Damon
My grandmother disliked me.
A lot.
But boy, did she love my big sister and little brother.
Let me explain. It wasn’t all in my head, I promise. Rather, it was a constant source of trouble for my family. Every visit that Grandma V. and Grandpa K., my dad’s parents, made to our mountain home, or the few visits we made back to their Iowa farm, were tainted by this constant sense of dissonance between how she treated me and my siblings.
Par example. When I was six or so, Grandma V. brought my sister a set of hand-crocheted doll clothes, a case to keep them in, and a doll to wear them (Grandma always referred to her crochet habit as ‘crotchet-ing.’ I’m not sure why). For me, she brought – toy surprises from cereal boxes.
On a later visit, when I was around ten, Grandma and Grandpa brought their camper. It was better for family accord if they weren’t in the house. My sister, and then my brother, were invited to spend a few nights in the camper. Such a treat! Like camping in a movable house, and special breakfast too! (My grandparents were quite fond of hot Jell-o as a morning drink.)
My sister and brother each stayed a couple nights in a row; I was not asked. I don’t know if it was I that noticed this, or my parents, but they had a big fight with my grandparents, and I got to spend a single night in the camper, too. I only remember feeling nervous the whole time; it was still fun to be in a house on a truck bed, though.
I could go on, believe me. The dislike my grandma held for me was inescapable (Grandpa was a different story – he liked all three of us kids equally).
And like I said before, Grandma was no fan of my Mom either. Undoubtedly, what she experienced, as an adult married to Grandma’s son, was a different kind of cross to bear: belittling, fault-finding, mocking, ignoring…it wasn’t pretty. I know, because I heard Mom’s tears and petitions to Dad to stand up for her, whenever his folks came to visit.
For my childhood years, I relied on my parents to explain, and defend me from, the way that Grandma talked down to me, ignored me, radically favored my sister and brother…as a kid, these things don’t make sense. Dad offered a trifold explanation many times over the years: 1) Mom was not the woman Grandma wished he had married; 2) I was just like Mom; and, 3) Grandma had always wanted a daughter of her own.
All three of these things were true. Point 1 was outside my purview, but Dad seemed convinced (and still is – Grandma wanted him to marry his previous girlfriend). No one could deny point 2, since I looked, sounded, and followed my Mom in everything. I have never fully understood what it was about my Mom which Grandma disliked so much, and thus consequently disliked in me. (But I am so OK with being like my Mom; she’s still a primary role model for me. I even write my ‘L’s like her, get mad like her, etc etc.)
Point 3 was a bit dissatisfactory, since it explained Grandma’s favoritism of my sister, but not my little brother. But then, my little brother was the spitting image of my dad: a grubby monster addicted to trucks and guns. Come to think of it, my sister was much like Dad, as well…a tomboy happier out with him reloading rifles, than in the kitchen with Mom.
Guess where I was?
So anyway, yeah. Grandma’s visits were not pleasant for me, or for my Mom. By the time I was a teen, I understood more of the reasons for Grandma’s bitterness, but that didn’t make it any easier. Plus, when I hit my teen years, I found small ways to bite back at her – a fact of which I am fully ashamed. I know why I would find ways to belittle her back if I could, or provoke argument, but it’s still an embarrassment to me.
All of this is to set the scene for something that happened on one of the last visits my family made to Iowa to see Grandma and Grandpa – before I moved out for college, and everything which came after. This was not a visit of the whole family – just me, my brother and Dad.
I was upstairs and found a copy of Emily Dickinson on the bookshelf. I was just starting to like Emily (which blossomed into full-scale adoration); I’d always been addicted to books, and would read any moment I could (even now, I walk and read, as all my friends can attest).
I came downstairs later with this collection of poems, and there was Grandma, sitting in the parlor doing her ‘crotchet-ing.’ She asks me what I’m reading, and I show her.
“Oh, I love Emily Dickinson.”
