My Rocking Chair (AKA best friend)- An Exercise in Writing about Happy Things

When packing for a recent house move, I found several old journals and books of poetry. They were all filled with painful, sometimes pathetic memories. Reading them, one would think I have never experienced a moment's happiness, which could not be further from truth. I have a terrible habit of only writing down the times in my life when I feel miserable - leaving a trail of documented pain in my path. I have so many happy memories, but they seem somehow less vivid. I think that is partly because I don't have an opportunity to revisit them through reading old poetry and letters the way I do my painful memories. This must stop. So I have decided to write about my old best friend - a series of my favourite pre-adulthood memories.



My old best friend, we'll call him 'B,' was a tall and awkward teenager. Braces, terrible haircut, and arms too long for his body. The first time I saw him was at basketball practice. Being only 12 and he a male, I of course saw him only as a potential suitor and not a potential friend. He was in the class above me, and that added to his attractiveness, as an older boyfriend would surely add points to social status. He sent a friend to 'ask me out' on groundhog day - a day which I still secretly remember as the anniversary of our friendship. Like all junior high school romances, it didn't last. But unlike most junior high school romances, we did become fast friends. I spent most of middle school hiding out with him in his basement, watching such 80s film classics as The Lost Boys and Dream a Little Dream. Our understanding of the latter film was something which we believed classed us as philosophers beyond our years, and we watched it so often that we could recite the dialogue verbatim and the tape was worn ragged. We watched a meteor shower in his back garden once and shared silences which were never in the least bit uncomfortable. When his dad left his mom for a mistress, I let him spend hours talking about the ridiculousness of marriage - and we agreed it was a tradition only for the fool hearted. When my everything happened with my mother he vowed to hate her when I was angry, and showed her compassion when I was ready to forgive. B was always smarter than everyone I knew, but he was as modest as he was intelligent. I loved to listen to him talk about Mutiny on the Bounty and other novels that the avgerage 13 year old would not understand. His locker was overflowing with books and papers, and I enjoyed volunteering to clear it out only to see him scoff at the suggestion.

High school brought a boyfriend for me and a girlfriend for B, but little change in our relationship. He still wrote me letters on my birthday, mainly outlining our many adventures and highlights of things to come. We shared an incurable insomnia combated only by talking on the phone until the early hours of the morning. He told me of every idea that popped into his head, like the 'psychological yawn' and rocking chairs as metaphors for relationships. We agreed we would someday write a book in which we would write our novel ideas and quotes. He once wrote to me 'never forget, kayak is kayak spelled backwards.' It is a mantra I still think of in moments of frustration, in spite of the fact that I know not what it means. When I got my license, B was the first person I picked up in my car, and when I got my heart broken B was the first person I phoned. He took me to my junior prom in a tux with tails, wearing sunglasses and bleach blond hair like Keifer Sutherland in his favourite film. He danced with me in spite of hating dancing, and he didn't get angry when I spent much of the night pining over my ex-boyfriend. I spent every holiday with B and his family, and practically lived at his house most weekends. But as he was a year ahead, separation was inevitable. On the day before he left for college (a 9 hour drive away from our hometown), we spent the evening doing what we had done so many times before - listening to Van Morrison's Moondance on his dad's old record player and reminiscing about our lives so far. We sat on his back porch and he told me how scared he was to leave, and I told him how scared I was to be without him. I cried, and realised (perhaps for the first time) how much I loved him.

Even though a year later I ended up at the same university as B, our friendship was never the same as when we were young. But in spite of that there was always something that meant he was the truest friend I had. Unlike other friendships I maintained from home, B and were able to remain close as we changed, without reminiscing and reverting to old habits. He told me once that he thought I was the only person from home who would let him grow up, and I felt the same way. He remained, for many years, the first person I called when things went terribly wrong or extraordinarily right, and I still took everything he said to be gospel. Our last intimate moment took place five years ago, when I was at my worst and ready to give up. He drove to see me at work on my lunch break to say goodbye before leaving the country for several years. We sat in my car and said very little. I told him I would miss him and admitted that after almost 12 years of having him always nearby I was not sure how well I would cope with him being so far away. He made me promise I would do better, that I would go somewhere wonderful, do something great. He said he knew there was more for me out there, that I was destined for bigger than the town we grew up in and the life my family had laid out for me. And he believed it. And I believed it because he said it.

