I was rather fearless in talking to strangers as a kid. My sister and I flew cross country together and someone stole her bag and 4ish year old me spent the entire flight telling the passenger behind us about how my peanut butter sandwich was stolen. For several hours.
I was 11 nearly 12 when Chuck died. I wore a pink floral skirt and sweater to the funeral. Because I thought he would’ve liked it. Because traditional black seemed too dull, too sad. Remember a life, not the death I guess. Driu and I were to be alter servers for the funeral – it was Catholic. I believe Chuck requested it in his will. I think Driu had done it before. I hadn’t. My involvement in the church was limited to the minimum my family required. I went to CCD. No extras. I had no idea what to do. And I didn’t like letting anyone see a sign of weakness. Driu had a chair that wasn’t directly facing the rows of mourners. Mine was. Everyone in that church could see me perfectly. They could see tears streaming down my face. I don’t remember how much of the ceremony I performed, how long I was up there for, but I remember looking out for what seemed like an eternity at an ocean of people watching me cry.
And wondering why no one came and got me. Wanting to shrivel up and disappear. wanting to run away. Eventually someone ushered me off the stage, after a long, long, long time.
They saw me. The whole church did. They could’ve let me down sooner. They could’ve come and got me instead of watching me suffer.
I was 11.
Everytime after that, for many years, I developed a stutter, would freeze, sweat, forget lines when I had to give a public presentaton. I broke it in college because I had to do so many.
But they saw. My family watched and they saw.
I shouldn’t have expected it to be any different years later.
Laughs and Lobotomies 