Sunday, February 12, 2012

Security Blankets

"I have buried you, in every place I've been, you keep ending up, in my shaking hands." Bon Iver

It is still here...buried in my guts...this feeling of being someone different than who I've become.  Sometimes that scared little kid still sits on front of the strange enigmic saxophone player in the park talking about the end of the world. I was five at the time and learning about nuclear war. I bury that kid whenever he reaches from the depths. There was something altogether different about him than I am now. He was scared of everything. He was always unsure of himself and expected everyone to reject him. He was always playing out these scenarios of everything he dreamed was true in his head. This kid was weak, so he gets to die. He gets to taste the bitter pill of being forgotten, until he is remembered.

I am loud.

I am not going to be ignored.

I am not scared of anything.

I never get embarrassed.

I can handle rejection.

I am the burier of weakness.................yet I spill it out here.

Sometimes, I wake up and I am still that kid. I still need a heater to sleep and the window open. I still need to feel safe when I am most vulnerable. I still need to make up scenarios to restore my mind to peace. When I was that little kid, I would feel insecure and just go into the living room where my mom slept and lay on the floor next to the heat register. I would wait for the creaking and dinging that would happen just before the heater would kick on. When I heard that noise, I would feel safe again and fall asleep in it's loving warmth.

I've had the crap kicked out of me many times since I was that little kid. I learned to be strong. I learned to kick back and fight and win. One of the things about me is that I seldom lose. I refuse to lose. But despite my aggression, I still hate confrontation. I still hate to feel insecure. When I do, I find myself under an open window with my heater. Maybe no one fully grows up anymore. Maybe we bury ourselves and weaknesses in everywhere we go and hold them under most days. Maybe sometimes, they emerge and we fall into their arms to find comfort and peace.

Is there something wrong with that? Will slept with his "Woobie," a little satin jacket he had as a kid until the day he died. It had been sown so many times, it looked like a Halloween freak show, but he would not sleep without it. It was his connection to security and comfort. When he felt vulnerable, he grabbed hold of it.

What is your security blanket?

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