pro·​cess·​ing

Something happened. And I got sad. I also felt hurt, or marginalized, or scared, or angry, or dejected. Not offended, but upset - you know the drill. Now I'm low. Sitting low like Bruce in the well, but without the calling for help part. Maybe the calling, but not for rescue. Calling out like a wee Viking lad in an opera, a widow sitting shiva. Because if I call for help, they may cut my languishing short, which may seem merciful to some but not always to me. It's not so much a need for attention as a need to be sad for a while (though I would be truly lying to you [a juicy little paradox there] if I said the attention was unwelcomed).

When I was young and felt upset (typically because my mom wasn't willing to drive me to my friend's house 45 minutes away for the afternoon [fair, mom] or because I was caught lying about practicing piano), I would sit on the stairs. And the thing was, I didn't let anyone pull me away from the staircase. I did want them to try, though. To come and say "Ry, come on, you're okay and we love you - it's so hard being 10!", but only so that I could rebuff their consolations. It was all very becoming. Today I am a 25 year old Russian doll encasing a smaller doll moping on a staircase. I'm only a bit of painted wood, gleaming in the lamplight and smiling a happier-than-Mona-Lisa but not-actually-happy smile. What do I do with this sad? Here's as far as I've worked it out:

I'm a verbal processor. And a word-processor processor. So I need to talk it out, babble on, then I need to battle for my life, Babylon. And also whip out my iCloud notes and jot down my thoughts, so I can figure out what the heck I feel about all my feelings that are swirling in my skull like bats in a cave. I talk, and I write, and then I share my writing with a friend, and they actively listen, sating my craving for affirmative recognition, then I rewrite. Then I talk to (sometimes at) my therapist, seeking active listening, a welcoming receptacle. Maybe this is part of why we love sex and therapy - someone opens themselves for your insertion, taking what you have to give and validating its legitimacy, often complimenting it and remarking at its normalcy, when up until that point you may have viewed it apprehensively or as a reprehensible 'other'. And as I follow this process map, a fear comes up, something I've realized is actually a huge pet peeve of mine: misrepresentation. I journal in a few ways - I do a monthly free-write, I journal on my phone daily, and I have a blog (I can link it in the comments). And the best part of having a written set of life documentation is that it's mostly editable. What scares me is this: often I'll walk away from a conversation, an important real-life conversation, feeling like I've messed up. Like I didn't say all I needed to say or didn't represent my thoughts in the right way (often involving not enough qualification of my generalizations). Or sometimes I walk away thinking "I was so prepared for that convo and wrote out all I needed to say, but I was so intent on saying my 'truths' that I wasn't hearing and encoding what they were saying to me." And I hate that. A lot a lot.

So now I'm low, after another conversation in which I shared more than I listened. And my 25 year old Russian doll shuffles and clinks over to the staircase and sits down, sighing out a mourning song. And tears come freely, because maybe if I had listened more I could have found more common ground. Maybe if I had said "Yeah you're absolutely right," instead of "That's fair, and I'm sorry you took it that way, but I really meant…", their heart would have felt more held. And yeah, I still do feel sad, and that matters. And maybe I'll either throw myself into another something, or maybe I'll keep sitting and thinking about this for a while. Until then I sit, beseeching both solitude and attention. Casting myself out so I can pine for invitation, until at last I swallow my ego and zoom out (those two words have saved my life), putting my flimsy conflict into perspective and marking complete the task of 'feeling my feels', as they say.

How many times does this play on loop? How many rotations does it make before the needle reaches the center and I run out of time? Was I playing Surfaces or Dodie? Pointing out the creamy, dreamy sunsets of high days or whimpering from room-temperature, prune-bestowing bathwater? Sorry for the collateral - thanks for the space.