Perception: Unspoken Rules

 

Dear Grandma,

This is not the post I had in mind to write. No worries; I will write that one and schedule it for a special day. However, the above graphic is the closest to matching where I am at the moment. 

The day started off rough. What I thought was just extended muscle soreness from working out is shaping into an arthritic flare-up. This means I will have to take prescription medication since the over-the-counter remedies have not been effective. Also, I was experiencing digestive upset ... more from the reintroduction of festive eating than anything. I decided to skip going to the gym; even without the soreness, it would not have been effective anyway.

By the time 9:00 rolled around, I wasn't hungry. My stomach was agitated, but I was open to having hot coffee.

While I was sipping my coffee, Jazz received a call from one of her family members, and the discussion of Thanksgiving came up. This family member commented that she was glad that one of her friends made the Sweet Potato pie because she said that her making the pie wouldn't be the same as a Southern black woman making the pie. 

My ears perked up at the comment. I wasn't upset yet, but I was wondering what she meant by the comment. However, I didn't want to be rude. Jazz and the family member were on video call, and the phone was facing so that only Jazz could see her. 

This family member continued to associate a Black Southern woman's rendition of sweet potato pie as something that's sassy and has attitude. That the sweet potato pie could hit her in the face. This family member was giggling as if this was the funniest thing ever.

Grandma, you know how my fingers start tapping when I'm getting annoyed or upset?

Well, my fingers started tapping against the coffee cup. Jazz has been around me for soon-to-be ten years now. She knows my unspoken mannerisms of agitation. Yet, since it's her family, I felt it wasn't my place to address this low vibrational, stereotypical, not remotely funny joke.

Instead, Jazz said, "So the pie was going to hit you in the face, huh?"

I went hot and cold at the same time. I was in utter disbelief. Some more emotions followed, but that was the very first one. A few moments later, Jazz said that she had to go to the bathroom as a means of the call ending because she could see I was very uncomfortable.

If Jazz had said what she intended to do to counter the disrespect immediately, it would have been one thing. But she is looking at me ... at my reaction. 

One of the things I've learned is that I do not speak when I feel hurt, wronged, and disrespected, not only will this manifest negatively, but I may become resentful. 

I was feeling a type of way, and I let Jazz know. There are so many layers that I don't even think she realizes. Her hesitation read as co-signing on the behavior. It was worse when she low-key tried to joke with that family member while looking at how it impacted me.

Grandma, you know I am the Queen of poker faces, but if anyone was talking slick to you, the location would not have mattered.

Jazz cared more about making things peaceful for her visiting daughter's last day here than the temperature of my emotions.

I get her viewpoint, but I don't agree.

There are respectful ways to check someone's ignorance and disrespect. She could have said, "It's poor taste to joke that way, and I don't find it funny" at that moment. Boom and boom.

The fact that the offense isn't addressed immediately allows the pain inflicted to linger.

This bothers me because I would (and have) never done that to her. 

Her daughter is leaving. Jazz will still be in this space with me.

I don't doubt that she is sorry, but I don't know yet how to move forward.

Jazz told me from the beginning that she considers me family, but she allowed her blood to disrespect me.

How am I truly supposed to feel like I'm family when in the moment to stand for me, she's selective in when that advocacy occurs? 

It makes me feel a way, and I can't shake it.

She's apologized and the whole nine, but the incident reminds me of the divide each time I defended her viewpoint of our connection to others, you know?

I left the house for a while and took a walk.

It's almost one o'clock and I haven't eaten.

I haven't taken all the medications that I should have at this point.

Grandma, I don't know what to do.

I'm not expecting perfection from any person. I never have. There are just unspoken rules when it comes to protecting those you love.

I didn't feel like she did that, and there aren't enough emotions to describe how that is impacting my energy.

Today, I am going to spend time with myself. I'm socially tapped out. I need to replenish. I'm going to pray for continued growth and healing. If this is the reveal symbolized in my dream, then I pray for the strength to navigate through what is next.

Until next time,

I love you.

Pouring Until Empty

 

Dear Grandma,

Last night, I had a dream about your ritual on my birthday. By ritual, I mean, you calling to sing "Happy Birthday" and then passing the phone on to Grandpa to send his brief but heartfelt sentiments. Then, in his fashion, he would pass the phone over to you and we would chat. The length of the conversation varied, but you would always call.

If you did not call, then you would send a birthday card. When Grandpa was living, he'd always tuck something in the card.

