Dear Friend Letter One: Feeling Music & Being Left, Alone

 August 16, 2023

Feeling Music and Being Left, Alone

Dear Friend,

I am here. You are there. We can’t or don’t or won’t talk in ways I wish we could. So much, oh there is so much I want to say to you. Since we do not talk, I will say these things to you here. I am afraid the words will not come out right, that I will scare you away, that what I mean to say and what I do say will not match. This is not poetry. I can do poetry: I dream, I think in verse. So have a kind heart as you read these letters.

I was numb for years. I was numb not only from the three years and four months (yes, I have been counting them) since the protection order was first issued for my second husband, in order to keep me safe from him and allow me to start my own life. My PTSD started before that. I was numb from the trauma during the abuse, numb in order to stay in a situation that I needed desperately to get out of. Then I was numb in fear. Numb out of habit. Numb out of lack of trust.

But then I trusted you. This past week, suddenly, I have started feeling. It is amazing. It is partly because of you, because I trusted you. I woke up. I am learning how to manage my emotions again. It is similar to when I first got sober nine years ago. Everything is amplified and messy. My brain is now sorting it all out, but slowly.  And, as I was told by a wise friend, feeling “wrong” feelings for a person is better than feeling nothing at all.  After all, there is no such thing as a wrong feeling.  If it is there, it needs to be acknowledged.  It is coming from somewhere. I have learned that the hard way: I used to drink to drown those confusing feelings. They stayed there until I acknowledged and dealt with them. Now I get to do this again. It is wonderful and mild-swirling and overwhelming and awe-inducing and made me cry for the first time this weekend. I haven’t cried for months. I think this is good.

I am listening to music again. Really listening. I had been stuck in silence before.  I have started with familiar songs, the music of my past. I am recalling memories attached to those songs.  It has made me wonder: what song would you choose to live in?

If I had to live in a song, it would be You’re Gone by Diamond Rio.  It would be a bittersweet living. This is for two reasons. 

The first is because I remember my friend Timmy when we were both in graduate school in Nebraska.  He was my dancing partner; we would go to street dances and country bars, wherever there was a band playing.  We could dance to anything—two-step, waltz, polka, you name it: he led, I followed.  We even danced to Metallica; we also made up our own steps to Ants Marching by The Dave Matthews Band. You’re Gone was our song in a way; he would sing it to me because we knew he was going to Hawaii for the Pioneer Seeds breeding program after graduation. I never heard from him again. He was a respectful, fun friend. The choices we make affect the rest of our life. It is a good memory.

The second reason I would choose You’re Gone is because, although I have supportive family, many people who used to be in my life aren’t in it anymore, or they are on the outer fringes, looking in. I acknowledge that my disability and who I am in general is not easy to live with, and I have changed over the years, but few people have had the courage to see me as I am, and stay close.

I say that is okay, because I am used to being alone. That seems strange coming from a twin. When I was first forced into a situation where I had to make it on my own, I resisted it.  I was scared. I made some strange and poor choices. This is a discussion for another letter. Now I believe it is better to be alone and find contentment in myself than be with someone and pretend things are okay: to be together and be miserable or living for someone else’s wishes or their supposed happiness only spreads sorrow.  It took me years to come to this realization.

Today’s devotion in my book The Promise of a New Day opens by letting me know “A path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you to do” (Carlos Castaneda). I certainly am on a path I didn’t predict when I was younger, and have had to back up, start over, switch paths at different moments in my life.  But that is okay.  Revisiting my compass, where I am, is better than plowing down the wrong path for the only reason that I started it and I think I have to finish everything I start. 

Buddhism teaches that joy and happiness arise from letting go. Perhaps as I get older, I have learned to try to control less (especially people) and do more of what I need, not what others want. This has given me a certain freedom, and a certain peace. And I think that peace is what can bring some sort of happiness, if I let it.

But this is my path, my story, my truth. Every person has their own.

What song would you live in?