And she goes on to quote her favorite poem, the whole brief piece. I had been drawn to this particular poem, as well. I was a fairly observant teen, and it didn’t escape me that this was the first time, ever, where my Grandma and I had seemingly found a shared interest. There were two of us…
I know it now, as I knew it then: my perception of her – the years of slights and veiled insults – shifted almost imperceptibly. I thought better of her, and feared her less…a little, at least. And maybe, she hated me a little less. Not just because of liking the same poet, but because of all that this one poem implies about internal worlds (don’t worry, I copied it in below). Somewhere inside her and inside me, something responds to Emily’s particular words. And that was so unexpected for me; to find a connection, however thin, with a woman like Grandma V. Part of our insides was the same.
It healed a lot of the past. Maybe it healed something in her too; I don’t know.
Grandma V. died fairly rapidly of a brain tumor within a few years. I did not see her in those last years, and couldn’t attend the funeral.
I have that exact copy of Emily’s poems; Grandma let me take it when we departed. Every time I read Ms. Dickinson, and especially that one poem, I think of Grandma V: of her eyes running over the same lines; of why that poem was meaningful to her; of her casually reciting it to me. Poems reveal so much of us…I could almost exegete an entirely different future for Grandma V and me, based on two brief stanzas from an eccentric genius. And I think I know a little bit more about Grandma’s internal world.
I shared one moment of tenuous, untrammeled connection with a woman who had spent her life actively ignoring or despising me. That’s wonder and grace, my friends.
I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
- Emily Dickinson
Pythias reponds
To be quite honest, I struggled to respond to this in a way that did not involve pointed phrases accentuated with calling your grandmother things that start with a ‘b’, an ‘a’, a ‘c’, another ‘b’ (not as serious as the first), or an ‘m’ paired with an ‘f’.
Such a sad, joyless experience she created for herself and then transferred on to others. Life may not always play out as one would like, but to be so ruled by a long passed disappointment that mistreating a child seems justified just hints at what a sad, hollow woman she must have been. In my studies the question has been raised concerning whether its easier to suffer the absence of a family member and wonder who they are rather than to have them and simply suffer instead. Is the curiosity of what one might be missing easier to bear than the confirmation of disappointment?
I am impressed that a woman of that type cared for anything at all. Her specific selection within Dickinson tells me that she felt a grudge against so many who achieve more than herself. Its a bit like telling someone you love the Bible and then reciting off the verse about rich people struggling to reach salvation because you are unhappy with your poverty. The poem selected could be her way of giving her finger to any who have accomplishments to their name. A poem about embracing individuality becomes a testament of bitterness with a life that was perceived to lack sufficient accomplishment.
I would like to think if she were alive that she could find meaning and satisfaction in all the amazing things you have accomplished. It seems doubtful though. All the beauty in the world couldn’t break the ring of selfishness around the heart of a person who harms a child to make themselves feel better.. I am truly sorry for the deprivation of a loving grandmother.
Friday, February 3, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
On the subtle, beautiful, vicious state of dreams
Pythias on Dreaming
I fear I have become predictable when it comes to casual cocktail conversation. Like any good party guest, if the chatter grinds to a punishing halt, I will usually casually lay a critique about the most recent conversation topic from the perspective of Sigmund Freud. While much of his work is tainted with facepalm-worthy homophobia, misogyny and racism, he had some intriguing ideas. One such point of interest is his analysis of dreams. He suggested that dreams are often the presentation of experiences you have had but will not address. They are a manifestation of stuff that you mash down because you can’t, or won’t, deal with it. Like the monsters under your bed (or in my case, Darth Vader), they come out when you let your guard down to sleep.
The other night I had a dream. At least I believe it was on the cusp of waking and sleeping. I perceived that I was my current self but placed within the body of my teenage self in my teenage world. I could operate and make decisions based on all that I know at my present, older age. The prospect was terrifying. Unsure of what to do, I sought out the advice of Damon, who at the time would have been barely 20. The search was not easy, but I knew that if anyone would understand and believe me, it would be him. I found him on the street of Fort Collins and tried to explain that he was to be come my dearest friend and that I needed his understanding more than anything. I was willing to provide any information that he needed to prove that I would know him, including showing his future residence and work. Looking him right in the youthfully fresh face, I mulled the possibilities at my finger tips. Do I try to relive my life as I lived it previously or try to save old relations and save the world? I could not escape the press of the decisions. I had to act. As these things seem to go, I awoke feeling as though I still had weighty matters hovering over me.
