaaahhhh!" in response to the above. Also, my hair does not behave as it should in the a.m.

Perhaps this sounds neurotic, but I can promise you it causes grief. I worry about this due to the aforementioned deeper worry--I suppose I fear that I will disappoint someone, just the way I am. And once, while a dear friend was visiting, he woke up to visit with me before leaving to hit the road. I woke up straight from a sleeping bag and visited with him before he took his leave. I adored his presence and conversation, but felt that my visage must be giving him horrible inconvenience, paining him in at least some little way. So I apologized.

"I'm really sorry. Look at me. I'm a terrible frump."

And whatever it was, however he knew, he stopped me. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Don't even worry about it. That's not even what this is about. It's about this: us talking and having nice conversation. I like this."

I felt sheepish, silly, apologetic for letting my inner fear show--but I glowed appreciatively. I couldn't keep it inside. He had instantaneously not only identified, but quieted, one of my fears. I felt so happy...just the way I was.

3) A check-in.

I have a dear friend who writes to check in on me. We don't communicate as often as I'd like, due to the haphazard busy-onslaught of life, but this friend makes it a point to write every few months to check up on me. To give me an update, to send words of encouragement, to check in; to seek and inquire about my life. I feel cared for beyond compare.

4) A question. Or two, or three.

I think the recipe for a decent love potion is as follows: Ask questions, and patiently wait for the answers. Think about the answers, respond, and ask more questions. Make it a point to do this one on one, in all genuine-ness, in a calm and quiet manner. Take 'love' potion however you wish, but it is a dead on filial and agape elixir; perhaps eros, too. I have a dear friend who practices this trait, and it never fails to make me feel valued.

I sat there, out at dinner with a friend, subconscious fully satisfied after having found lucid words in a concrete sentence, and I realized that each of these actions, in their own way, either directly or indirectly addressed a very important part of who I am. The part which I attempt to hide, the part which is in such desperate need of repair.

And when we stop to fill another's need, well, others will probably write blogs entitled "things that make me feel special" in grateful appreciation and accolade.

Or not.

But in the chaos theory of our multi-faceted, baggage ridden personalities, little things can mean the world. I think filling a need is the epitome of Christ-like-ness.

So thank you.

HOWL!

I read the Franny half of Franny and Zooey this morning. Nothing like J.D. Salinger when you're trapped in bed and need something good to read--so I picked it up. For the first time. I seem to pick up literary soul mates a dime a dozen--characters with whom I relate, decently, if not entirely--but Franny is one of them.

You wanna know what's on my mind? Read Franny. Cause she's got it; you know, it. That essence of something that's been on my frustrated, melancholy mind for the past two weeks (and maybe more). Eating away at me. Causing lament. Tears. Read it. Do it. You will see.

The descriptors of collegiates:

"The rest were standing around in hatless, smokey little groups of twos and threes and fours...talking in voices that, almost without exception, sounded collegiately dogmatic, as though each young man, in his strident,conversational turn, was clearing up, once and for all, some highly controversial issue, one that the outside, non-matriculating world had been bungling, provocatively or not, for centuries."

"A section man's a person that takes over a class when the professor isn't there or is busy having a nervous breakdown or is at the dentist or something. He's usually a graduate student or something. Anyway, if it's a course in Russian Literature, say, he comes in, in his little button-down-collar shirt and striped tie, and starts knocking Turgenev for about half an hour. Then, when he's finished, when he's completely ruined Turgenev for you, he starts talking about Stendhal or somebody he wrote his thesis for his M.A. on. Where I go, the English Department has about ten little section men running around ruining things for people, and they're all so brilliant they can hardly open their mouths--pardon the contradiction. I mean, if you get into an argument with them, all they do is get this terribly benign expression..."

"I know this much, is all," Franny said. "If you're a poet, you do something beautiful. I mean you're supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. The ones you're talking about don't leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something, it doesn't have to be a poem, for heaven's sake. It may just be some kind of terribly fascinating, syntaxy droppings--excuse the expression. Like Manlius and Esposito and all those poor men."
Lane took time to light a cigarette for himself before he said anything. Then: "I thought you liked Manlius. As a matter of fact, about a month ago, if I remember correctly, you said he was darling, and that you--"
"I do like him. I'm just sick of liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect."

"...just so tiny and meaningless and--sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much as everybody else, only in a different way."

"I'm just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else's. I'm sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It's disgusting--it is, it is. I don't care what anybody says."

And here's why the Salinger means something to me:

I'm so sick of bats. I'm sick of *fwack* smacking *fwack* people around with my words in order to *fwack* prove something. I'm sick of that context! I'm sick of opening my mouth to defend myself, justify myself, run down some godless resume of 'why you should be my friend, or stop to consider anything I say,' before I can say anything. I'm sick of having to run others down in order to be able to run at all. I'm sick of proving. I'm sick of labels. I'm sick of classifications. I'm sick of nearly everything and I just want GOD.

I guess that's why I relate well to Franny. She passes out from all of these things pressing in on her and her desire to 'see God.' She wakes up and tries again.

And though I don't think you'll find me in a bathroom stall chanting the words "Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me," and thinking that in and of their repetition, I will be able to see God--I know that it's more than that--I AM sick of everything else and I just want to see God. I resound with that.

And it shouldn't be this way, you know? I don't want to chase people down. I don't want to judge. I don't want to typecast or pigeonhole. I'm sick of showing off for attention, I'm sick of name dropping, so I've STOPPED PLAYING when I think about it. I've made a conscious effort to just STOP.

But when you stop playing that game, when you stop it, (whatever this whole game of Survivor-laden battle-field Earth is) other people still play it on YOU. Defense mechanisms state that you flinch back with your bat again... BUT NO!!!!

I just want to be SEEN. I want to be sought out, and I don't want to have to hand out fliers to pump up my attributes and sell myself in order to garnish attention. I want someone to have a genuine interest in me as I do in them, and that will be enough. No more: "Do you like the same music as I do? If you do, you're cool." No more: "Have you read the same books as I have? Cause if you haven't, you're inferior." God knows I have no problem conversing or sharing--but uniting VALUE and WORTH and PLACEMENT and RANK to these things? Bull(youfinishitout).

It's so easy to play the game. It's SO easy to play the game. I have been and am guilty as anyone you please.

But there IS NO GAME. It's all crap. It's all nothingness. Sounding brass, clanging symbols. Filthy rags. An endless striving after the wind.

And it's nice to compare and share interests and figure out how well you fit with someone else--it's fine to be close to others or to feel understood--but in the heinous, haughty, arrogant way we can play it out?! At what cost are we deciding our in-crowd?!

And I'm not just railing on some sect: Not just jocks or freaks or geeks or the churchy-churched or richie riched or elitists or future farmers of america--I mean EVERYBODY who proports to state who's in and who's out.

I want to love people the way Christ loves other people, no strings attached.

Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.