Silent in the Face of Panic and Heartbreak

I attended Unitarian Universalist service today for the first time. I rode in early with a choir member so she could attend rehearsal.

Sitting nervously in the corridor-side edge of a pew, unwilling to trap myself in the middle of one of the long benches, I curled quietly. In waves, I felt exposed. As the people gradually filtered in, the edge of panic at the potential for judgement and the eyes of strangers flickered up, threatening, and ebbing down, and rising up again. I tied part of a macrame bracelet, pinned to my backpack, set on my knee, and turned my eyes down and set my fingers working in their fidgeting work when the anxiety rose, as a way to curl in.

Fearing that others may try to ask me questions I felt I would not be able to answer, but only burst into tears at my own inability, I had the forethought to take my pocket notebook out shortly before service ended and write clearly: "I'M SORRY - I'M NOT FEELING ABLE TO TALK RIGHT NOW."

The one person I handed this notebook to as answer to their greeting questions about whether I had enjoyed the service nodded and took a half-step back immediately on comprehending the words. I did have a bit of trouble finding routes to move around people engaged in conversation, scattered here and there in aisles and in the party area downstairs.

Downstairs for tea and coffee, at the table for writing nametags, I wrote my chosen name, and stood for a long indecisive time with a marker of a second color in my hand, trying to find a way to express succinctly enough for a nametag what I wished be known. I settled for "MAY MIGHT NOT SPEAK", which seemed to serve well enough. Those people speaking to me caught sight of it if I just angled a bit, and then spoke without expecting me to answer in words. One kind lady for instance first asked if I was looking for something, and then upon seeing it, told me where the coffee and tea was. Coffee was, indeed, what I had been looking for, and I was at first looking at the wrong table.

I summoned my nerve to speak when the lady who had led most of the service stepped near. I thought I had already missed my opportunity, or perhaps ought to wait and see more of her manner on another visit first. But being brought so close by chance, I attracted her attention, speaking softly and shy, and asked, given her mentioning a love of collecting all sorts of Christmas music, whether she'd added the H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society versions to her collection yet. It seems my recommendation was welcomed with some delight. It brings a smile to my face to remember in order to relate it.

Throughout the service, while panic flickered and was soothed in waves like a tide, as my developed instinct to be averse to ritualized group ceremonies (as they strengthen ties that often lead to groupthink) rose and railed as the people chanted their sacrament, rose and sat, sang, held hands to sway together, and made arches with arms for young ones to pass under. I might have wished to join in better, but the rhythm of the service was unfamiliar to me; still deeply associated with traditions that rankle my thoughts; some of the songs unknown; and as well, had I wished to sing, my voice, I feared, would have croaked and shrilled with sobbing.

I joined in singing "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear" in a deep register and some softness, though tears streamed from my eyes. I stood to go and light two candles when the time was called to do so, although with a fear in me that this was something meant to be arranged beforehand or paid for. It seems it was not, though.

Sometimes, it was not really fear that insulated me from the warmth and welcome of the friendly people at the chapel, nor perhaps even my old accustomed sense of distance and barrier from people who are being happy, relaxed people together. It was heartbreak, still thick upon me like dust or fiberglass. Heartbreak, which renders its host profoundly alone although they may be in a crowd of recognized friends.

And so I lived for a time on the edge of panic and in the thickness of heartbreak, and sat crying. And I wished I could have told someone, through my silence, through my sense of isolation, and the intent of the assembled congregation, I know. I know and I need, for this time, to live on the edge of panic and in the thick of heartbreak, and to cry and endure and sit with my tears on my breast.

And so I have, and so I do. I will cry until my crying runs out and is not replenished by water and salt and sleep.

I have been struggling with the question of how much to let go.

Christmas Crash

After my last post here, I decided to look back a ways and revisit what my feelings had been in November, when I was just setting up my resolution to return to Ireland. I was a little shaken to see how uncertain I had been about how I might expect Eoin to feel, and how much more confident it seemed that I had become.

Of course, I have been careful to avoid developing any sort of certainty that I would be welcomed, and every time I think or speak on it, I at least pay some lip service to the possibility that for some reason or another I would not be welcomed back. But by often envisioning him hugging or kissing me, by remembering his smile and his affection, I think I have further reinforced the notion to myself that I will be greeted with love of some kind.

Upon observing the distinct change in my confidence, a crumbling came on me that was probably well due. I had been working hard, catching up and keeping up with my schoolwork in one thing or another, for a solid stretch and I was tired. My spirits had been flagging uncertainly, waiting for the fall for some time, but I kept pulling them up again. This observation, though, and an opportunity to doubt and wonder if all my confidence had been built up by self-conditioning and wishful thinking, was just the slip I needed, and the fall came.

However, as these things go, I will say it was short. I spent almost all of a day in bed or idling, watching YouTube videos to fill mental space with noise, sleeping in frequent bursts. The next day, I reached out to my friends, although wretchedly and in an awful conflict, grumpy from social neglect and fatigue, feeling the stresses of ancient habits of self-doubt and deprecation bending but not entirely broken. I was surly and rude and plaintive to those who took the time to listen, but...

