Freedom is Hard to Hold

Explanations are for English Papers

In the process of putting away Christmas decorations recently, I washed five cut crystal vases and two candlesticks and arranged them in pleasing groupings on the mantel. There’s still a big empty space in the middle that I need to fill, but I don’t like to look over there or think about making it look nice. Want to know why? Believe it or not, I could write a book, but I’ll try not to. The fireplace; the gas insert; the flimsy, painted wood surround; the mantel atop it; and the brick hearth—all together—is like everything wrong with this house and me concentrated and on display in one small, hard-to-miss spot. The rather ugly, dark red bricks are graffitied with Luke’s name, written—apparently—in indelible ink. The gas insert is there because the chimney was built wrong and is so screwed up that a real (wood) fire would burn the house down, but we can’t even turn on the gas insert because we long ago unhooked it from the propane tank in the backyard that we eventually got rid of completely. The surround isn’t too bad, with some nice details, but it’s insubstantial enough that it communicates unequivocally that it was the cheap choice. The brick hearth (I’ll get to the mantel in a moment) sports a wide gap in which almost all of the cement (mortar?) between bricks is gone. The mantel, though, is the worst of it, especially with those crystal vases sitting on it. It’s not level. It pitches down at, what? a two- to five-degree angle? Whenever I glance over there, I need to reassure myself that those vases are not going slide off and shatter.

None of it would bother me as much as it does if we hadn’t remodeled the living room six years ago, and when I say “remodeled,” I mean gutted to the studs, water damaged hardwood flooring pulled up and trashed, a wall removed, new windows installed, everything. Of course, the main driver of that remodel was the mold that was still gunning for us, just like in all the remodeling projects. Mold, by the way, that was growing inside the walls and ceiling of the living room because Builder Number Two screwed us over royally, not even bothering with housewrap on the second-story part of the jog between original house and 1980s addition. Its plywood beneath the cedar clapboards was so wet, you could wring it out, and in the winter, icicles grew out of the wall itself. But that wasn’t the worst part. While it was the growing ceiling stains in the living room that finally helped me zero in on the problem, the soaked flooring and joists in my sons’ room above the living room was causing health problems in those boys and panic attacks so bad that they slept, night after night, on dog beds and sleeping bags in my bedroom. But I don’t like to talk about that sort of thing. So, let’s move on.

The gap in the cement between the bricks got removed by the builder we hired (Builder Number Five) because less of it had been missing, but he was going to “fix it right.” Well, he didn’t. The surround and mantel were removed during the remodel and put right back, wrong angle and all. I thought Builder Number Five was going to take it apart and put it back together, or at least, shim it to get the angle right, but no, too much to ask, I guess.

So, I can look at the fireplace in my living room and see a metaphor for all the mistakes that have played out in my life over and over, all those cycles that I was never able to escape, that still reach out to pull me back. I see myself always trying to do it right and never being good enough; striving for the A or the praise from a boss or gratitude from a customer I helped or the expensive and unspoiled gift from my husband that could be tangible proof that he appreciates me (I used to joke that once all the diamonds in the anniversary band had fallen out, it’d be time for a divorce; one of the kids ended up losing the ring; I was glad to be rid of it); being so worried about what other people think of me and trying so hard to make everybody like me that I can’t even tell someone I am paying for a service that his work is not good enough and he needs to fix it.

Freedom is slippery and hard to hold, but I’m not letting go. I sat down at the keyboard to write an explanatory post for yesterday’s words because when I reread it last night, I thought, It’s not good enough. So-and-So won’t understand. But, NO, DAMN IT. I won’t do it. I won’t go back. What other people think of me is not my problem. It’s theirs, and if they want clarification of some sort, well, they know how to get in touch.

My whole life, I tried my damnedest to make people understand me and usually failed. I gave more than people wanted, shared too much, said too much, but why? Not only because I was trying to prove that I am worthy, but also because I genuinely craved connection.

Where did these unrelenting efforts get me? Instead of being able to create the communion that comes from trust, all I ever seemed to do was confuse people, drive them away, or push them to the point of rudeness, where they’d insult me, give me a look with an unmistakable meaning, or make “jokes” they thought I was too stupid to realize weren’t jokes at all. When it all got too depressing and damaging, I found a strategy that I thought was a solution. I pulled away. I stopped reaching out to others and dealt with them when and if they reached out to me. I began to see it all as a game, so I wouldn’t get emotionally invested and emotionally wrecked. Before and during the ubiquitous birthday phone calls or group gatherings, I’d run a subject through my mind, predict the response I’d get, and then give it a go. I was always right. Those on the other end of the line never failed to take the bait and respond as they always did. But even these strategic subjects were carefully selected. I quickly learned that I couldn’t go anywhere near things like vaccination or the serious, emotional problems that I had picked up hints about through furtive whispers on the wind. It wasn’t as boring as talking about the weather, but it wasn’t much better. I still had to take the safety because the ROI on making the risky play was always profoundly negative.

So, my post “Taking a Safety” is what it is, and “I pass the test, I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain” Cheryl, the Cheryl I was meant to be, no matter who has a problem with that.