Unconditional

It is strange how often I am surprised by people's stories.  I am not sure I should be at this point, I mean, I have heard many, but still, I find that my assumptions about people are often completely wrong.

I know a woman who is, well, strikingly beautiful I guess would be the best way to put it, incredibly confident, smart, and pretty funny.  When I first met her, I assumed she had it all together, and of course, there was my jealousy that came along with the observation of all of the characteristics she is imbued with.  Not too long ago, she told me she had been reading my blog and that she had a story for me.  I had not considered asking her, and when she offered, I was surprised.  I quite mistakenly saw her as someone who might not have a story to tell.

When she walked into the room, I could tell that she was carrying it with her, and as she went about picking her ball, I started to wonder if I was going to be able to handle it.  There are times when some of these stories knock me for a loop emotionally, and I have to work through the thoughts and feelings they bring up in me in order to write about them with some kind of clarity.  This was one of those.

She sat down and told me that when she was born, her mother was only seventeen and her father was twenty.  It had been an unplanned pregnancy, but as her mother was Catholic, she got married and had her child, hoping for the best.  While she was still very young, her parents divorced, and she already did not have a comfortable relationship with her father.  She vividly remembers being ignored while no one was around, but being the object of pride when people visited.  When her parents split, and her mother would arrange for her to see her father, she would beg her mother not to leave her alone with him.  She felt, quite acutely, that he had no use for her.

When she was about six, her father moved to Australia, married again, and had children with the woman he married.  She did not hear from him for a very long time.  When she was sixteen, he invited her to visit, and she went, though she had significant reservations about seeing him.  She thought it might give her an opportunity to let him know how his behavior had effected her life.  She was to go for a month.  During the time that she was there, she got to know his kids and his wife rather well, but unfortunately, spoke about three words to him during her stay, and in the end, got his wife to buy her an earlier flight out a week before her planned departure date.  That was the last time she saw him.

Due to the treatment she had endured from her father, she lives her life always doubting the affections of her friends, family, even her husband.  She wakes every day with the fear that she is not worthy of unconditional love.  She handles each relationship that she has tentatively, afraid that if she does or says the wrong thing, that person will abandon her.  She has gone through years of therapy attempting to overcome this fear.

Her desire to feel as if she is worthy of unconditional love, and to trust it when she has it, still seems to her a distant and rapidly shifting horizon.  As she spoke to me about her experience, I was impressed at her ability to remain fairly calm and focused.  She had obviously spoken about this topic many times before; she deftly articulated her pain and fear in a way that reflected her familiarity with the topography.  It was tough, however, for her to get over the idea that one of the people who should have been able to love her unconditionally, could not.

While I am still surprised at the stories I get, I am not ever surprised to meet people who aren't aware of the manner in which they consistently repeat early heartbreak throughout their lives and wonder why.  While this woman still struggles with this pain on a daily basis, the point is that she struggles; she is aware of how this fear has changed her behavior.  While I sat there listening, heartbroken for her and frankly, for me, I was also incredibly impressed.  And where jealousy had been, admiration now resided, and where differences had set, connection now claimed.  Her determination was riveting, and I absolutely saw in her a person that could be unconditionally loved.

Images of Fear

I received this story from a woman I know through my brother.  She is an exceptional artist and an articulate and outspoken individual.  There is a lot about her story I can relate to; early exposure to horrific images engendered long-standing fears in me which I still sometimes have nightmares about.  As with her, the exposure came through the good intentions of parents who might not have realized the long-term damage they might be doing to their children.


"I don’t consider myself a fearful person overall. But I realize that I was raised to fear…fear my parent’s punishment, fear God’s wrath, fear spiders, snakes, fear taking risks.

Fear Men. Fear unchecked power. (They go together.)