I woke up with your voice lingering, and I couldn't sit with Jazz and be one hundred percent present. I longed to be on the other side of the line. Not to where it would generate worry, but I wanted to re-experience the joy and happiness I felt to be cherished, appreciated, and poured into.

The realization that I would (more than likely) not experience such a high level of appreciation gave me heaviness in my heart. I was reminded of the punctures in my heart.

No matter how many memories kept it beating, the reality of your and Grandpa's absences would disrupt the rhythm and/or just make it stop.

I hesitated in expressing this. It is autopilot for me to carry the heavier emotions. I've learned it's unhealthy for me to continuously carry emotional weight, but it's become more complicated than being vulnerable and transparent. Many questions fire off in my brain in milliseconds:

• Who should I express this to?
• Is this person in a space to be receptive?
• Will this person discount what I'm saying?
• Will this person take offense?
• Will this person try to go tit for tat on who has the greatest amount of trauma happening?
• Will I receive the generic response of "it's going to be okay"?
• Or the standard, "Don't cry", "Come on, you're better than this", and "You're strong; no need for all that crying"?

Even typing this, it's maddening to go through this cycle of questioning before feeling safe enough to speak.

After deciding that I wanted to express these thoughts, they tumbled out, along with the tears, which had already spilled during my mental gymnastics.

Verbally expressing my emotions never seems as streamlined as when I write them out. There are digressions, and expansions on the digressions, but I try to get back to the core.

The multiple takeaways are:

I miss you.

I miss Grandpa.

It hurts that Mom hasn't stepped up to be the mom she said she wanted to be for me (for whatever reason). Yes, this is magical thinking.

(Sigh ... Chalk it up to remnants of the little girl who optimistically believed it's unnatural for a mother not to want the best bond with her daughter.)

At times, being of service isn't enough.

I pour into others that do not pour into me with the same exuberance. Those people who solely took from me are no longer in my circle ... most of them, you warned me about.

The ones who remain ... who truly care about me ... it's difficult for me to express this.

What can I say? When you are used to not being seen or heard, it feels like magical thinking to expect a different outcome.

There are moments when I could do with a few more hugs and words of affirmation, even though they are on the lower end of my five love languages.

To know whom to get the aforementioned from, along with not feeling awkward about being the recipient of these things, is a struggle for me.

I want life spoken into me, especially those rare moments when life feels harder than death. 

The latter is one of those days.

I visualize things I may want to do or have, but your loss makes these things hazy. Your birthday melody and your voice made the start of the day brighter and the end of the day incomplete.

How can brightness still exist in a world where you are gone? Where Grandpa is gone?

I'm still seeking that brightness. 

I'm currently poured out.

Before, I would somehow turn air into liquid and continue to pour.

Now, I have to simply say, "I don't have it."

Every moment, day, and hour feels too long to take things as they come. It all comes too fast, and I'm swimming against the tide of my anguish.

Today ...  I'm just not okay.

I love you.

💓

Discoveries and Development

 

It is always the week before the 3rd Sunday in June when my heart feels heavy. It has been just over thirteen years since my grandpa's passing. Although time lessens the impact, the void is expansive.

To me, my grandpa wasn't just my grandpa. He was the only dad I knew.

We are at the age where children look back critically at what generations before them did.

Some of their gripes are justified.

Yet, there weren't many guidebooks to assist people with parenting back then. You winged it and did the best you could. You hoped your kids would understand when you fell short and be open to providing grace and understanding.

Grandpa was a simple man. He loved doing things with his hands. He enjoyed being outside. When he felt like being social, he would hop in his car and take a ride. He would do the same if he felt disgruntled.

Grandpa was not an excessive talker ... at least not around Grandma or me. He never was on the phone long — very direct and to the point.

He did not say "I love you" often, but when he did, it was sweet and awkward. He showed his love through actions ... what he was willing to do for people.

Grandpa was far from perfect.

It was a challenge for him to cope with difficult emotions, especially when he and Grandma did not see eye-to-eye.

Grandma had a penchant for going over a topic repeatedly until she was heard, and quite often, acquiesced to. Think of using a hammer to drive a nail into a board. Then, think of hitting the nail well after it's secured in the board. 

Grandpa wasn't the type to go back and forth with a person. He didn't like someone repeating a point continuously. His go-to response was to go to his room, go outside, or get in his car and drive away. 