I find this is the most terrifying/beautiful dualism of dreaming. The lack of control. While lucid dreaming would be interesting as I could dabble in all the possibilities that could ever be, it does not speak directly to heart of my experience. As anyone who has ever suffered with a broken heart can attest to, dreaming can be the cruelest bitch. I really don’t feel the need to qualify that - if you have never felt that sting, you have never had your heart broken. In fact, a friend of mine said she smoked pot before bed every night because it assured her a dreamless sleep. When she stopped, the dreams came back. To go to such lengths to avoid inner reflection makes me wonder what monster lingers in the tangible dark of her repressed experiences.. However, there was an experience once of my own that might need a bit of explanation.
Experiences that are completely beyond my ability to explain tend to frustrate me. It appears the most I can offer is empathy, which at times seems little more than the callous cousin of sympathy. Words have always been a powerful vehicle for the transfer of experience and meaning in my life. For those who have never felt like their sexuality is non-acceptable socially, perhaps this will crack the door.
When I first moved out on my own, I did so with the explicit condemnation of my parents. In their socio-religious world, a child remained a child at home until marriage and then became an adult. I knew I could never be open to the world while under their roof. Announcing I was moving out, I got tears from my mother and a fist from my father. Living on my own was exciting but trying to mesh a harsh, learned religious identity with my homosexual identity produced a caustic result in my unconscious life. I lived in a very old, drafty apartment in the same crappy twin bed I had always slept in.
The dreams were the same. They always incorporated loving companionship and supportive family. Everything was light and beauty. Waking up was an unusual experience. The last moment of the dream lingered into waking, like the warmth from a shower before the bite of the cold when you slide back the curtain. When you go to bed depressed, sweet dreams involve a hangover the next morning and there was a time I spent months on a bender. Things have improved immensely but I have never forgotten the dark burn.
Damon Responds
I don’t know where to start with everything you covered here...it’s probably going to ramble. But I think I’ll start with dreaming, Freud, etc.
Pythias, I think we’ve talked about my theory of dreaming. I believe there are three types. The first if ‘junk-process:’ random bits of information assembled by one’s brain into bizarre, occasionally amusing adventures for your sleeping self. In general, I find these fun. Not many nightmares in this category - unless I’ve been watching too many crime procedurals.
The second category is ‘spiritual information.’ These are the dreams I believe come from outside myself. They may be narrative, even adventurous, but the texture is different, and it usually takes me very little to find the message from the Divine in them. And often, the message is built right in; a god-figure or friend-of-God walks up and says, “Hey. You. Please observe ______. Please stop _____. Pray for ____. Love you.” That kind of thing. My own dreamscape when I am in this ‘type’ of dream is familiar now, in general. A continually expanding world of narratives, work, messages, persons, etc. And not stuff inspired by my waking life, but a separate universe. In most respects.
The final type of dreaming I ascribe to is the ‘therapy’ dream. This, I believe, is one of the small points of intersection I have with Freud. These are the dreams where my subconscious uses any number of methods to self-direct a message to my attention - “Hey. Poke, poke. Look at this. Deal with this. Think you’ve put that in the past? Ah ha ha. I think not.”
This seems to be the type of dream you’re talking about, Pythias, yes? Believe me, I’ve had them. Mostly therapy-dreams, trying to cope with my own version of the loss of family.
The point that’s interesting me at the moment is your mention of power & control in the dream. [As a side note, I can lucid dream often - but for me this does not mean I can change or adapt the dream. I am not just some canoe-rider in it. My whole self is present.] It doesn’t surprise me that in dreams I attempt to exert control over something completely beyond my ability to control in waking life - in this case, the loss of my family (and other bad things I could mention). But again, what interests me more deeply is what this desire for control in dreaming says about: I feel powerless, yes. My waking self could tell you that. But moreover, IF the power were mine, I could singlehandedly fix the problems of the past. And the present.This is the dissonance I suspect in your piece above. The positioning of a self as ‘victim’ (I use that word carefully) to those things that other people are able to do TO us...and our seeming inability to bite, fight, spite back. Of course one could bite back, but at what cost? And to what purpose? A full awareness of the intractability of the situation, and a certain fatigue caused by previous fights and losses, means we just push these things away.
