He stood looking in the mirror after his shower a towel wrapped tightly around a waist bigger than desired. Water dripping on the polished concrete floor making shiny footprints. He was just looking for the billionth time. Looking while shaving. Looking while applying toner to clean NYC off his face. Looking while brushing teeth. Yeah like a billion times and then some. He looked and never saw. Ever.
With a damp index finger he pushed little drops of condensation away from the mirror. Swiping left right left right making rivulets to sharpen the image. The finger touched the nose then slowly moved up and left and stroked the left eye. He tapped it to see if it would blink. No blink, just an eye looking back into his eyes.
Placing both hands on the sink and leaning into the mirrored image he wondered, what’s different? Why is this billionth repetitive moment sticking? Capturing his gnat like attention span? He shuts both eyes tightly hoping for some clarity to rise from within. Quickly opens them. Not much different from to trying to see if the light is on in the fridge when closed. He wanted to see what’s there. Nothing changed this moment. Nor in the other moments of looking in repetitive manifestations of curiosity and fear.
For 40 years he never saw himself in this mirror. And any mirror prior. No face no image no nothing. Just the “Oh, I need to get that bit of stubble there.” Or “Those brows need a little attention.” It was never the “Damn you look good and ready to crush the day.” “You’re so pretty I could kiss you.” Just the fear of seeing what was there. What was really there. Denial.
Today it was different. He was seeing what was there. What was not there. What was hidden. Turning his face side to side examine the different angles and perspective to find something.
He wondered as he looked and watched a finger touch his cheek. Did the image in the mirror feel that? Did the image in the mirror feel much of anything? It felt to him like a finger on a cheek moving in circles pushing beyond the stubbly surface deeper. What was under that? Was it real or imagined? Why now after decades of not seeing? Mirror. Him. Mirror. Him.
A shrug. A shake of the head. He reached for a cotton pad moistened with toner and wiped NYC off his face, threw in the basket, applied deodorant, turned the light off, and went to get dressed for another meaningless day.
2.
Sitting in the living room with his espresso the early morning sunlight was reflecting off the white facade of the building across the street. Light and shadows blanketed the oak floors highlighting faded beauty and scars made over the last 32 years. Rolling his head and resting on the sofa back his mind drifted beyond the 32 years of oak.
The spelling test was coming up tomorrow. It was Sunday. Mom and dad invited his aunt, uncle, and cousin over for dinner. Old world traditions remained strong. Chicken of course. Sitting in the kitchen he was looking at the list of words he needed to learn. His Aunt sat down looked at him with a small smile.
“You want me to help you?” It was not a question. It was more a statement of what is going to happen. Reaching across the table she pulled the book in front of her. “Here we go. Let’s start. Spell Indian.”
“I N D A N?” each letter said softly in a hope filled whisper. “No no no that’s all wrong. How could you have missed that? Such an easy word. I hope you pass.”Her words just hung in the air. They floated and danced before his eyes. In an instant they were part memory and part reality of his forever days.
Later that year Indian was not just a word he couldn’t spell. It was a weight he carried. Getting heavier as it collected with other like minded failures. Indian was the emotional papoose of his childhood he carried forward.
Months later he sat in the living room waiting for mom and dad to come home. They were meeting his teacher. He felt sick. He thought about his talking in class or all of his day dreaming in class so much so he couldn’t answer questions when called on. He thought about the word Indian. He thought about what he wasn’t.
He sat on the sofa while mom and dad sat in the arm chairs. “You know last year we lived in Seattle. You were in school there. And then we drove to New Jersey and you started a new school.” Dad said slowly.
“Yes” was all he could say.
“Moving to a new school was hard for you. Mrs. Wallp says that you need more help you are not where the other kids are in reading and math.” Mom said softly as if hoping it wasn’t real.
Looking at him Mom said, “The school wants you to repeat third grade so you can be smart as all the other kids. This is good. It will help you become a better student. We want the best for you.” He felt ashamed. Why couldn’t he be like everyone else.
“Mom dad what did I do wrong?” I’m good in class I am. I wasn’t bad. You know what’ll happen? All the kids will laugh at me. Make fun of me. I’ve seen them do that.” He looked away and felt tears and he knew he was not good enough to be like the other kids.
Mom said to him, “Go on and change out of your school clothes. You can play in the back yard.”
He stood up and walked in to his room never looking up from his feet. He had no thoughts about what to do.
