My great grandmother, Mae Dora McLellan, passed away on 5/7/08; my birthday, as has been mentioned. She was 96. It’s been an emotional period sense, but for reasons that I believe aren’t so simple. Some are closely related, like talking to my Dad today and him saying he had visited with Mary and Alan Netz, Mary being his aunt, and that he figured it would be the last time he would see Alan. That’s fucked up. Many times I’ve figured I wouldn’t see someone again for a long time, but I don’t know that I’ve ever thought I would never see them again.
Mae, by Dot Tozier
Way up in Portage, where the trees grew tall,
Lived the Garrity family with two boys- that’s all.
But the last of May in the special year
A dear little, blue-eyed girl did appear.
Her hair was curly, black as a raven’s wing
And she was really just the cutest thing!
At a convent her early schooling was got—
Now she paid attention and she learned a lot.
One of the jobs in her early term
Was with a Houlton plywood firm.
The salary looked better at a Sherman mill
And Mae had the chance to fill that bill.
She hadn’t thought of marriage so soon
She’d planned for a car and a coat – raccoon!
But when Dellie saw her – right off he knew
He’d change her mind about a thing or two.
When I came to Stacyville – the 3 R’s to teach
I learned right off, she was really a “peach”.
Anything needed in the costume line
Like outfits for plays, she offered her time.
She crocheted, sewed, cooked and led the girl scouts,
Things that were needed, she figured them out.
She had two children – a girl and a boy
Who over the years have brought her much joy.
McLellan’s store was known far and wide
The dishes they gave – in homes still reside.
I can’t tell you all of the things she did
But she did a lot – what more can be said?
And now she’s leaving – we’ll miss her so much
But with letters and phones we can keep in touch!
Some dwelling hasn’t been so directly related…
Hearing that my gram died didn’t upset me emotionally too much at the time. I definitely got worn out and headed home to relax. That poem made me cry, it was written some time ago when Mae moved to Windham to be near my grandparents as she was getting old. It was read by my aunt at her funeral on Monday as well. Telling my mother about her dieing (the family is a little split up due to divorce, old habits, stubbornness) made me cry.
Reading the introduction to Success on the Step: Flying with Kenmore Air written by Bob Munro (C. Marin Faure wrote the book) made me cry. How odd, I thought. But I recalled crying in movies and other times when I get emotional. Is it empathy? How is it that implied emotions of others, however cheesy, are more felt by me than my one?
Emotions aside, I consider myself a pretty sane person. When people ask me what I want them to do, I usually tell them to do whatever they want. I’m talking about situations where I could be emotionally affected and I’m not trying to be difficult. What is the point of an action done out of sympathy if it’s not what you want to do? I think it’s a farce.
That’s a pretty grandiose statement right there, I realize. And perhaps it lacks some much needed clarification, but I think I’ll forgo that for now as it is clear in my head at least.
At the campfire last night the conversation turned to music, and books. Most of what was discussed I felt was outside of my turf and honestly I’m not real interested in forming a mental list of music and books my friends like, and therefore I should take a look at. It’s not out of any lack of respect for their opinion, it’s just that I do things as they come. If I’m looking for recommendations on a sci-fi book, classical music, or something new from the seattle hipsters paradise, I’ll ask at the time. It is, quite simply, how I work. I’ve been told in the past that I lacked a satisfactory number of opinions yet spent too much time thinking.
I went and laid down and thought about things that have been troubling me lately. The truth is that I have opinions. If someone asked me what my favorite sci-fi book was, I would have a good set of answers, or bands, or whatnot. The less time I’ve spent around a subject, quite reasonably, the less I have to say about it; but most importantly is that I don’t feel strongly about any of these things to interject my opinion.
It’s a little odd, since I’m often throwing out stories that are only related because someone said a word that happens to be a word I would use in my story, thus I tell it. Generally they’re pretty alright stories but it’s not uncommon for people to look at me and ask what the hell the story had to do with the price of rice.
How can someone who gets so torn up inside about feeling lonely and wanting emotional closeness seem to feel so little about all these other things? It may be an esteem issue all the way around, such that I just don’t think highly enough of myself and thus my opinions, to feel justified in offering them and similarly be looking for someone else’s approval. That feels a little harsh, but it’s worth considering.
