Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. Woo. Yeah, I'm not in the spirit yet. I remember when I was little, my brother, sister, and I would sit around the piano, (this isn't a lie, by the way), and come up with a concert for my parents. We'd include some dance moves and, if I'm not mistaken, props. Then we'd perform for our parents and try to pretend we didn't see my dad peering around us to watch the subtitles on Larry King. Our parents would go to bed and we'd sit up and watch a movie like Home Alone or the old Frosty cartoon movie. Then we'd dare each other to peek into the forbidden attic and sneak cookies or chips or something else unhealthy and that was supposed to be eaten in moderation. We'd try and try to go to sleep, but stay up late. And then our eyes would somehow pop open at five am, bright eyed and bushy tailed pulling our parents from their bed. They'd "snooze" us for a little while, but when we couldn't be hushed any longer, they'd take 30 minutes to wake up and get coffee, aka, set our presents out. Then we'd walk in with our hands covering our faces. Slowly letting the room be revealed, finger at a time.
Now THAT was Christmas. But now it's all different. Lucky if we're even all in the same room together, the only dance moves displayed are those of yours truly trying to get out anxious energy of being at home and feeling stuck. Especially now when going home means not having a car. (Perhaps my time in NY has trained me to think that car=freedom.) Now our parents drag us out of bed on Christmas morning wanting to "get it over with" so my mom can vacuum and we can eat. They feed us wine to keep us sedated and from fighting over the internet. Every year, they try the whole "let's sit as a family and just talk" thing. My dad still dodging for the muted television, while we all listen to my mom tell us all the new threats and all the people that are missing in the world.
It's not that we don't get along, it's that with my family, like most families, small doses are best. When my mom whines about me only staying for four days I'm like, "Really? Give me two days and you'll be sick of me, honest." Keeping five adults entertained under the same roof for a week is like mission impossible.
Christmas now is different. It's still nice. It is. Don't get me wrong. I do love my family. It's just hard. Taking all of us, used to our routines and certain lifestyles, and making us pretend we're all five again is taxing on everyone. I like going home, and perhaps wouldn't be quite as bitter about it if my dog could come with, (sadly, this year she's spending it with the vet). I leave on Sunday and do look forward to seeing the Christmas tree and my mom proud of all her decorations. I look forward to Christmas Eve where me and my brother still watch movies and stay up late, eating junk food. It's the post-Christmas stuff I dread. The first 48 hours is always great. After that, it's like, I want my bed, my house, and this year, my pup! The imfamous holidaze.
It's the weird years where we're no longer kids, and we don't have kids yet, that makes it awkward. We all want to keep up the spirit, but it's slightly dampened by the fact that we all know Santa doesn't exist and a little piece of magic is missing. This year in particular, I didn't get a tree and worked almost up to the day when my flight leaves. Maybe it's the fact it hasn't been too cold, seeing as this is my first Christmas in LA. I went to a few holiday parties, but take away the garland, and it's just another get together. I'm just not in the spirit yet. And I'm as perturbed as you by that fact. I haven't once popped in any Christmas cds, (but in fairness, my music lately has been dominated by the wonder that is Rilo Kiley's new album, "Under the Blacklight"). So maybe the feeling of giddiness will bubble in my chest when I land in my hometown.
Well the truth is, I miss the cheesy, happy Christmas feeling I used to get standing in my parents living room playing the piano and singing horrendously, laughing as my sister does the twist, or some other dance to make my mom laugh. I miss Santa! I miss all the holiday cheer! But as all things do, Christmas has evolved, and will continue to evolve as time passes.
Well Merry Christmas everyone and enjoy time with your friends and families! Here's to me getting in the spirit soon and bah humbug to being an adult! Believing in Santa was fun.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Monday, April 23, 2007
It's All In A Name
My Senior year of college, my roommate Tom was reading a book on bettering oneself. As we were all going through periods in our life of insecurity and self-doubt, we would routinely get into discussions about how we view ourselves, how we are percieved by others, and how we interact with people of the opposite sex.
Now, I guess it can be known that I have always struggled with relationships and insecurities. Tom, someone I was pretty close too, was well versed with my "ways" and would often be my sounding board for frustrations I had with myself. This was a very healthy relationship, and we both were, and are, very comfortable with each other and discussing our relationships with other people. But Tom knew me, and called me out often when I would act a little too in character.