Mom and dad looked at each other for a long movement. “I don’t know if we should’ve let this happen. We just said yes without question or concern. We failed him.” Mom was speaking louder.
“What were we suppose to do? He was behind in class and not paying attention. His teacher told us and she went to college we are just high school graduates. Well you went and I never got to go. I had to go work when my dad died. He’s not going to end up like me in a dead end job. I want him to go to college.” Dad said and pulled a pack of smokes out and lit one. Handing the pack and lighter to mom. She did the same.
Putting a cigarette between her lips and lighting with the silver lighter. She inhaled and slowly exhaled a bluish cloud of nicotine. “I don’t know if we did right. We should have fought for him so he wouldn’t hurt, be left out, or singled out. I want him to succeed too. He is our first born. It is only third grade he has years to meet his potential. Right now it feels like he will always be behind and not be who he can be. You keep thinking he is us or you. NO.”
Her voice was raising. Less in anger and more in fear. Fear that a terrible mistake was made one of many with her oldest son. She wondered how she would keep him safe protect him from whatever harm and hurt was coming his way. How can she keep him safe?
“Look, the damage is done. He will live with this for now or longer. I want it to be a minor thing that, I don’t know, he grows out of and flourishes.” She said to her husband his dad. Softly “I don’t know what to do. I know what I want. How? How?”
Dad looked at her emotionally unmoved. His emotions were limited to anger, absence, or volume. Now in this moment they were unseen as always. He looked at her, “Maybe what we do is let this be for now. Just pretend it never happened. Even next year in a way not address it, hide, it keep it out of sight. In a year or two it will pass and he will have forgotten. New friends. New school. Just starting over and we will erase the past.” After he spoke those words he was not so sure he even thought that was the right.
“It just seems like we are not even doing much to help him to get to him be better than us. I don’t want him to end up being stuck in some job to feel like there is no world out there that you and I see in our books.” Her voice was stronger now not angrier but strong and forceful.
“I don’t want my first born to be us.”
The room fell silent. The words were still floating in the air even if not heard they were felt. He heard them and didn’t know what they meant. They pierced his heart and took a foothold in his mind. That was the reflection when he didn’t see himself in the mirror.
Two weeks later while mom was making dinner he came into the kitchen and sat at the table. Mom was stirring something on the stove. He thought, how she can come home from work and start dinner. He came home from school at 3pm and all he wanted to do was watch TV or play in the back yard alone. Was he lazy?
“Mom why? The kids are going to make fun of me. I don’t have friends. We are not like New Jersey people.”
Mom put the wooden spoon down and turned, “What do you mean about friends? You had Johnny over for dinner and to play. You must have more friends. I know you do.”
He looked at the placemat and dragged a fingernail over the raised embroidered material. “I guess. Don’t know. It feels like, I don’t know. I don’t fit in.” His voice trailed off.
“What do you mean you don’t fit in? I see you as being so smart and kind and guess what handsome.” She said with real energy.
Mom continued, “Now you just stop saying that. I know being left behind is hard on you. I didn’t want that to happen. It is not about you we told you that. You learned different things in Seattle and here in NJ you have to learn other things and they were just different. That is all. You know it will fine you will catch up and be back on track.”
“Moms say that. Does this mean I’m smart? I’m not happy. I feel like I did this.”
“Stop saying that you’re a good boy. Things happen and we try to make them better over time. We love you. I will not let you feel this way. You will not have to struggle like we have. You’ll see. We love you.” She walked over and rested her hand on his.
3.
The oak floor comes into focus. He rubs his eyes and realizes it’s time to do something anything childhood was not all it was cracked up to be. Never was he thought. Finding the elusive something is a challenge. Less because it’s difficult and more because nothing mattered any longer. Nothing.
Pulling that thread of distraction from a rather average empty day can offer some purpose. It transports one away from flashing back to an unremarkable childhood and life. Or the flash mob reality of your life now. The entire exercise of linking the past to what just happened in the mirror was a wonderful diversion. Well yeah until the realization he shouldn’t waste time sitting and thinking. It is all about doing. Get up and doing. And then there is finding doing. Ignoring what you are feeling by doing and denying.
The phone vibrates with a text. It is her. A dear friend. A recent friend of five months. Who have become besties for real. It is the emoji hand wave to say hi I am finally awake you can talk to me now. He laughed even though that has been the morning hello for a few months. Such a kid for an adult.
There are two other besties in what is now his tribe. All three are random acts of amazing kindness. All three are outcomes of volunteering. All three are more than he expected to find at this point in his life and his firmly planted feet into the self-loathing and suicidal ideation mind set.
