the last burnt sienna crayon

Somebody gave me something.

And they were always quite clear that I might not be able to keep it. They said that I could only have it if I was fully aware that the something might change or even be taken away completely. And I agreed. I knew it was more important to have the other things that went along with that ’something’ and to just enjoy the ’something’ for as long as I could. The whole is more important than the part, and I know that.

But that was before I had the ’something’, that part of the whole. That was before I fought to have it. That was before it became the most precious thing to me once it was mine, and now I don’t want to give it up. Now because I fight for it still and sometimes win, now because in my failure I don’t always value it as I should and when I don’t I regret it, now because I love seeing it more than anything else, now because I have a choice whether or not to put the effort into the fight to bring out my ‘thing’, I fear the day that I may not have it to bring out. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and I love it.

I might not have to give it up, all this worry could be for nothing. And ‘they’ could warn me, ‘they’ could let me know if I have to. ‘They’ could tell me that I never have to worry or think about such loss again, or ‘they’ could help me prepare for it, quite easily ‘they’ could open the future, but ‘they’ won’t allow me to. ‘They’ tell me that it’s wrong, that I should just enjoy my ’something’ for as long as I can and then deal with it if it happens. ‘They’ tell me it’s the principle. The future was never mine, nor is it any of ours, to know. Even if we could.

But I find myself like a dragon guarding my treasure and lashing out at anyone who threatens to take it away prematurely, even for a moment. I want to keep my ’something’ and there is nothing I can do about it if I can’t. And I agreed to this, this contingency. I always said that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But I never knew.

I never knew what a wonderful, valuable, precious, intoxicating ‘thing’ a smile could be. Someone gave me a smile, only for a time, maybe, and it’s not the only thing that counts, and the value should be on the whole treasure, not just the gold trinket. I know it’s selfish to want to keep it when it might only have been a loan. But the truth is, I don’t know how to let it go. I didn’t expect to be so impractical.

I’ve had insomnia since I was 18. It’s been much better this past year, but worse in the mornings lately, and so this morning. I’ve been waking up at sometime between 3.30 and 4.30, lying awake worrying about my role in all of the calamaties of the universe until about 6.45, then falling asleep and being woken up by the alarm at 7, then lying in bed, sometimes falling back to sleep again until 8 or 8.15, by which time, I really should have been awake.

Anyway, in one of those falling asleep bits this morning I dreamed bitty dreams. I don’t often dream. It takes deep sleep to dream, which I don’t often manage. But usually when I have a dream, it’s longish, and with some kind of scenerio, as I assume most people’s dream’s are. But this morning, I just remember seeing my mother who pointed and said, more or less,

“Act your age! You’re not 3, you’re 33!”

And that was it. I woke up and needed a cup of tea.

But she’s right, you know? And I think it sunk in. I’ll try harder, mom. . . and the rest of you. Sorry.

When I was little, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that my parents misunderstood me a lot. When I would do something and get in trouble for it, I would often be bemused and perplexed. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do?

My daughter’s look of absolute shock and confusion when I told her off the other day for drawing on her wall, reminded me all too well that, like me, she was probably innocent of any willful wrongdoing, and I felt chastised in not understanding her.

When I was a teenager, I used to feel, as you did too probably, that everybody misunderstood me a lot. I was figuring out that I was this person with all these thoughts and opinions and hopes, feelings and aspirations. But I was often perplexed at the fact that other people, friends, family, teachers, audition panels, universities, employers, didn’t ‘get it’. How could they have misunderstood what I was trying to do with my life?

When I’d stay out all hours of the night, when I’d get into trouble with my father at three a.m. for being out with my friends, the accusation was that I must be doing something wrong. Taking drugs, drinking, being reckless. When really, all I ever did was talk, try to find a place for me. The accusations hurt. Didn’t they know that I wasn’t as bad as all that?

Now that I am older, I often worry, as I have no idea if you ever do, that I have been misunderstood, misinterpreted, mistaken. Things that to other people might be water off a duck’s back, to me plague and unsettle me, still believing people think wrongly of me. I remember how often I felt wrongly accused as a child and even more as a teenager and react in fear that it has happened once again, that once again, it has only been a ‘misunderstanding’. The fear of accusation sometimes withers me.

I have learned that I am ‘different’, and I do/think/behave/mean differently to the people/culture around me. Often being ‘different’ leads to my expectation that others will misinterpret me, and getting into trouble, when, at least I believe, that my intentions have only ever been the best.