It was a usual night at our house: people filled our couches, a stench of cigarette smoke clouded the air, and spirits were widespread. Music was low and conversation filled the room. Tom announced to the group that he had been reading about something known as a "Fisher King Wound". Now Fisher King was basically this guy who got wounded in the leg or groin area, and is unable to heal himself, letting the wound completely distroy his life and he ruins his livelihood because of it. Basically, its this psycological thing that took over his mind and changed the way he percieved himself, thereby ruining how other percieved him. That's a nutshell. Check out the whole Wiki article linked above for more info.
Tom discussed how this book spoke of everyone having a "Fisher King wound". It is basically a moment in your life where facets of your personality are changed and how you relate to the opposite sex is defined. It's often early on, and is something that changes the way you see things. It usually plagues your mind, even now, years later. It is a wound, and it is something that no one else can heal.
I found an interesting quote online speaking of a Fisher King Wound: "A Fisher King wound cannot be healed by somebody else. It's not a wound to the body. it's a wound to the memory. A wound to the mind, it's... a wound that only you can find, and a wound that only you can heal."
Well, that night we went around the room and all tried to pinpoint our own Fisher King wounds. It was an interesting experiment, not judging each other, but all relating to our past experiences. A party in which sympathy was not invited.
When it was my turn, I thought long and hard about a time in which a situation changed my perception. It came pretty easily, as this experience was something that I would think about on a weekly basis.
Characteristically, a Fisher King wound is something that doesn't seem to be a "big deal" to others. "Why didn't Fisher King just bandage his wound and move on?"
So I'm going to share my Fisher King wound with you now. The effects are so deeply engrained in me, often it is an afterthought, "That was just my reaction to this."
I was probably in sixth grade when it happened. A group of friends and I were at the skating rink, a common hangout for kids my age. We were all laced up in skates and one of the "leaders" of our pack had drawn the attention of some boys. We were lined up, as I recall clearly, in a ridiculous fashion, all side-by-side facing the boys, as if on display. As their eyes went down the line, we all giggled at the situation.
It was soon after that they started going down the line, asking each girl their name, and flirting shamelessly as they went. I was at the end of the line and giggled carefreely with the girl who stood next to me. It seemed to be a bizarre part of the mating ritual.
When they got to the girl next to me, no nervousness reached my brain, which seems to me now, completely uncharacteristic. But at this point, I was unwounded. They asked the girl next to me her name, and then, instead of asking mine, smiled at the girls warmly, and turned back, making their way back to the front of the line. They hadn't asked me my name, or as much as ackowledged my existence.
To say I was crushed would obviously be an understatement. It was like a scene from a cheesy eighties movie, if only there had been more crimping and poofier bangs.
Well anyways, to make a long story short, I have this thing with names now. When people, specifically guys, ask me my name, I form an unexplainable attraction to them. It's really strange. I can't stand talking to someone without knowing their name, so more often than not, I'll ask. And if someone is trying to start conversation with me and don't bother asking my name, I immediately am not interested in what they have to say.
Even now, being called by name makes me inexplicably happy. It seems so simple, and something so easy to overcome, but there it is. There's my Fisher King wound.
I was in a production meeting just a week ago, and when we started going around the room saying our names, I nearly had an anxiety attack. That's always fun.
It's interesting to me that such a tiny fragment of my life, such a moment in time, has been frozen inside of my brain and infested to such a large degree.
So as a friend of mine once said, "Stop saying wound!" (Edited to remove a few "wounds".) But in all seriousness, it's unsettling to think that right now, as I write this, some kid somewhere is experiencing a moment in which, for the better or worse, they will never forget. Something that will change the way they view the world, (even though that still happens to me everyday). There's nothing we can do to protect each other from such events, and I'd be surprised, if not completely astonished, if any of the guilty parties have as much as a fleeting memory from this momentous occasion in my life. Conversely, for all I know, that very same night, my own actions could have caused someone the same grief that I experienced.
Well this has been yet another addition of Human Inspired. This is my "coming-of-age" story and hopefully, by sharing mine, you can think of your own. I've heard lots of different FKW stories, all so interesting when compared with some of the person's idiosyncrasies. So anyways, if you do try and figure out your own, just remember, nothing is too insignificant. It's all about reaction, not action.
Now, I guess it can be known that I have always struggled with relationships and insecurities. Tom, someone I was pretty close too, was well versed with my "ways" and would often be my sounding board for frustrations I had with myself. This was a very healthy relationship, and we both were, and are, very comfortable with each other and discussing our relationships with other people. But Tom knew me, and called me out often when I would act a little too in character.