Volunteering was a thing ever since her death. A time filler. A way to find purpose maybe even some meaning which was the largest empty canister of all he had in his life. No meaning. No more. All gone. Poof.
Since her death he found a number of volunteer things. That’s what they were things. Just seemingly inanimate somethings to create default moments each week. A specter of pretend in a life of denial. They weren’t even like goals. “I’m going to return to the world what I have received in kindness and support during her illness and death.”
He thought maybe a little of that was in place. Kind of a troupe to leverage his humanity. A way to fool his mind and fool others into thinking he’s amazing. The hushed reality that took hold of his heart like barnacles on a ships hull after her death was nothing matters and pretend things to do. He failed to find work, failed to have ideas backed for a new business, and he failed to be much of anything. Anger. Mostly sad. Dead wife. Dead life. Dead inside.
Perhaps it was a fate thing. The entire higher power idea that put him smack dab in the middle a new volunteer moment. It was a different world than he previously knew. Kind of as a lark. It became one of the most intense endeavors he ever experienced on many levels. He trained to become a crisis counselor. And then became one.
He found himself deeply immersed in the world of mental health. Learning how to best support and bring peace to those in a momentary crisis. He reflected on his training. It was difficult because to help others in need you must be able to see yourself and your pain. Kind of like compassion. It is not a gene we are born with. Compassion comes from a lived pain and hurt. If you have a limb you don’t know what phantom pain is. You loose a limb and you know. His loss and grief drove his pain as did the things from his past which had an emotional toll. He thought that was enough. It wasn’t.
Performing abstract exercises in writing and posting were conduits into his self. They were intellectual exercises that didn’t break down his walls. The walls of self imposed isolation and when asked, ‘How are you?’ ’I’m good. Thank you for asking.’
Training to be a crisis counselor was learning so much he never considered before and all the along the emotional aspect felt like a rip current pulling him out to sea. All the while his arms and legs getting weaker as he swam to shore.
Training was all about fear of failure. Hadn’t he failed enough? Add a huge dose of I’m dealing with someone else’s life. Failing at things were the center piece of his life he told himself. He just lived with it. Fear of failing training was small compared to the fear of hurting someone else or causing them pain or worse not making things better. He knew he felt compassion and empathy. He knew he could sling it to friends in need. It was there hammered out on the anvil of his life and her death. He didn’t want others to feel dead inside like him.
Speaking with those in crisis was different. It was the transposition of their pain into him. He became them. He put himself into them in a ritualistic healing exercise giving only purest essence of himself. Never his pain or hurt only his hope and vision. That was his talisman.
The walls holding his pain in place were buckling from the unconditional support of this community. The compartments holding the archeological remains of forgotten memoirs opened. Exposing blurred and out of focus lost memories exposing himself to himself.
There was nothing de novo in this. Listening to those in crisis he heard his own thoughts and words. He began to see the breath and depth of his own pain and hurt. Smiling he thought “This must be like going to an AA meeting and sharing your story. Hi my name is His. I’m just as fucked up as you are. I have been living a lie.”
Taking a moment to self assess and feel the weight of this new reality, I’m as fucked as everyone else in the room made him laugh. None of his hurt and pain came from some horrific abuse as a child or trauma. His life was boring, sad, and basically his own doing. Even being unable to spell Indian meant nothing. He said out loud and as always to no one just to make sounds, “I am emotionally self-actualized and well grounded. Thank you spell check.” He laughed while polishing the stainless steel island in the kitchen.
Of course there was the death of his wife and that was a well documented and shared crushing hurt. Which publicly he managed to control and paint as he wanted others to see it. Even after diving deep into his grief he found himself walking around his home saying her name loud enough to echo. That was worse than Indian, though it felt the same. He couldn’t spell. He let her die and he lived. “Seems about right.” He said.
The real cherry on top of all this dumb ass self-awareness are the associates of the corporation. They carried their pain and hurt proudly and made tools from it all. Each created razor sharp scalpels that with beautifully crafted words removed pain from those in crisis. They became warriors of support for him. He thought they must have a mantra, “Never let a broken toy rest-in-peace”. Rallying around him with advice, offering friendship, and comfort assuaged his feelings of failure and need. Being on the receiving end of unconditional support and love made a difference. It relaxed his defenses, opened him to new emotions and those annoying feels. He was able to expose his compartmentalized feelings and be a broken toy in public. Or at least there he could, which was beginning to verge on his sense of being annoyingly needy.