Since then B and I have seen each other a few times and exchanged a few emails. Too much time has passed for us to return to the way things were - we are both married now, live in different countries and have different lives. But things he has said and done still impact me regularly. B was the first person in my life who really understood me - who I let myself be completely real and honest with and who never judged me for it. I credit him for so many of my strengths because it was he who fostered and encouraged those parts of me. He believed I was smart and kind and good, and I wanted to be smart and kind and good so he would retain that faith in me. I don't think B will ever know how important he was to me - he was never one for being too sentimental (or as he called it, corny). But I like to think he still holds memories of our friendship dear to him. He once wrote me a letter predicting all of our birthdays to come, and in it he showed us apart for a long time while we explored the world and did miraculous things, but in the end we were back together. He wrote about us sitting on the porch of a nursing home together, thinking about the time when we were young and had everything in front of us and feeling lucky that we had taken advantage of it all. These days I hope it is my husband who I spend my final years with, but perhaps B was not far off - maybe we will someday find ourselves once again listening to Moondance and counting ourselves lucky for having what many people often miss out on in a world of globalisation and the 'rat race' - a friend for life.

Last Night I Assaulted Someone: Musings on Anger

Last night I went to a concert. I am not normally one to attend gigs and places where there is a strong chance of a mosh pit, but somehow I ended up on the fringes of a sprawling mass of sweaty, drunk men (and a few women) throwing their full body weight against anything near them. At first it was amusing (particularly since the song they were 'moshing' to was essentially bluegrass), then it was annoying, and finally it became a little scary. My husband, a self-proclaimed 'punk,' occasionally threw an arm in to keep the crowd at bay and muttered about his frustration that the moshers weren't respecting 'the code,' but as always he kept his composure and held his temper. I, on the other hand, became overwhelmed with the urge to strike. The more I got pushed, the more I considered various ways of punching, kicking or headbutting the people around me. And I meant it, I was close to action. Until finally, after a random man came flying in my direction, I had visions of a stampede crushing me and everyone behind me. I had flashes of newspaper headlines: Hundreds of Students killed in Freak Stampede at BRMC Concert. And then, without thought, I pushed. I pushed the people in front of me with a strength I was completely unaware I possessed. It was totally primal, banal. And it felt fucking brilliant! No one was hurt. No one even noticed. But I was left haunted by my actions and the thoughts leading up to them. It was far less about the pushing and more about a question I find myself grappling with on a regular basis: why am I so angry?

My anger is not a new or even recent phenomenon. Nor, I am sorry to say, is it uncommon. I could list at least five times in the last five days where something has so incensed me that I have found it difficult to breathe normally or restrain my temper. Today and yesterday alone I have picked three fights with my husband - one of my favourite activities. It's not that I am generally pugnacious or that I enjoy fighting with him, it's just that it is such a relief to actually have something tangible direct my anger towards. I am at ease when I finally have an explanation for the rage that I carry around with me each day, even if it is only a temporary (or false) one. Now at this point you are perhaps thinking two things: 1. this woman needs anger management or to be removed from the streets; 2. what is that poor bastard she's married to thinking? But rest assured, I don't run around pushing and shouting willy-nilly and no one has ever come to harm as a result of my bad temper. My husband usually gets a groveling apology within 10-15 minutes of the beginning of the argument, and he is not always necessarily innocent either. In fact while many people who know me are aware that I sometimes have a bad temper, I think the majority of people would be surprised to know the extent of my anger. Generally the only person who suffers as a result of my rage is me. But I am beginning to think I have had all I can handle.

