Back in December, my mom hosted her Winter Solstice party again, in lieu of a a Christmas party. Instead of the regular gift-giving, a part of this solstice tradition is to craft individual presents for each other attendee, sometimes within a theme. Because of the nature and relation of the attending group, the thematic element is much more prevalent than it might have been otherwise. The party is on the day after Christmas, December 26th. Unlike the previous year wherein I burned albums from my collection that I thought the receiver would both enjoy and fit my internal representation of them, this year, I had no flashy ideas. I considered writing each of my giftees a lengthy letter, laying out my feelings and thoughts and general love for them, but beyond that vague plan, had nothing else. As is my way when faced with tasks such as this, tasks that require forethought, planning, and determination to break through a mental wall, I ignored it at every chance, and laughed it off when it came up in conversation with any of the family or even Amanda. The day of the party arrived, though, and I still hadn’t any ideas. I spent the whole day with a knot of dread sitting in my gut, just above my bellybutton. I skillfully ignored that as well.
About 2 hours before we had to leave, Amanda asked me, gentle but obviously worried and motherly, if I had done my gifts yet. I told her I hadn’t, but was about to. She left me alone, but her reminder forced me to face my lack of any work at all. Instead of doing something about it, I let the feelings of claustrophobia and anxiety overwhelm me, as I do, and laid down on the bed, clothed and lightless. I cried and lay still for almost fifteen minutes before Amanda, even more worried, called my name, came into the bedroom, and sat on the bed next to me. We talked for a bit, and she brainstormed with me. We (read: she) came up with a good solution and after cleaning my face, I set to work on it. It came out only okay, but I didn’t feel too poor about it, given my memories of the previous years gifts. (I took a 8.5 x 5.5 piece of paper, drew a crayon picture in some form representative, and wrote a haiku encompassing, in short, a thought or feeling I had about them.)
Amanda and I showed up to my Mom’s house, in West Chester, and we enjoyed the party. Towards the end of the night, it came time to share our gifts. I felt the start of shame burn within my heart. My turn came, I handed everyone their papers, and they all laughed a little, cuz they’re funny. Jacob, whenever his turn was, had written a 5 minute rap with four stanzas for each person present. Liam made everyone mix cds from his own collection. Mom handed everyone cardboard boxes that contained personalized 2011 calendars filled with pictures of whoever received it.
That’s the story element, but the point for writing all of this is to lay out how I reacted in the face of “homework”, and rereading what I wrote yesterday (the above), I didn’t do a very good job of describing it.
Sometimes, I get in a mental rut. I trip on a thought, and it sits in my head, knocking around, looping and looping and looping until it overwhelms my other mental faculties. I put up a good front, but I have a lot of issues with failing goals and disappointing people who expect things from me. For example, back in early January, Amanda and I were talking about money and my future situation while she’d be off in England, and she put up the idea that maybe I shouldn’t try to save up and go visit her. I told her I had to, because it’s not just about visiting, though that is the main reason, but because if I don’t, I would disappoint my mom and dad (not to mention my siblings). I said that I’d already disappointed them enough, to pass up an opportunity like this would break their heart. All totally true. I was getting out of the shower while I said this, and while I felt fine going into the sentence, by the time I finished, I was crying. I could feel all the pressure from years of school and NaNoWriMo and everything else I see as me failing, and it overwhelmed me. How it goes.
All that to say that I had the same reaction, except a lot more clear and specific, back in December. I felt the tightness in my chest, I knew the guilt and the shame and the regret and the anger and the frustration was coming, and I didn’t have enough time to fully react, so instead, I let the pain roll over me. I laid on the bed, and shook with the above. I hate failing, though. As I think about it, it really comes down to a deep aversion to failing and causing disappointment. Like Calvin said, Expectations are lower if you don’t try too hard, so I don’t.
I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I know the feeling, and it’s fucking terrible. That’s why I’ll never be successful.
(Well, one of the reasons.)