What song are you living in now?

Thinking of you,

Julie

 

P.S. Before you freak out that I am telling everyone to get divorced and leave if things are tough, I’ll tell you why I’m glad people stay together—and why I would have, and wish I could have taken a different road.

The Curse of RBF

The Curse of RBF

            It is said that most of our communication is non-verbal.  What we see when we look at someone—especially for the first time—even before they speak—determines our attitude towards them and our willingness to listen carefully, put up a defense, or dismiss altogether.  First impressions are lasting.

If this is true, I’m in trouble.

            First, I have blue eyes and poor vision.  Blue eyes have less melanin, less color cells, less protection from bright lights.  And although I go to the optometrist regularly and wear my bifocals faithfully, I squint a lot.  Squinting doesn’t lend to a pretty face.  I’ve squinted since I was a child—there are photos to prove it.  In one, I am a blond-haired, blue-eyed four year old hugging a cat and looking at the camera.  On my face is that classic distorting squint that encompasses all of my face muscles.  I even earned the nickname “Squint” in high school.  Granted, it was after I was in a roll-over car accident and got a concussion and black swollen eye, but still. 

            Second, when I’m concentrating, I unintentionally chew on the inside of my cheek.  It must be genetic, because my great-grandmother did the same thing.  My mom would see me concentrating with my jaw churning, and she’d say, “Gotta hold your mouth right, huh?”  I don’t do this consciously.  I’ve noticed I grimace at even the smallest of uncomfortable issues—like lifting heavy things off the floor (okay, heavy for me is 5 pounds!), putting my socks on when my body is sore, combing out tangles in hair….you get it. 

But most of all, the thing that affects me the most:

I have a resting bitch face (E calls it RBF). 

            When I am not visibly emoting, my face rests in such a way that I look pissed off and mean.  I’m not grumpy, I’m just not smiling all the time.  This is something E AND my boss have not caught onto yet.  Since I am quite expressive and downright manic at times, people evidently get used to my bounciness.  But I can’t be wide-eyed, eyebrow-raised, grinning all the time.  Sometimes I just want to relax.  Or I’m thinking, but not angry.  I don’t intend to look irked—my face just rests naturally that way. 

            When E says, “What’s the matter?” and insists I’m mad, dismissive, or annoyed—THAT is what pisses me off.  Don’t get me wrong—I have my angry, pouty, bitchy moments.  Quite a few of them, actually.  And when I’m truly pouting or sad, I do like someone to acknowledge it and try to remedy my sour mood.  But I do believe, as a naturally erratic personality, it won’t be much of a guessing game when I’m actually, truly in a bad mood. 

            In my professional world, I’m very serious and almost stoic.  I’ve tried being light-hearted or more relaxed, but it just doesn’t always happen.  Perhaps it’s because I’m a female in a male-dominated profession, and many people are still biased enough that I need to work hard to be taken as seriously as my male counterparts.  Perhaps it’s because I concentrate with determination.  Perhaps it’s because I am temperamental, and afraid that, if left naturally to my own devices, I’ll do or say something extreme that will leave a scar so big it shows years later.  That’s happened before, especially during my manic phases—I become so obsessed with something and I react in the extreme to even the smallest things that it just isn’t funny.  It’s exasperating!

            E says I feel things more strongly than others.  Some doctors say many of those diagnosed with manic depression (that’s me!) have obsessive tendencies.  Whatever it is, I have to keep myself in catch more so than the average person, and it must show on my face.  And I’ve become so good at it and done it for so long, that, even though I don’t go to extremes anymore (hopefully mellowing out in my old age….), I still suppress the emotions that go with my ups and downs. 

            So the next time you see me—or anyone else that has a bitch face on—and think we’re having a bad day or someone’s got the best of us or we aren’t happy with our lot—remember to ask first.  Those first impressions aren’t always correct.  Never assume.

Julie Soaring Eagle Paschold

October 12, 2017