I can assure you, I have tried repeatedly to curb my anger. I read books on inner peace and Buddhism. I even believed what I had read. I have tried increasing exercise and decreasing stress. I have counted to ten, gone to a happy place, even whistled and sang to myself. I have had crying fits in the car, punched pillows, and shouted at the top of my lungs in an empty room. I have tried prayer, meditation, dancing and yoga. All of these methods had their moments, but in the end I am still left with this little ball of rage in the pit of my stomach that just won't leave me. There is only one way I can see that I haven't tried - finding out where the anger ball came from. I have my theories, but none have been tested.

Foundations

I have taken recently to sending long, arduous emails to friends and family - tirades about my life and its joys and frustrations written in sometimes non-comprehensible stream of consciousness. After my third victim replied to these self-indulgent rants with a curt message showing no indication that they had read the email at all, I decided I needed an outlet. A place where having to listen to me go on and on about myself was an optional, and perhaps a bit more objective, activity. It is for this reason I find myself writing a blog.

I suppose I should give background, everything makes more sense in a context. It is difficult to know what things about yourself are relevant to not only you, but to the rest of the world. Perhaps one might learn more about me through what I choose to reveal than the revelation itself.

I was born to teenage parents, the oldest child of an oldest child. They divorced two years later, but not before giving me a sister who would from the very earliest of days prove to be my opposite, and at times my nemesis. When I was five someone told me I was beautiful and when I was nine someone told me I was a genius. When I was thirteen I realised that I was neither of these things - an epiphany from which I have never fully recovered. My life was dominated by the pursuit of awards and rewards. I made friends with popular people but was never popular. I joined every group, played every sport and filled my college applications with a laundry list of achievements. My best friend was a boy and to this day I still think he may be the only person who has ever understood me. In spite of my powerful position as the oldest, I was consistently the family freak. I thought, spoke and dressed differently, I aspired to different things, had different interests. I was the butt of many family jokes and was referred to consistently as a 'drama queen.' I required the company of others constantly, but felt lost and lonely amongst them. When I was 16 my half brother was born and I watched him come into the world. I welcomed the chance to play the role of 'big sister,' a role my other sibling regularly denied me of. My family faced tragedy, but then so does every family. There was illness, emotional breakdowns, suicide attempts, and custody changes. It seems distant and almost unimportant now, yet those events shaped behaviours which I have spent my whole life trying to shake.

I left home and moved to the big city when I was 18. City life suited me better than I could have imagined, and I felt like myself for the first time in my life. My freshman year in college I wept daily at the injustice of the world. By sophomore year I had become a cynical activist, feeling compelled to take action but all too aware of its irrelevance. I dropped out of uni and became a waitress, falling briefly into what can only be described as a self-fulfilling prophecy (and family legacy) of drinking, smoking and working too much. This brief stage of my life was my most disastrous, yet least frightening. I met my husband, and he began to save me from myself. I moved abroad, where I fought tirelessly to hold on to an American identity about which I had previously been ashamed. When I was 23 I lost my grandmother. It was then that I realised the gravity of living away from home and it was the first and only time I have resented my partner. I have moved to suburbia and crept into the 'middle class' - facts of which I am simultaneously proud and ashamed. I own a home and have a dog, I attend family dinners and write Christmas cards. I am infinitely grateful for the gifts in my life, but it is at times overshadowed by feelings of suffocation and anxiety.

Each day my husband teaches me more life lessons - how to be patient, how to be kind, how to let go of anger. He is blissfully unaware of his role as my Zen guru, and I am a reluctant (and often poor) student. Like those people in my childhood, my husband tells me that I am beautiful and that I am a genius. This time I know better than to believe him. I still long to spend time with the social outcasts, I still bore everyone with lists of social injustices, I still feel completely uncomfortable in my own skin. I live each day with the legacy of other people's expectations, and I fear more and more that the path I have chosen for myself is built more on a foundation of what my parents were not than on what I am.