I vividly remember going to the drive-in with my parents and younger sister; we did this often and saw all kinds of movies. But one time in particular, the film was in black and white, a format that, as a young child, I wasn’t fond of; it meant boring in my book! But I became caught up in the story of Barbara Graham, one of only 4 women executed in the state of California, in the film, I Want To Live!-1958

As a ten year old, it was my opinion that it was her boyfriend who had perpetrated the crime and then set her up. I remember thinking to myself, “I’m NEVER going to have a boyfriend, because I don’t want to die! They can’t be trusted!”

What a lesson for a Catholic elementary school girl to take in. (I wonder if this was on the Catholic Chronicle’s OK to view list? Probably, I don’t believe there was any explicit sex in it…just killing and state sanctioned murder.) I still remember the futility of all of Susan Hayward’s (she played Barbara) pleading that she was innocent. I had so much anxiety, although I didn’t know what to name it then. I saw the pellets lowered into whatever it was that made the poison gas. I watched her die on screen, but the emotions were real. I never mentioned any of this to my parents. What could I say? “You idiots!, why did you think it was a good idea to take a kid to this kind of movie!!!!!

(Later,as an adult, I had a friend that was arrested and convicted wrongly for murder. If there hadn't been a moritorium on the death penalty he would have been executed. His attorney, my boyfriend at the time, found the real killer and was instrumental in having our friend released from prison. )

I am still dubious of some men’s behavior and the judicial system to this day.

The other film that still haunts me is Path’s of Glory, 1957. It was about the French military executing innocent men to frighten others into fighting. Once again the people executed were innocent and chosen at random as a punishment for the faux pas of the whole group--- they were to be an example.

How arbitrary this selection was; that life and death were/are random and not under our control, or worse, under someone else’s control, frightens me. It frightens me that those in power have the ability to destroy an individual without having to offer any justification. The brute force and chaos of unchecked power----I didn’t have those words then but I was extremely upset as I watched the innocent soldiers die before a firing squad.

The only one outraged in the film, the only one with a conscious and shred of humanity was Kirk Douglas’ character. I identified with his outrage and developed a lifelong crush on him and believe the seeds of my anti-war stance started to take root, at least I always think about this film during the conflicts that our country has become involved in throughout the years. It makes me sad and fearful to know that some people in positions of authority will abuse this power for no other reason than that they can."


This experience speaks to a greater and probably more widely-held fear: That of the randomness of occurrences in one's environment.  This basic fear in many respects is what keeps Homo sapiens progressing; we continue to create devices and processes which assist in the control of our environment.  In both movies, the victims are being used as "examples" in order to keep others from imitating the behavior.  This treatment of the population might prove successful, but the unintended consequences and lessons this behavior teaches cannot be delineated.  Such is the case with this woman's parents taking her to the movie; I highly doubt their intentions of bringing her were for her to swear off boyfriends forever.  


The question becomes, how far will any individual go in order to control their environment, and how will this behavior effect those around them?  The benefit of history is that it teaches; several figures have chosen peaceful means to gain some control in their own environments, Gandhi, Aung San Suu Kyi, and Dr. Martin Luther King, just off the top of my head.  There are also those who have chosen lesser means, to the great destruction and heartache of us all.  There are a million decisions we make every day, consciously or unconsciously, which bring us closer to or further away from control.  


My experience, being forced to watch Holocaust films at a very young age, impressed upon me the importance of never blindly hating any group of people for any reason.  While I believe this is a valuable perspective to hold, I know this differed greatly from my mother's, which was, "never trust a German".  My friend's anti-war stance could also be seen, from certain perspectives, to be beneficial.  I would never dream of being in a position to give answers on this topic, I am only asking the question: How far are we willing to go in order to obtain control? 

Entirely Different

My desperation in needing stories also led me to sending balls out through the mail to people I have known only through once-removed circumstance; people I respect and admire, but who I have known only through a relationship with a close friend or relative.  I received this story first, and was moved by its revelation.  The story was sent to me by a woman I have gotten to know through an old high school friend.  We have not been in close contact since I initially met and got to know her, but she has always seemed to me to be a very strong and confident woman, a woman who really seems to know herself.  Of course, after reading this story, her strength of character seems logical.  



