I was born in 1961, right at the end of the era where the entire culture was pretty much in agreement that you should conform to what was expected of you. The Culture of Conformity, I've heard it called. Things started to change as the 60s went on, and blew wide open in the 70s, but when I was a kid, everybody went to church on Sunday. Divorce was a stigma you'd never live down. Gay? Bi? Trans? Multi-racial? Anything other than being what you were supposed to be was not just frowned on but capital-W Wrong.
One of the things that was frowned on was being an introvert. Obviously it wasn't nearly as traumatic as being gay or trans or any number of other things, but it was still a problem. It was seen as something that was wrong, and you needed to be coached and trained and bullied into being cheerful and perky, chatty and social. My mom just didn't understand how I could enjoy being by myself. Her life was a closely interconnected web of family and friends, and she was (and is) happiest when all her people know each other and keep up with what's happening in each other's lives. To her, that's the way life should be.
And honestly, I'm pretty grateful to her. That I have any social skills at all is because she worked so hard to make sure that I did. But it also set up this constant feeling of being wrong. What I wanted to do was sit on the sidelines, wherever we were, and observe. People watch. Think big thoughts. Daydream. Or even better, read a book. But that was not allowed in our social circle. If the group was doing something, you were supposed to be participating-- kickball, sock hops, ice breaker games.
Oh, Lord, can we just pause for a minute and consider the horror of ice breaker games. *shudders*
Anyway. I wanted to be loved and approved and accepted, so I tried. I tried really hard. But it set up this dynamic where I became convinced that what I wanted to do wasn't what I was supposed to be doing, and what I should be doing was never anything I wanted to do. Life as Continuous Chore.
This is all stuff that I've been vaguely aware of for years, especially after reading Susan Cain's terrific book Quiet. But it has resurfaced again this week, as more and more of the things that I do have been canceled due to COVID-19. I can just stay at home, without feeling guilty. There is nothing else I'm supposed to be doing. In fact, what I'm supposed to be doing is staying home, and since Dean's job is essential and he is working harder than ever, most of the time I'm home alone.
It's.... weird. I mean, I know it's weird for everybody, I'm just explaining my particular version of weird. I can't quite relax into it. It seems so wrong to be doing what I want to do with no guilt or resentment or fear of disapproval. It's kind of amazingly cool.
Hope everyone is holding up at your house. And if you're home with kids, I..... well, you have my deep sympathy. I'm praying blanket prayers for all parents sheltering in place with their kids. I'd have murdered mine by now.
2 comments:
First, thanks for the recommendation of Red, White and Royal Blue. Been reading it all day as it is cold and raining, and I desperately needed distraction.
It’s not the kids that are the problem, it’s the husband. The guy with energy and a need to be doing and all of his usual outlets have been closed down and he is pissy and cranky and I swear he well may be dead before this is over.
Anyway, glad to hear you all are surviving reasonably well so far.
Yes, if D weren't working, I'd be in the same spot. He does not do downtime well. He's supposed to have this afternoon off and I'm trying to think of a project.
Post a Comment