And then, here they are in dreams. A safe place (sort of) for our brains to say, this is a still a vital part of what made us who we are. I think some dreams need to be taken to therapy (I always say YAY THERAPY!), but the constant re-dreaming of certain themes teaches us about our interior dialogues, which our waking brains ignore. And the constant re-dreaming, can, I believe, allow your brain and spirit to complete unfinished business; say things you want to say; or at least, be honest with yourself and reach some kind of healed or healing place.
Of course there’s still the hangover in the morning. I HATE waking up from a dream about family, or a lover, having cried in the dream, only to cry when I’m awake. And the waking thought, “Great. Now I have to look at this AGAIN. And wander around all day with the images in my head. Charming.” Yet I cling to the truth that it’s an important part of my self-awareness and journey toward healing. Letting the nasty parts of the past go. Someday.
That said, I prefer my fun ‘junk-process’ dreams or spirit-messages. A lot.
Oh, and PS - I’m glad I showed up in your dream as a fresh-faced youngster. Let’s keep me that way, K? I don’t want to be your wizened guide anywhere.
I fear I have become predictable when it comes to casual cocktail conversation. Like any good party guest, if the chatter grinds to a punishing halt, I will usually casually lay a critique about the most recent conversation topic from the perspective of Sigmund Freud. While much of his work is tainted with facepalm-worthy homophobia, misogyny and racism, he had some intriguing ideas. One such point of interest is his analysis of dreams. He suggested that dreams are often the presentation of experiences you have had but will not address. They are a manifestation of stuff that you mash down because you can’t, or won’t, deal with it. Like the monsters under your bed (or in my case, Darth Vader), they come out when you let your guard down to sleep.
The other night I had a dream. At least I believe it was on the cusp of waking and sleeping. I perceived that I was my current self but placed within the body of my teenage self in my teenage world. I could operate and make decisions based on all that I know at my present, older age. The prospect was terrifying. Unsure of what to do, I sought out the advice of Damon, who at the time would have been barely 20. The search was not easy, but I knew that if anyone would understand and believe me, it would be him. I found him on the street of Fort Collins and tried to explain that he was to be come my dearest friend and that I needed his understanding more than anything. I was willing to provide any information that he needed to prove that I would know him, including showing his future residence and work. Looking him right in the youthfully fresh face, I mulled the possibilities at my finger tips. Do I try to relive my life as I lived it previously or try to save old relations and save the world? I could not escape the press of the decisions. I had to act. As these things seem to go, I awoke feeling as though I still had weighty matters hovering over me.
I find this is the most terrifying/beautiful dualism of dreaming. The lack of control. While lucid dreaming would be interesting as I could dabble in all the possibilities that could ever be, it does not speak directly to heart of my experience. As anyone who has ever suffered with a broken heart can attest to, dreaming can be the cruelest bitch. I really don’t feel the need to qualify that - if you have never felt that sting, you have never had your heart broken. In fact, a friend of mine said she smoked pot before bed every night because it assured her a dreamless sleep. When she stopped, the dreams came back. To go to such lengths to avoid inner reflection makes me wonder what monster lingers in the tangible dark of her repressed experiences.. However, there was an experience once of my own that might need a bit of explanation.
Experiences that are completely beyond my ability to explain tend to frustrate me. It appears the most I can offer is empathy, which at times seems little more than the callous cousin of sympathy. Words have always been a powerful vehicle for the transfer of experience and meaning in my life. For those who have never felt like their sexuality is non-acceptable socially, perhaps this will crack the door.
When I first moved out on my own, I did so with the explicit condemnation of my parents. In their socio-religious world, a child remained a child at home until marriage and then became an adult. I knew I could never be open to the world while under their roof. Announcing I was moving out, I got tears from my mother and a fist from my father. Living on my own was exciting but trying to mesh a harsh, learned religious identity with my homosexual identity produced a caustic result in my unconscious life. I lived in a very old, drafty apartment in the same crappy twin bed I had always slept in.