"Fear for me is defined by my observation of it growing up with a mother who was phobic – afraid of a lot of things. For periods of time she couldn’t leave the house without my father. Agoraphobia is defined as an anxiety disorder today, but in my childhood it was thought to be the fear of open spaces. That meant malls, freeways, any public gatherings, grocery stores, etc. were mine fields for my mother. My definition: my mother was scared of everything  - much of it we couldn’t see.  She was weak.

As a teen, I started getting angry at her; our relationship was fraught with typical mother/daughter teen issues compounded by the fact that the things that can bond a twosome – shopping, lunches, outings with just the two of us- were impossible. I did do those things with my father and thinking back now the “daddy days” may really have been their way to give us time to explore and my mother safety. There were many constructs of my childhood and even today that I believe are set up to protect and support my mother. None of it was explained or rationalized so I was left with the idea that she was unwilling to engage and weak. This perception of her being weak made me specifically fearless. Well, I had fears, but I was not going to let them get me down. My decision and approach led me on some interesting adventures and I became specifically skilled at steeling myself up and jumping in. I made sure to always accept a challenge even if I was uncertain of success. I blustered right in and did it. This fearlessness or at least the squelching of fear led me to attempt things that were a little bit insane. I have been lucky, but my fearlessness has also given me a chance to take risks personally that led me in interesting directions and provided experiences that I never would have entered into if I had let fear of failure prevail.

As an adult I attributed my mother’s fears as a manifestation of the dependence that comes from marriage. My father is fantastic, I am certainly now and always have been a Daddy’s girl, but from the stories I heard from my mother about her younger carefree years, I just couldn’t put the pieces together any other way. Her breakdown was related to dependence on my father brought on by marriage. This misaligned understanding made my relationships with others particularly complicated. I took what I wanted and exited when things got too intense or I started to feel dependent. One day I was having lunch with an uncle and we were talking about my relationships and family and I finally said something to the effect of but look what it did to Mom. He started laughing and said, marriage and the relationship with your father is not what did this to her, she was always afraid and never the independent teen and young woman she describes. A weight dropped off my shoulders because I had been struggling for years with how to put things into perspective and rationalize the picture my mother described and the reality I saw.  Now, I don't go as deep as to think it was denial, but more wishful thinking that made my mother describe her past.

Fear can do funny things – it can make one unable to act or it can force action. The phobias that my mother lives with dramatically impacted her family, but not necessarily all in negative ways."




What in us chooses the path we take?  I believe that my friend could just as easily have chosen to be as fearful as her mother had been, but she chose differently.  She has her mother's blood running through her veins, but what else inside of her prompted this response?  It is interesting to note that she is married, happily, with two young boys.  While informed by it, she did move past her mother's behavior, and stories; and has become something entirely different.

A Father's Shoulders

A very good friend of mine told me this story; this happy, wonderful story.  The telling of it engendered a glow in her; one so palpable, that I felt her joy and have carried it with me to this very moment.

When my friend was very young, she lived on the coast of California with her family, and every morning that her father was able, he would take her and her siblings down to the beach to swim.  My friend believed her father to be such a man that the sun rose and set upon his shoulders every dawn and dusk, and it thrilled her to no end to spend time with him.  Unfortunately for her, she was not completely confident in the water.

Her father was an immense man, an incredibly strong swimmer, and very patient with his young daughter each morning when she told him that she was too afraid to go out into the deep water with him to catch a wave back in to shore.  She would watch him  from the shallow ocean water, playing with her brother and sisters, wanting very much to be riding on top of his shoulders every time he caught the waves.

One morning, she overcame her fear and swam out with her father.  They swam very far out, and her father told her that as soon as a wave came, she was to swim hard toward the shore, and when he said the word, grab on to his shoulders and body surf in with him.  Soon enough a wave came and they both started swimming.  He said the word, she grabbed on, and held as tight as she could.  For a few breathtaking seconds, exhilarated and gripping his shoulders, she was riding with him towards the beach and her waiting brother and sisters.  But the wave got ahead of them, crashed over him, and broke her grip. The next thing she knew, she was under water, and felt her father's giant hand grab her and pull her up and into his arms.  The smile on her father's face communicated the pride he felt, and from that day on, she did not let her fear keep her from swimming out with him.

