Too Damn Good

It started at the Grand Canyon.

Well, maybe it didn’t start there, but that’s the first time I remember noticing it.

My mom and sister had whisked me away to Arizona for a few days for my 40^th birthday. We’d already had our auras read, done a glass-blowing class, and some amazing hikes in Sedona. But we woke up early and made the several hour drive to the Grand Canyon, breathing a sigh of relief that the park was open, if understaffed, during one of the Trump-induced government shutdowns.

We’d ridden a shuttle to the Yaki Point overlook. I got off the bus and walked toward the railing, taking in the giant slash across our earth, so big it’s visible from space.

              I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to take in the moment. I opened my eyes and felt…nothing.

              Shit, I thought. Something’s wrong. I’m at this unbelievable place, with two of my favorite people, and I feel absolutely nothing.

              When I talked about this emotional numbness later in therapy, my counselor nodded sagely and said, “Yes, because you’ve learned to function without feeling. You don’t know how to do both.”

              I scowled at her for her incisive feedback that cuts to the heart of things, sighed, and scrawled the phrase in my journal so I could remember it.

               I have realized that I live in this very narrow band of emotion just south of good and north of fine. That’s where I hang out most of the time, between good and fine.

I developed this emotional stiltedness as a protection mechanism around the time The Baby came and, suddenly, the children outnumbered us. For the next ten years (and beyond), we were swinging from crisis to crisis, shoving our traumas deep into our pockets, pack on top of one another. “I’ll get to it eventually,” I told myself, waiting for a calmer day that never came.

This emotional paralysis still works pretty well when I am in crisis. After all, if my only two options are ‘good’ or ‘fine’, then I’m going to be able to function in most situations, but this very narrow sine wave of feeling doesn’t give me enough emotional range to feel fully human. I can’t feel, for example, enraged (which I am okay with), but I also can’t feel awestruck (which I am not okay with).

I am aware of the problem now and, when I start to set my foot outside the line of ‘acceptable’ feelings, I can try to lean into it.

              ***

              We recently went to the Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri as a summer trip to celebrate my dad’s 70^th birthday. It was also around my sister’s birthday. My mom and I took Leah off to a thrift store for a few hours while the men helped set up a soccer-themed surprise party.  We arrived home to blaring birthday music and had a dance party in the very small living room of our AirBnb. I watched her jump around with her kids and swing my dad around.

              My eyes teared up.

              Unbeknownst to my dad, it was a bit of a one-two punch situation. My mom roped him into walking up the hill to the dumpster with her while the rest of us rushed around and set up a secondary party area near the fire pit. I helped my nephews stick balloons on chairs. We donned our tiny cardboard party hats and readied our paper noisemakers. When dad rounded the corner, we belted out a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday!”  

              My sister had set up a scavenger hunt. We’d written our favorite memories, funny stories, and lesson learned from my dad and she’d hid them around the AirBnb. He found the first one at the fire pit and my niece read it aloud.  

              Emotion welled deep within me and the tears came in earnest. Even if the emotion was a good one, I was outside my narrow band of emotional depth. I felt like if I started crying, I would never stop. While everyone moved to the dock to find the second letter, I froze by the fire pit.

              “I don’t think I can do this,” I told my mom as big fat tears rolled down my cheeks.

              My letter was hidden down by the dock and I was supposed to read it. I took a deep breath and stuffed those feelings as far down as possible so I could function without feeling. I read my letter, with only a few tears, and we moved on. My mom’s letter was second to last. I don’t even remember what she said, but I stood and watched my parents love each other. Like I’ve done my whole life.

              I felt so thankful for that moment, for those people, for this time to really appreciate the kind of person that my dad is.

I felt thankful for a lot of moments. My dad never babied me. He listened to me. Treasured me. Built me up.  

              I was thankful for him as a person. A kind and gentle person. In the corner of our living room, he sat upon an evergreen folding picnic table and painted small wooden boxes. He would paint Kachina dolls and educate us on indigenous folklore. A couple times a year, he would call us into the living room and sing a song on the guitar while he cried because the lyrics were so touching.

              My dad sure knows how to emote. He has for a long time.

              It’s one of the things I love best about him.   

              In that moment, in Missouri, with the screeching motor of boats racing by, I was scared to wade into any emotional pool deeper than an inch, but I appreciated the opportunity to dip my toe in and feel the cool waters of gratitude and love for a second.

              Life just felt too damn good.

(Also, we posted our annual Awkward Family Photos. You can see them here: https://www.facebook.com/welderbeth)