The dreams were the same. They always incorporated loving companionship and supportive family. Everything was light and beauty. Waking up was an unusual experience. The last moment of the dream lingered into waking, like the warmth from a shower before the bite of the cold when you slide back the curtain. When you go to bed depressed, sweet dreams involve a hangover the next morning and there was a time I spent months on a bender. Things have improved immensely but I have never forgotten the dark burn.
Damon Responds
I don’t know where to start with everything you covered here...it’s probably going to ramble. But I think I’ll start with dreaming, Freud, etc.
Pythias, I think we’ve talked about my theory of dreaming. I believe there are three types. The first if ‘junk-process:’ random bits of information assembled by one’s brain into bizarre, occasionally amusing adventures for your sleeping self. In general, I find these fun. Not many nightmares in this category - unless I’ve been watching too many crime procedurals.
The second category is ‘spiritual information.’ These are the dreams I believe come from outside myself. They may be narrative, even adventurous, but the texture is different, and it usually takes me very little to find the message from the Divine in them. And often, the message is built right in; a god-figure or friend-of-God walks up and says, “Hey. You. Please observe ______. Please stop _____. Pray for ____. Love you.” That kind of thing. My own dreamscape when I am in this ‘type’ of dream is familiar now, in general. A continually expanding world of narratives, work, messages, persons, etc. And not stuff inspired by my waking life, but a separate universe. In most respects.
The final type of dreaming I ascribe to is the ‘therapy’ dream. This, I believe, is one of the small points of intersection I have with Freud. These are the dreams where my subconscious uses any number of methods to self-direct a message to my attention - “Hey. Poke, poke. Look at this. Deal with this. Think you’ve put that in the past? Ah ha ha. I think not.”
This seems to be the type of dream you’re talking about, Pythias, yes? Believe me, I’ve had them. Mostly therapy-dreams, trying to cope with my own version of the loss of family.
The point that’s interesting me at the moment is your mention of power & control in the dream. [As a side note, I can lucid dream often - but for me this does not mean I can change or adapt the dream. I am not just some canoe-rider in it. My whole self is present.] It doesn’t surprise me that in dreams I attempt to exert control over something completely beyond my ability to control in waking life - in this case, the loss of my family (and other bad things I could mention). But again, what interests me more deeply is what this desire for control in dreaming says about: I feel powerless, yes. My waking self could tell you that. But moreover, IF the power were mine, I could singlehandedly fix the problems of the past. And the present.This is the dissonance I suspect in your piece above. The positioning of a self as ‘victim’ (I use that word carefully) to those things that other people are able to do TO us...and our seeming inability to bite, fight, spite back. Of course one could bite back, but at what cost? And to what purpose? A full awareness of the intractability of the situation, and a certain fatigue caused by previous fights and losses, means we just push these things away.
And then, here they are in dreams. A safe place (sort of) for our brains to say, this is a still a vital part of what made us who we are. I think some dreams need to be taken to therapy (I always say YAY THERAPY!), but the constant re-dreaming of certain themes teaches us about our interior dialogues, which our waking brains ignore. And the constant re-dreaming, can, I believe, allow your brain and spirit to complete unfinished business; say things you want to say; or at least, be honest with yourself and reach some kind of healed or healing place.
Of course there’s still the hangover in the morning. I HATE waking up from a dream about family, or a lover, having cried in the dream, only to cry when I’m awake. And the waking thought, “Great. Now I have to look at this AGAIN. And wander around all day with the images in my head. Charming.” Yet I cling to the truth that it’s an important part of my self-awareness and journey toward healing. Letting the nasty parts of the past go. Someday.
That said, I prefer my fun ‘junk-process’ dreams or spirit-messages. A lot.
Oh, and PS - I’m glad I showed up in your dream as a fresh-faced youngster. Let’s keep me that way, K? I don’t want to be your wizened guide anywhere.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)