I feel like this is such a universal experience...at one point or another we all overcome our fears, (of rejection, or awkwardness, etc.), and reach out to one or the other of our parents, hoping that they will reach back and take hold; we are the lucky ones who have experienced the catch.

Not Such a Stranger

In the depths of my desperation, I began placing balls around Northwest Portland, hoping that maybe people might not be so intimidated and feel the inclination to participate in this experiment.  Several days passed, and I had still not received a story- until yesterday.  The woman who ended up giving me this story had written that she had walked around the block, finding and exchanging different balls until she settled on the one she kept.  She sent me the story below, and though quite short, the canon it describes reverberates in me, as I am the daughter of a deceased woman, and often catch myself using her milestones as ways to measure my progress.

"I feel like my entire adulthood has been seasoned by fear and desire.  I desire recognition, success, the turning point.  I fear I won't be around long enough to reach these things.  My mother passed away at 49.  I turn 42 in a few days.  My whole life has revolved around performance of some sort or another- dance, modeling, clothing design, now music.  Through all endeavors, I reached small goals, but switched fields before anything concrete could come of it...Music stuck.  Music has somewhat released me from having an immature philosophy of success.  In a business-sense, everything is changing in the music industry, and I don't have the ability or desire to chase pop-stardom, so the thing I desire is the freedom to pursue.  I started late.  My first tour is this spring, and my heart and soul hold no jaded sentiments, so I suppose the fear lies in ageing, losing my voice, losing hope.  I'm currently working a part-time job and on foodstamps.  I also have a 14-year old daughter, who hopefully will take from me this desire to pursue what you believe- she knows the risks and the benefits.  Desire wins out over fear, almost every time."


I guess there is not much to add, though I must mention that I am in awe of anyone who continues to stretch herself in this manner in order to grow.  A fine example for anyone's daughter to follow. 

Good Advice

Every few weeks, we have a sleep over.  My friend, who I have known for what seems like such a short amount of time, is someone I have come to depend on.  She has, in the few seconds that I have known her, helped me remember the skin I so long ago grew into, and encouraged me to feel comfortable in it again.  Just being in her home, eating the wonderful dinners she cooks and speaking with her and her husband brings me comfort I have not known for many years.  I hold these friends very close to my heart.

The other night, I was speaking to them about my project, wondering what glimpse of insight I might glean from the two of them regarding my failure to get strangers to speak to me.  I summarized what my note said, and detailed a few of my experiences with rejection.  Right away, they both had answers, though of course, they were very different answers.  For the record, they are not one of those couples who speaks at you at the same time, not stopping to wonder who it is you are listening to.  They take turns, and, I have noticed, they are both quite good at letting the other speak first.

Her husband offered that my first blog project, 20 Dates in 20 Weekends, was an easier thing to entice participants into, as there was the possibility of a blow job.  "This experiment", he observed, very deadpan, "offers no blowjob."  Fair enough.  

She had a slightly different take.  I had started to speak of the spark of energy in everyone, the innate ability every one holds deep within them to be exceptional, when she cut me off to enlighten me to the fact that my belief, while touching, was naive.  "Some people have no story, or, if they do, they are not aware that they have one to tell."  She added, cynically, "some people are just boring."

I am sure you can see now why I love these people. 

While their observations were a bit divergent, their suggestions were strikingly similar.  They both came up with going to a local old folks home where she used to teach cooking classes to get stories, which, I had to admit, was brilliant, or standing outside the public library and offering passersby the opportunity to trade a story for a ball, so that there was no "hang time" between ball reception and story delivery.  Both of these I deemed most worthy of my energies, and as my friend reminded me, "the people who go to libraries are going there because they like stories."  Her husband then added, referring to the homeless population which frequent the elegant old building, "well, either that, or showers."