Words do not satisfy. I realize the irony in writing this, given I am hoping to express my thoughts in words, and that as an English major and attorney, I relied on words to earn a living. But they do not satisfy.
I have used words in my life to annoy, uplift, encourage, belittle, order, control, share, abscond, deter, praise, express, acquire, educate, manipulate, reveal, build, hurt, help, beg, give, defend. And more. But often, I use words to distance.
Perhaps this is because words are safe. They allow me to experience things viscerally. To further this visceral state, I have chosen mates who live in worlds of abstraction and words - engineer, attorney. My husband lives in his mind, turning over current events, theories, philosophy until he creates an often startling and complicated understanding of the world, his cases, his personal history, his relationship to others. He is brilliant. Sometimes whirlingly so.
But I have to remind him to pay attention to life that is happening right around him; kids, dogs, wife. Tucked into his chair, laptop ever in place, he is safe. He is not emotional. Although, inexplicably, he is more easily moved to tears than me, often just by one of the girls' silly songs or phrases.
Emotional equates to crazy for me. It stems from my mother, a deeply depressed woman whose personal losses led her to moodiness, sadness, a lashing out that came from nowhere I as a child could anticipate. I saw her as weak, a victim of her feelings and her husband's rage.
So, I am NOT emotional. Overtly, sustainably. Except I am. Deep inside; safe inside. Not many know it or have seen it. I don't often see it or know it myself.
But I feel the need for it. I long for it. Like I long for touch, which leads to emotion. Which I therefore avoid.
Today I went for a massage. It is in one facet the perfect touch. Comforting, returning me to inside my skin, my body, asking nothing in return. It makes me feel human again. But it is in the end, a bit disappointing. Because it lacks emotion. It is caring in a way, but not connecting.
And I remember connected. I remember touches that made me swoon; truly dizzying. In a hotel room in Arizona, the streets of Paris, a car in Tennessee. I remember emotion that spun my head, turned my heart, brought me to life. But it was not safe. And I never dallied. I return, but I never remain. Even though I wish (viscerally) I were capable of remaining.
Once a person said my daughter was sent to me to save me. Both my daughters have saved me. It is the one touch I do not swerve from, that of my child. It is the place of emotion I never leave. That of loving them, admiring them, learning them as they become. And they are full of emotion, drama, tears, bubbling laughter, raucous joy, rage at injustice. They are not afraid of feeling, staying in their state until it is exhausted or it exhausts them.
They are teaching me what it is to be free. Without words.
