stories part 2

So much for my resolution to blog once a week. It doesn’t count until January, right?

Here’s to renewing the vow. To my credit, I did have a draft a few weeks ago….

Last month I officially became a resident of Colorado. For the last 34 years of my life, I’ve always called Mississippi my home. It was more “home” as a matter of logistics—I was born in the Magnolia state, lived my entire childhood there and carried a Mississippi driver’s license from the time I was 15 ½ until just last month. Don’t get me wrong—there are many things I will always love about Mississippi—my relationship with the state is quite tangled. I’ve gone from being neutral about my birthplace to trying to become what I thought was the quintessential southerner to fit in, to blaming Mississippi for all my flaws, to back to a more neutral affiliation with the state. I could write a whole post on my relationship with Mississippi.

My parents are not from Mississippi. Not from a state where most seem to come from families that claim residency for generations back.  My parents met in New York City when my father was an Ear, Nose and Throat Medical Resident and my mother found herself in his office as a graduate student at New York University. My father always fast forwards through the story of how they met—he doesn’t have to tell me how professional he was–I already assumed he couldn’t flirt—but when my mother was discharged as his patient, he called to check up on her and the rest is history.

 My father was the second-born son in a traditional Indian family and grew up in Delhi, India. His older brother, Ashok, and he lived with my grandparents in a single room house until he was 16, when his younger brother Manoj was born. Arranged marriages were common when my “Papa” was growing up, and as I’ve been told, my grandparents were in the middle of arranging a marriage with my dad and my grandfather’s boss’ daughter when my father met my mother. You can’t make this stuff up.

 Growing up, I didn’t know many other families that were like mine. My mother is from Indiana (a “Yankee”, according to Mississippi standards) and my father, as mentioned, grew up in India. I often had to clarify that my Indian heritage is different than the Native American Indians that most people readily assumed I was referring to since I share more of my mother’s features. (I have been asked, multiple times, if I am the Indian with the “dot” or the “feather”—these days people are probably [hopefully] more politically correct).

My yoga teacher tells me I’m “sensitive”—she says more than likely, I’ve been taught this was suboptimal. She’s right—I remember high school friends making fun of my natural disposition (and my fashion–although I can now claim I was ahead of my time for knowing high-waisted pants and ankle boots would come back in style.)

I was the girl who opted to lie on the driveway and wish on falling stars, my favorite burnt CD playing in the background. Maybe my sensitivity had something to do with the way I later relied on alcohol to numb my feelings or the duffel bags full of journals that I’m not ready to read without crying at some lost past.

I don’t need Sarah McLaughlin and shelter dogs to be the commercial that breaks me. I tear up when a Friends re-run comes on and I realize that Ross and Rachel are on a break.

I’ve always known I felt things in a big way. One of my earliest memories is me, standing on the driveway of our old house at 282 Northpointe Parkway, waiting for my father, my Papa to come home from work. I was so excited to see him. I love my Papa. I was a daddy’s girl: I wore his big t-shirts and played with his ties and made stick figures of him. And all my stick figures came with one very important, distinguishing feature: a mustache. A few dark zig-zags from a marker was all it took to transform a stick figure into my Papa.

Anyway, I’m standing on the driveway waiting for Papa to come home. I see him pull up in his white Acura car that my sister and I had dubbed “Whitey” (probably not the most politically correct name for a car in this day and age). I remember him putting Whitey in park, rolling down the window, and his face starting to come into view.

I see his dark brown eyes that I love so much, his chubby cheeks, his nose that I like to poke at and…

Wait…. What?! The. Everlovinggoodness.

Something is not right.

Where is the mustache?

My father’s face is looking at me but something is not right. Not right at all.

My Papa is a stick figure with a dark zig zag over his smile. I have never known Papa without a mustache.

I don’t think my father expected such a terrified reaction: a bawling toddler, scared senseless because something happened to Papa’s face.

So, yes. I am quite sensitive. I always have been. I don’t like change.

Maybe that’s partly why I fell in love with alcohol. I learned how to mute the intensity of how strongly I felt things. I never liked being the girl who got so down when a boy rejected her. I didn’t want to come across as “sensitive” or “too much”.  I didn’t want someone else to have the upper hand or have so much power over how I felt. After a glass or two (or five) of wine, I realized that I was in control again. I could push down the memories of rejection, I could become someone else. I was strong, defiant, words bounced off instead of burrowing inside.

In high school, I loved to act. I tried out for every play, and often got some of the top roles. I would transform into a character on stage. I loved not having to be a certain way. I could explore. I could become someone else. I found such safety on stage. I could try different things, be someone else. I didn’t have to keep fitting into the mold that was expected from me. I devoured lines, memorized them until they became my language, I bled into the scenes, I uncovered the character’s past.

Alcohol was like being on stage. I could melt, merge, morph into something else. I could release the parts of me that I didn’t like. I could pick and choose how I wanted to be, who I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. It was like a magic potion. I had an energy I’d never had before. I could say things I’d never said out loud before. I could push away regret, let go of shame, I felt invincible.

Until I didn’t.

Because the magic only works for a short time.

Alcohol was a magic potion until it was the thing that changed me into my worst enemy. The thing that shattered relationships, that put dreams on hold, that made me do things I never would do sober. Alcohol caused me to lose days of my life. Sounds dramatic—maybe you’d say I’m being sensitive­—but you can’t know until you’ve walked this walk. Hopefully you never have to.

Today I’m better. I’ve found community—people that get the “sensitivity,” the reliance on magic potions that no longer work. I’ve found in vulnerability and authenticity that a whole new world exists—one in which life isn’t as scary or foreign or cruel.

I’m still figuring things out—and I have a feeling I always will be—but I know where to go when the going gets rough.

So—to New Year’s Resolutions. I recently read that maybe, instead of a list of “to-do’s,” maybe it’s worthy to make a list of “let go’s.”

My let-go’s:

-Letting go of negative self-talk

-Letting go of any kind of numbing (just because I don’t drink anymore doesn’t mean I don’t numb with Netflix)

-Letting go of over-spending (goodbye, Target and Amazon…at least I’ll try to cut down!)

-Letting go of hiding when things go wrong

 

And, because I’ve always loved a to-do list, my resolutions for this year:

-Start my memoir

-Keep teaching yoga

-Blog once a week!

-Live a life I can be proud of

 

 

Addendum:

My yoga teacher meant my sensitivity was a gift. I forgot that part. I’m beginning to realize the truth in that. That my sensitivity allows me to empathize, to feel, to experience the emotions so raw and natural in life.

Yes, maybe I tear up in Friends re-runs, in Queer Eye episodes (as recent as last night!), when I become invested in a patient… but I’d rather live life this way than go through the motions numbed, oblivious, cut-off. I’d rather experience life on its full-spectrum and find ways to deal with the ache of my sensitivity (recommended options include crystals and sage clearings–a far cry from my Mississippi upbringing but I’ll try it all!)

Sensitivity isn’t a negative word. It simply means “quick to respond to slight changes, signals, or influences.” With this definition of the word, I think us sensitives have a leg up in avoiding serial killers and con-artists. So, I’ll take my sensitivity, I’ll learn to accept it, I’ll embrace it… thank you very much 🙂