On the rare occasion when Grandma followed him before he made it to his room or the door to leave the house, he would fire off a line or two. This only gave Grandma more ammunition. 

After the whole debacle, things would reset.

There were no exchanges of apology or speaking on what could have been done better. There were no conversations about anger management, conflict resolution, marriage counseling, or individual counseling. They dealt with their angst with each other (as well as other people) privately or confided with the one other person in the house. 

I was too young to offer any counsel. I dared not take a side. I would listen quietly and just let them vent. Who knows? Maybe that was enough to make them feel better.

Yes, it would have been healthier for them to have other adults to talk to about deeper topics. But, as I got older, I realized they were uncomfortable discussing any troubles in-house outside the house, even to people they called their closest friends or confidants.

I did not know Grandpa's reasoning, but I did know that Grandma got burned in her past by someone she trusted spilling secrets. Once Grandma was wronged, she never forgot and never forgave.

This way of being was passed down to other members of the family.

The art of not causing any upset, even if that caused the essence of your being in pain. Making the decision not to speak on troubles for fear of judgment if word ever spread in our small town. Believing that praying, reading the Bible, and attending church would heal everything; no medical or professional intervention required.

My mom was the first to attempt to break the cycle, albeit not in the healthiest way. She would express any and everything to whoever would listen. (This has a high level of irony, but I won't get into that in this post. That is a separate post altogether.)

With expressing everything to everyone, you must have a high level of discernment. If you do not, you leave the door open for others to take advantage of you and even poison your original way of thinking into theirs. 

My mom's ability to discern, to put it lightly, is askew. Of course it would be if you became emotionally and mentally stunted at sixteen. That was when I came into the picture.

I am the amalgamation of my mom, Grandma, and Grandpa. 

I am a highly private person, but I am a creative person who shares with the world.

I am easily a lone wolf yet attract people who want to have roles in my life.

I do not speak much but when I do, it's never from a shallow place. I am a confidant to many, yet I only share with a select few.

I move with a high level of awareness, empathy, and discernment, which permits me the ability to look at situations from different angles.

I am slow to anger but when I am angered, it's not out of anything small or frivolous. My anger has many levels — from explosive with passion to cold with disappointment and all the nuances in between.

It was later in my adult years when it dawned on me that the coping mechanisms that were passed down were not altogether healthy. If anything, they stunted not only my emotional growth but my spiritual growth.

Being out in the world became my education outside of what I received in college. 

Yes, I knew there would be conflict with others, but I initially lacked the tools to navigate. To detect which were "hills to stand on", which were "agree to disagree", and which were "let them go".

I also had to figure out how to have conversations to convey my thoughts ("I want", "I think", "I feel", etc.) without placing blame or giving the other person the power to control my emotions.

I had to develop discernment of situations and people and look through a logical, objective lens.

These life skills take time and practice, along with years of unlearning other techniques.

I will not say my grandparents passed down toxicity. They just did what they knew and weren't aware of doing things differently. Their method impacted my openness to social situations, which caused an imbalance of emotional intimacy in friendships and romantic relationships. It impeded my ability to reach full vulnerability when I experienced my darkest times.

Even now, I rarely say I love you first. It has nothing to do with lacking this emotion but more from a place of reassurance plus my disdain for rejection. Also, I don't say "love" unless I mean it.

It is disappointing that the emotional support from my biological family during the biggest losses of my life is lacking. It sucks that it isn't surprising, but I can't expect these things when they were not taught them. I would rather they be genuine than performative.

I am fortunate to have people who have been there for me and recognize I have better days than others. I lost the two people who served as Ma and Pa. Even lone wolves need support and community sometimes.

With Grandma's passing, I realized I never went through my grieving process for Grandpa. It was the reality of not having them both.

When Grandpa passed away, I was going through my own life events that I had to tend to once I returned to New Jersey. Plus, I had Grandma to talk to, and we would often talk about the memories we had with him.

With her gone, it made everything painfully real. I'm grieving present sorrow and delayed sorrow ... quite a double whammy.

As Father's Day approaches, I think of Grandpa. Sending him a Father's Day card. Giving him a call just to talk to him for a few minutes. Gifting him his favorite things. The two of us listening to music in his car. His secret stash of candy underneath his car seat he thought no one knew about. There are many more ... these are just the one-liners.

He may not be the modern definition of a dad, but as Grandma would say, "He brought me a mighty long way."

Honestly, I turned out all right.

Peace.