It was a usual night at our house: people filled our couches, a stench of cigarette smoke clouded the air, and spirits were widespread. Music was low and conversation filled the room. Tom announced to the group that he had been reading about something known as a "Fisher King Wound". Now Fisher King was basically this guy who got wounded in the leg or groin area, and is unable to heal himself, letting the wound completely distroy his life and he ruins his livelihood because of it. Basically, its this psycological thing that took over his mind and changed the way he percieved himself, thereby ruining how other percieved him. That's a nutshell. Check out the whole Wiki article linked above for more info.
Tom discussed how this book spoke of everyone having a "Fisher King wound". It is basically a moment in your life where facets of your personality are changed and how you relate to the opposite sex is defined. It's often early on, and is something that changes the way you see things. It usually plagues your mind, even now, years later. It is a wound, and it is something that no one else can heal.
I found an interesting quote online speaking of a Fisher King Wound: "A Fisher King wound cannot be healed by somebody else. It's not a wound to the body. it's a wound to the memory. A wound to the mind, it's... a wound that only you can find, and a wound that only you can heal."
Well, that night we went around the room and all tried to pinpoint our own Fisher King wounds. It was an interesting experiment, not judging each other, but all relating to our past experiences. A party in which sympathy was not invited.
When it was my turn, I thought long and hard about a time in which a situation changed my perception. It came pretty easily, as this experience was something that I would think about on a weekly basis.
Characteristically, a Fisher King wound is something that doesn't seem to be a "big deal" to others. "Why didn't Fisher King just bandage his wound and move on?"
So I'm going to share my Fisher King wound with you now. The effects are so deeply engrained in me, often it is an afterthought, "That was just my reaction to this."
I was probably in sixth grade when it happened. A group of friends and I were at the skating rink, a common hangout for kids my age. We were all laced up in skates and one of the "leaders" of our pack had drawn the attention of some boys. We were lined up, as I recall clearly, in a ridiculous fashion, all side-by-side facing the boys, as if on display. As their eyes went down the line, we all giggled at the situation.
It was soon after that they started going down the line, asking each girl their name, and flirting shamelessly as they went. I was at the end of the line and giggled carefreely with the girl who stood next to me. It seemed to be a bizarre part of the mating ritual.
When they got to the girl next to me, no nervousness reached my brain, which seems to me now, completely uncharacteristic. But at this point, I was unwounded. They asked the girl next to me her name, and then, instead of asking mine, smiled at the girls warmly, and turned back, making their way back to the front of the line. They hadn't asked me my name, or as much as ackowledged my existence.
To say I was crushed would obviously be an understatement. It was like a scene from a cheesy eighties movie, if only there had been more crimping and poofier bangs.
Well anyways, to make a long story short, I have this thing with names now. When people, specifically guys, ask me my name, I form an unexplainable attraction to them. It's really strange. I can't stand talking to someone without knowing their name, so more often than not, I'll ask. And if someone is trying to start conversation with me and don't bother asking my name, I immediately am not interested in what they have to say.
Even now, being called by name makes me inexplicably happy. It seems so simple, and something so easy to overcome, but there it is. There's my Fisher King wound.
I was in a production meeting just a week ago, and when we started going around the room saying our names, I nearly had an anxiety attack. That's always fun.
It's interesting to me that such a tiny fragment of my life, such a moment in time, has been frozen inside of my brain and infested to such a large degree.
So as a friend of mine once said, "Stop saying wound!" (Edited to remove a few "wounds".) But in all seriousness, it's unsettling to think that right now, as I write this, some kid somewhere is experiencing a moment in which, for the better or worse, they will never forget. Something that will change the way they view the world, (even though that still happens to me everyday). There's nothing we can do to protect each other from such events, and I'd be surprised, if not completely astonished, if any of the guilty parties have as much as a fleeting memory from this momentous occasion in my life. Conversely, for all I know, that very same night, my own actions could have caused someone the same grief that I experienced.
Well this has been yet another addition of Human Inspired. This is my "coming-of-age" story and hopefully, by sharing mine, you can think of your own. I've heard lots of different FKW stories, all so interesting when compared with some of the person's idiosyncrasies. So anyways, if you do try and figure out your own, just remember, nothing is too insignificant. It's all about reaction, not action.
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