Now That I Think About It

1980. I missed the seventies by 9 days so my true memories probably don’t start until ‘83 or ‘84. Like most people, it’s more faux memories you get from combining pictures and stories. Like waking up from a nap you didn’t want to take to see the kitchen decked out for your My Little Pony birthday party. Did I actually remember any of that? I have no clue. I remember the picture, though.

I didn’t care for dolls like a lot of girls did. It was never an anti-girl thing, but more of a difficulty playing pretend on my part. There were barbies in my life, but they just never seemed like a practical use of my time, which seems odd for a child to even think about. I played barbies with friends occasionally, but I ended up preferring to listen to the adults talk instead.

I felt a lot. I worried a lot. I loved reading out loud. I was good at that. I loved being good at things.

I hated asking for things. I hated needing things. Working up the courage to bring something up usually took a bit of time, all the while hoping someone would just realize what was needed without me having to ask. That theme has continued throughout my life, even today. There is a deep desire to just be seen and understood, without the vulnerability or risk of rejection. That’s not how healthy relationships work, I know, but still, it drove who I would become and how I would exist in the world.

I thought a lot. I thought about what other people thought. I thought about what their faces meant when their eyes darted during uncomfortable parts of conversation. I thought about the quick breaths and the long sighs. I thought about what people wanted. I thought about what the situation needed. I thought about how I could make it better. I thought about helping. I thought about how I might feel better if everyone in the room felt better.

There was a day I remember riding in the car coming home from middle school, looking at all the kids in varying states of leaving. For the first time ever, I had a realization that most people didn’t notice or care about the things the way I did and feeling incredibly disappointed. It would take me way too many years to fully understand just why I felt so different than everyone around me.

We tell ourselves stories about the world as we go through it. Those stories depend on all the data we take in and how we label each element. Not everyone notices everything to begin with and certainly not the same things. It’s no wonder our shared experiences can look very different to each other. Some people drown out a lot of input naturally, instinctively. For some of us, the volume is turned up high with no way to change it.

I touched the velvety pattern on the couch and tasted the birthday cake leftover from last night and heard the buzzing television in the background and smelled the neighbor’s grill outside every time the back door slid open. But I also felt the shame that stood silent in the corner every time the conversation lulled. I breathed in the tension everyone’s sarcasm would hide. I could hear the pain in their voice before I even understood the words or knew what they meant.

It makes sense that I would load myself down with everyone’s stuff like a pack mule, in hopes that it would come in handy down the road. No one else seemed to realize it was all there so maybe it was my job to keep up with it all. That’s apparently what my subconscious thought anyway. I just didn’t realize how heavy it would become. And that it was never mine to begin with.