12:023 a.m. - Sunday, Nov. 4, 2012
A Practice in Asking
He hates to hear the clickety-clack of her fingertips against the keys. The sound of the seemingly ever-growing chasm widening between them. He is right. When she is writing, she is far away. Never have two people so physically close in proximity been so far apart. But it's been six days of cold and darkness, and with power finally restored . . .She earned it. There's something supernatural that happens in her fingers. There's a connection between heart and brain and hands. And everything she thinks and feels and believes and fears and loves and hates . . .is clear. And she is expressive, and unlocked. Free. She can write what she can't say. She becomes someone else.
The cold nights have induced some wild dreams. Dreams of her mother. Validation, confrontation . . .a self-actualized version of her mother. Of course it had to be a dream. It triggered memories of conversations that were not dreams.
"Didn't you ever feel unsure, Mom? Didn't you ever feel depressed, or . . .like you wanted something else?" "No," she said, with a confused look on her face. "What did you see in him?" her mother asked. "I don't know . . .It wasn't about him. I had low self-esteem, I guess." "You think you had low self-esteem? You had friends. You seemed confident. We didn't know. We would have done something." Guilt. Self-doubt. Did she have low self-esteem? Was she that good at hiding what she didn't want other people to see? Or is this a story she created to justify her inability to leave this asshole? Something had to be wrong. She is obsessed with cause and effect. Obsessed. One of her many addictions.
She has to practice asking for what she wants. Because it paralyzes her. Causes physical pain. Threatens her very existence.
I think of you as my surrogate mother. You gave me what she couldn't. I could be silent, I could be angry, I could be self-revealing, I could be serious, I could curse, I could be dramatic, I could be resistant. And it was always OK. It was mirrored back to me . . .reframed, but not distorted. I felt safe. I felt loved, even. But what I don't get is what I haven't asked for. I think in all of this, I have been searching for the intimacy of a mother. For the loving touch of a mother. Never asked for, and so self-deluded as to believe it wasn't desired . . .because it couldn't be had. Wasn't available from her. So it came out in different ways. And was never what I wanted, because it was never clear - even to me - what I really wanted. So I don't know if this is part of the answer, but what I want is the touch. Not sexual. Not sensual. I want you, my surrogate mother, to touch my hand. To hold my hand. To rub my hand. To squeeze my hand. While we talk. And don't let go.
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