In the Quiet Heart

In spite of how much I talk and how chatty I often am, there are many things I don't say. Plans and hopes for the future, feelings about myself and other people, reflections and realizations are usually what stick in my throat. Many times, these things are the most important things I could say, but I don't. I'm like those soap opera characters I get frustrated with who never can bring themselves to say the one thing that will fix the problem, solve the crime, or avert disaster. I can't seem to help myself, but I think I have a clue as to why.

When I was four years old, my maternal grandparents were flood-irrigating their lawn and I was splashing around in the shallow water. I splashed too close to the ditch and fell in. Although it wasn't deep by adult standards, I was totally immersed in water and, panicking, proceeded to drown. My grandfather's hand pulled me out. From that moment on, I had a fear of water.

Realizing they needed to do something to help me overcome my fear so I could survive in water, my parents put me in swimming lessons the next summer at the Blackfoot Municipal Swimming Pool. I was extremely apprehensive and grew to dread the experience with each new session. The brilliant team of teachers there that summer adhered to the philosophy that "sink or swim" was the best way to cure anyone of their hydrophobia. What do you do with a kid scared spitless of drowning? You throw him in the pool. When that doesn't work, what then? Well, you force him to climb the high dive and jump off, repeatedly. Of course, there is someone below the diving board to catch the kid if he's about to drown, but if at first you don't succeed, try, try again. I can still see the brown haired mullet man with the mustache and blue eyes treading water in the pool below the dive, waiting for me to gather my frazzled wits and plunge into his arms. He was pretty cute, by the way. You'd think I could have found some courage to impress him, right? Sadly, that's not really my nature and it didn't work.

Two weeks agonized by. Waking up in the morning was torture because I knew I had to go to the pool and endure the shame and terror all over again. The drive to that pool is etched with churning stomach acid in my mind, and to this day, the blue Blackfoot water tower reminds me of my humiliation. (If I remember correctly, I did develop stomach/digestion problems during that period. I can hear my parents talking about it.)

Finally, it was the second Friday, my last session. We were to be tested on all the skills covered, which for me meant just being able to jump in and tread water for a bit. Dad asked if I wanted him to be there. Filled with the determination to make my dad proud and determinedly believing that somehow a miracle would occur, I told him yes. We got in the car and drove to the pool, my anxiety pounding at me while I kept telling myself I could do it, convincing myself that force of will would make it work.

To make a long story short, I made myself jump three times. Each time, I failed to do anymore than rise to the top of the water. In shame, I had to cling instead to the sexy teacher's chest as he helped me back to the side of the pool. The disappointment and dashed hopes got heavier with each failure, diminishing my chances of success.

On the drive home, Dad's frustration got the better of him. "Why did you ask me to come?" he asked, his voice tinged with the bitter edge of disappointment. I think I tried to answer with something that made sense, trying to communicate why I thought this time I could do it. I don't remember the words I said, but I remember nothing I said made it better and I lapsed into silence, the shame eating its way into my five-year-old soul.

That and other early experiences gave me a compulsive aversion to failure.  Even when I have reason to think I can succeed, I don't like to tell people what I'm planning or hoping for fear that I'll fail and disappoint us both. This holds true in every relationship I have. Even now, there are important things I should be telling someone and I just can't do it. What if it doesn't really happen? What if I'm fooling myself? I've already let this person down before, so how can I raise their hopes only to dash them again? At this point, I don't know if their hopes would rise even if I told them. So I stay silent. As Simon & Garfunkel sang, "Silence like a cancer grows." The tumor is getting bigger.

Why don't you see me? Why can't you read what's in my heart? Why haven't you taken all the things you know about me and deduced what's really going on? I've shared more about myself with you than almost anyone else in my life. I'm right here in front of you. Why don't you see me? These are all fair questions to ask, right? (For those of you who can't hear the sarcasm of that last sentence, it's there.)

So, the point of this blog? Aside from the oblique comment on my nascent sexuality, it's partly a cry to be heard, partly a memoir fragment, and partly a warning to anyone who will listen that the sorrows the eye can't see often won't reveal themselves in words. They come to light in action or the lack thereof. Take time to read the behavior, then ask if what you're observing means what you think it does. Cancer kills. Don't let it win. (Don't worry. I see the three fingers pointing back at me under the finger I'm pointing at you.)