Throughout it, I acknowledged that I was in a crash at the end of a long streak of positivity. I spoke through all of my feelings and complaints over everything from my doubts about Eoin to procrastination of tasks I found intimidating or dull to feeling fatter than usual, but at every point I spoke of feelings and imaginings, and did not say that any great flaw I saw in myself was fact. I managed some gruff apologies and excuses to those friends I leant on. I held my tongue for vital moments some moments, and pointedly avoided some opportunities to pick fights even though I had to wrestle with my impulses and irritability to do so.

I was invited to play Jackbox 4 games by one of my dear old friends and enjoyed them, although the way we played over stream and without voice chat was less intimate than I used to enjoy from Jackbox games and had an irritating delay. Still, being welcomed into the fold for social fun was something I acknowledged that I badly needed, and had gone too long without.

I did not expect anything for Christmas, and did not get much. One friend bought me a game soundtrack that I had put on my wishlist at some point. I was happy to have been thought of with such a gesture, and made a point of saying so and giving my thanks.

With the patient ear of one friend, some friendly invitations and thoughts from others, and the vital acknowledgement that although not perfect, my judgement in times of happy optimism is probably better than when I am breaking down with doubt and fear; that so long as I do not presume to be infallible, sustaining my spirits on a reasonable hope is a fair and fine way of carrying on, I recovered fairly quickly. This morning, I woke and got back to some schoolwork pretty much first thing. In the early afternoon, I made a point of going outside just for the sake of my health.

Having come back here to write, although I have paused uncertainly many times, will be the last thing on my list of things I have set myself a duty to do today. Having done this, I will be free to relax, or to work up the courage to do something a little more intimidating, like returning for a brief refresher to my JavaScript lessons, or working on my resume to send to companies that might be my key to get back to Ireland. Ah... Breathe, Serp, breathe. It is still intimidating, that. Taking a solid step toward a desperate goal usually is, I think.

Dear Memory: Merry Christmas

Good morning, my dear memory, Eoin...

Whether it is mania or high spirits, I have been more or less able to maintain a streak of it this long, and I feel happy and fortunate for it, although my sleep schedule bends one way and then the other and I do wonder how much longer I can keep it up. Recently, I wake at about 4:30 in the morning, and particularly recently, I have been inclined to set to some form of productivity or another very soon after. Gradual progress is being made toward moving preparations, and on completing each of my school assignments before they come due.

Well... There was one I let slide, but it is in an easy class. I will need to cover the material on my own time anyway, I think, since I did not go to the class that gave instruction for it. I have not gone to classes Monday or Tuesday lately, because those classes are in courses that I excel at easily and my sleep schedule frequently gets all turned around on the weekend.

You are often on my mind, and sometimes I am not sure what to do with the thoughts of you. No longer driven to despair about them, for I have my plan. At the same time, I feel as though I must exhaust the variety of fancies and hopes and get tired of repeating them over and over.

Often when you come to mind, it is just the memory of your face, your hair, the soft deep sound of your voice and its mild accent. Sometimes, the way I remember you saying "shore" (as I always heard from your "sure") as you often did, open to suggestion and rarely fussy in any way. I have remembered the meal you often made of pasta with tomato sauce full of bell pepper, remembering and revisiting my happiness with your unpretentious, resourceful competence at cooking.

My fancy wanders to other happy wants. To go swimming, or skating, or to eventually learn to fly in a squirrel suit, and more.

Winter has softened for a bit, and some of the snow has melted to show patches of green. The large banks are filthy with all the accumulated dirt left behind from what has melted, to sit on top of what has not. The weather is still cool, but less cold and these past two days I have gone to school comfortably with just my t-shirt and a jacket.

I have a pupil at the college for tutoring, in the system that the college sets up to enable it. I will meet him later today, although all the details are of course confidential. This will be the first time I have actually gotten to meet a student to tutor them for pay, despite being on the register of available tutors for two years. I am happy about the occasion, although setting up the meeting through conflicting schedules has been a chore.

I begin to fear that I might run out of things to write here to you... Perhaps it is just that no particular subject has brought me here, but I thought I ought to write soon, since it's been a week and if I leave it off too long, I might forget right up until some awful pain of heartbreak reminds me. It is better to take a moment to acknowledge you, my love, though awfully far away and entirely beyond my reach by our mutual agreement, before the force of needing to do so rips it painfully out of me.

Anyway, it is clear what I should say just now. Christmas comes... I will feel myself probably to be solemnly and sadly alone for some parts the holiday. I will certainly reach out to my friends for happiness as I can. But you... You should be either with dear friends of your own or with your close family, perhaps back in Athboy and meeting your brother and the friends of your childhood. With a tear in my eye, I imagine you there, remember the house where I got to meet them. Or perhaps you might still be abroad in China, meeting with your beloved sister! I know you had plans to go meet her this winter. Above all, dear memory, I wish you and all your loved ones the very best holiday you could have, wherever you are. And for myself, I might hope that sometime this Christmas, you would spare a thought to wish me well in kind.

Merry Christmas, dear Memory, Merry Christmas and a fresh and wonderful new year. It may not be in the coming year that I set foot again in your country, but I will be taking slow steps toward it, one after the other, in the midst of every other obligation of school and home and friends. This is what I offer to you this Christmas, the only thing I can really offer you now. I hope that when at last you know of my efforts, you will be happy I made them. I hope that this Christmas, before you are likely to know any more of them than a distant and uncertain possibility, you are happy as well.