The way I feel simply isn’t something controllable by me in any way. I can’t decide that I hate someone and build a new world devoid of any feelings I have related to them as a result. Feelings are a separate part of me. When it pops up, it’s like a weight in my chest holding me down. I can find no solutions really, despite knowing the things that should solve such problems.
It’s easy for me to understand how people feel and accept it, but so much harder, near impossible, to have my understand drill down to the root of my feelings and manipulate them.
I desperately want to have better tools for at least shaping and working with my emotions, but I feel under-equipped for such a battle. Worse off, I feel alone in a world full of people that on a base level still have a “get over it” or “it’s their fault” attitude towards feelings; making them utterly useless, and frankly, patronizing, to me.
I know I’ve said it before, but expecting an emotional shoulder from anyone- friends or whatnot, usually requires a) a said offer of your own emotion shoulder and b) actually letting people know what you are feeling. Walking away from the conversations more times than participating in them when emotional things come up does not lend itself to an image of someone who is open or interested in talking about how they or their friends feel, or who is open to sharing stories of similar pains, usually communicated to help people not feel so alone in their turmoiled emotions. People need to trust in order to share emotional things, as its usually uncomfortable and scary beyond belief- so maybe its not that your friends won’t listen, its that you don’t share because you don’t trust them with your emotions. Its a big give and take- they have to know that if they listen and help and trust me, I’m going to turn right back around and listen and help and trust them.
Or maybe you’re talking about people I haven’t met, because I don’t think I know any one of our friends who doesn’t have the most emocore of dispositions, which is a far cry from the “get over it” mentality you described above. If they don’t know there is a problem, how on earth can they relate, or attempt to help, or even simply sit there quietly and listen?
On another note- when my friends talk- even about things I don’t understand, could care less about, or have no opinion upon, it doesn’t matter because they are talking about things they FEEL deeply about- things they are passionate about, that dominate their free time and their thoughts. Usually, when I talk about books or music, its not in some effort to seem well read or hip or respected but its because the books and music I like are INCREDIBLY telling of how I feel, think, dream, etc. And finding friends with similar favorites is akin to sharing the aforementioned stories of emotions- it proves that I am not alone, no matter how bizarre or misdirected or silly my thoughts, feelings, hopes are- that there are others out there who can act as emotional and social buoys. Its also why I love the friends I love- why I “chose” them to begin with- whatever that spark is that ignites their passion, the dreams they have, the things they study and indulge in that shapes and defines them. Why have friends if you don’t want to share their lives, and they yours? What is friendship, if not that?
But this is silly to write all this on your blog because you live in my house. I just needed to kill time till we could watch battlestar, damnit.
With “in a world full of people…” I was speaking more generally than specifically of my/our friends, but I like most of the world doesn’t take feelings as signals for improvement, but instead is reactive to emotions in a such a way that they tend to place the blame for how they feel on others rather than, first, acknowledging that how they feel is their feeling and taking responsibility for it.
It’s an interesting irony pondering not knowing how to deal with my feelings and argue that I should be responsible for them in the same breath, but it is where I feel I am at the moment. It’s absurd saying we should take responsibility for other people when we can’t control them, but there are functional trade offs like our children; so I figure there’s some middle ground in there somewhere that is similar.
I do struggle with understanding how I come off to people. I generally consider what’s on my mind a burden to others and I’m less likely to share unless someone asks what’s up because it’s not really material for a conversation. It doesn’t go anywhere, it’s not quite venting, it’s just talking aloud.
On a different subject I’ve been thinking again about considering people’s lack of effort to hang out, call, write, whatever as somehow indicative of their interest in me/being my friend/etc. It all makes sense in my head when I think about it, but my heart and head have been mortal enemies since the before time.
I wouldn’t want anyone to think I wouldn’t value their insight, as long as they’re not telling me I should tough it out or anything dense, but I just do really struggle with growing up feeling that thinking and feeling weren’t altogether that important in a person; that it was what you do, not what you think or feel, that made you a good person or a useful person; worth being around.