He did not count on three who individually called him friend and collectively like an eye exam kept changing the lens on his life bringing it into focus. Though he masks much of it, less because of what it might revel and more because he knows his hurt is just bird shit on a car hood. In comparative terms with others. Always comparative. He smirked to himself thinking they never saw what he saw. He was just dead inside empty and worst of all realizing how needy he’s becoming. The perfect fulcrum and lever of unconditional support was applied. And it moved him.
The early months as a noobie were emotionally crushing. As much as the death of his wife. Which seemed odd. “She was my life. I didn’t save her. She died. I don’t deserve to live.” All his grief work following her death remained behind walls and compartmentalized away from anyone. It was written about and shared. Like an iceberg what was in the compartments was far greater. In the emptiness of his world his own sense of abject failure was bumping into the osmosis of pulling the pain out of those in crisis. During the first months of his work as a crisis counselor he posted about his experiences, feelings, and the swirling of crushing emotions of this work. A few of the associates stepped up and offered brilliant, lovely, supportive, and meaningful insights and knowledge. It felt rare to him to be gifted this level of meaning and support that was palpable from afar.
He thought about one of the three associates and shook his head. He marveled at a connection that happened instantaneously one evening. It was not a chatty friends but a deeply meaningful Venn of two people who were meant to be in each others lives. The perfect Venn of caregivers. Meant to be besties of unconditional support and caring beyond what he’s experienced since his wife died.
There was a tough conversation with someone in crisis this soon to be bestie was his backup. Supporting him along with a dozen others. Chatting with her for help and insight to help this crisis he was struck by how deeply brilliant she was with clear concise instructions and ideas. He loved genus.
As the conversation was closing the person in crisis just opened up with a pure joy and sudden insight that they could survive. They saw their path and their future more clearly. He remember being so thrilled and joyful.
He said to his backup, “Oh my god you are like an amazing charm with such brilliance and qualities of support by just being here for me.” It was off the cuff. A random thought said out loud. It struck her so much so she smiled like never before. Felt his sincere, honest, and fierce respect.
Over the course of month they chatted a bit during working hours. Each chat tough benign grew more emotionally animated and connected. By the end of the month they become full on besties sharing deep and the occasional secrets, fears, hopes, and failures. Just chats and talking that on the surface were banter like and felt so deeply over time. The true meaning of friendship settled on him like a patina of glitter.
Him: My class is over and finished. Was good a lot to digest. By the by your friend having so much trust and faith in you just speaks so startling to your heart and how the universe sees and believes in you. One gosh darn lovely child of God you are
Her: You are always so sweet to me!
Him: I am learning about you all the time. I saw your light and that was knowledge.
Her: I am super curious to hear about you not deserving anything.
Him: Like your dog and those tennis balls you are keeping from him
Her: You can take your time answering. I know it is a big and deep question
Him: Short answer is I am not worthy. I have as a child and most of my life not achieved much in my eyes and projecting into the eyes of others. You see that in me.
Her: I see that you aren’t worthy?
Him: No that I don’t feel worthy. I”m always trying to be something I am not. That really shows what am. My white space speaks loud. Sense?
3.
Joy was found in the unconditional support he offered and complete bolstering of her spirit and light. He saw her light so bright and clear. Out of no where, a random stranger he wanted to lift her and present to the universe was something he did not understand why but did because he could. This imbued her with feelings that she was going to survive to the end. It was something he thought.
Always the forever presence of grief. His postings, social media, and sharing did not capture the trueness of all he shared. These friends and the continuing cascade of emotions from the wound his loss and grief journey was understood by this group of friends. It allowed him to share with honesty his feelings. He came to see more of himself as his words danced and darted before him. Now seen, understood, and embraced because they were no longer random unheard lighting strikes in his head.
The blurred focus of the image in the mirror became sharper, clearer, and more detailed. In his past iterations he knew almost nothing about himself. Now he knows too much. He sees what was unseen and feels what was unfelt in his self-imposed darkness. The mirror saw him and he saw him not the mirror.
He smiled feeling a bit of success. “I N D I A N, said slowly to the mirror.” He looked in the mirror, “You know what. I didn’t see you because I was afraid of what I would think. I see you now and I’m still not that interesting or worthy. That’s it? I guess I have to figure out what to do?”
“Commit suicide because he doesn’t want to live or because he doesn’t know how to live” Yiyun Li from the novel Where Reason Ends