When my dad left the rehab center in Costa Mesa, he knew he was going to have to do 90 meetings in 90 days. The 90 day period was critical for some reason, but I forgot about it until last weekend.
Rather than do my assigned readings, I read a book that caught my eye in the library a couple months ago, Nick Hornby’s A Long Way Down. I’ve never been depressed, nor have I contemplated suicide. It’s about four people who meet New Year’s Eve on a roof. Rather than jump off — as they all had intended — and end their lives, they come down and form a gang that functions more as a support group. I like Hornby’s writing, so choosing A Long Way Down over something on academic capitalism was easy.
One of the Topper’s House four, Jess, brings up the notion of the critical 90 days.
“The other night, I was going to tell you about something I’d read in a magazine. About suicide. Do you remember? Anyway, this guy reckoned tgat tge crisis period lasts ninety days.”
“What guy?” JJ asked.
“This suicidologist guy.”
“That’s a job?”
“Everything’s a job.”
“So what?” said Jess.
“So we’ve had forty-six of the ninety days.”
“And what happens after the ninety days?”
“Nothing happens, I said. “Just… things are different. Things change. The exact arrangement of stuff that made you think your life was unbearable… It’s got shifted around somehow. It’s like a sort of real-life version of astrology.”
The ninety days came and went on Friday. All week I kept telling myself that I was finally going to do something regarding the situation with my estranged ex-roommate. I’ve put off talking to her for a few reasons. The primary one was because it was too difficult. It’s so much easier to put it off.
I considered writing a letter, but discarded that idea. I completely agreed with Oso in his explanation of why he believed he was not blessed with the art of gab
It just so happens I am not gifted at the art of gab. When I get in arguments with friends, which luckily is rare, I always find myself writing them letters instead of talking it out. The art of sincere conversation has never been mine… I cannot articulate my thoughts, not as I want them to come out. So I resort to irony, sarcasm, and total absurdity. No one takes me serious when I speak, certainly not myself, which is why the written word is a special refuge for me. My cave of sincerity.
I left a comment telling the story of what my friend, Chispa, told me a few years ago. She said, “Cindy, you should just stick to writing, because when you speak it just comes out all wrong.” I was slightly offended, but Chispa was right. She’s known me for seven years, and she’s felt me say mean and off-handed remarks.
A few years later, in an Atlanta elevator looking out towards Piedmont Park, my beau at the time admitted, “I’m crazy about you.” Without missing a beat, I responded “You’re just crazy.” I didn’t even know I was being mean until I told my sister, Lori, about the conversation. Lori is my litmus test and lets me know when I’ve crossed the line. It was only then that I realized I was an ass.
That is why I write. I’m less mean and more honest. If I try to have a difficult discussion with you in person, I’ll shut down when the conversation starts getting tought. Sometimes, I don’t completely stop talking, but it takes me several minutes to make a simple point. And I do get mean, just ask el Venado.
Oso’s post and the discussion in the comments helped me to figure something out. Sure, there are pros to writing letters, but as Abogado wrote, “they tend to be calculated which makes them devoid of passion.” Oso agreed with his co-blogger, “even though writing a letter is easier for you and me, a phone call is more fair, more honest, and more meaningful for the majority. We like the written word because we can be so exact, precise, clever, detached and thought out without interruption, but it’s also a safe way to hide from our friends’ deserving emotions.”
Today, I decided not to hide anymore from my voice. I still haven’t picked up the phone, because I thought just calling out the blue might be a little rude.
I may not have complete control of my tone of voice or what words come out, but ninety days have come and gone, and I need a resolution. Hopefully it won’t take another ninety days.
You deserve to give yourself peace. This is obviously something festering in you. I hope everything works out for the very best.
Cindy,
I think this is a very introspective entry-something that resonates with me very much. You and I are cut from the same cloth in this respect and I can tell you that’s why I write more than I talk. I also find that peace and that solace, because even if others don’t think it’s fair to lay out our ideas before hand, thus making them devoid of the passion that we hold inside, it does prevent us from being asses to people that we truly don’t mean to be asses to.
May you find the peace you seek.
Love,
Vane
my father is also a recovering alcoholic, and is during this time of the year that he seems to fall back into drinking. he gets depress. this year my sister and i are not going to mexicali for chrismas. the good thing is that my dad is coming over to CA. thanks for sharing.
cindy, whatever the specifics are, i know this has been bothering you a lot and i hope you’re able to get some sort of resolution (and before the new year). i’ve dealt with similar situations, and i know that the longer i waited, the harder it got. advice given to me, and that i would give to you, sounds obnoxiously similar to a nike commerical. but it’s true. and if you have the ability to do it face to face, all the better to show that you value what is/was there. good luck (?).
on a lighter note.. gotta love the jarabe de palo on the “just listened” list. =)
Me thinks you should eventually go back and read that something on ‘academic capitalism’, it sounds very interesting, IMHO.
I use to be like that. I got the gift from my father. . . gracias apa. . . . . When I’m mad and someone pushes me just enough, I burst out and start talking and saying things that makes tears just start gushing out of their tear ducts until we’re sorrowed by a pool of water.
It took years for me to learn to keep my mouth shut at the appropriate time. My friends know me well and they know the second something stupid or mean comes out of my mouth or I say something meaning a completely different thing. . .minutes later I’ll apologize. When I have to have a serious conversation with someone I’m honest and sincere and tell them, “I’m not sure how to say this right now, give me a second.” I use to walk away and write it down, read it over and make sure I was getting my point across in an adult-civilized manner. With time, I’ve learned to think over my conversations mentally and say what I mean to say without being straight-out, uncivilized, gangsta cad. lol.
The beauty about the art of conversation is that there are many kinds and there is no wrong way or right way to say things. . .but if it comes from the heart, that’s usually the most meaningful ones.
Oso,
It seems like I should be meeting with her soon. This week sucks, but next week hopefully I can take the next step in working towards a resolution. I don’t think you know it, but your words and especially that post last week (both you and Abo’s responses to the comments) helped me figure things out. Gracias.
Vane,
Again, thanks for listening through out all of this and helping me realize that it probably will take time. If I’ve ever been an ass to you, I’m sorry
Tin,
I hope things go well for you and your family. I was very young when my dad was still drinking so I don’t recall too much of that.
Kitti,
Yeah, I’ve never felt comfortable enough to post the specifics. It is an extremely personal situation and one I honestly believe would make me look bad.
I knew would like the Jarabe de Palo there. I had my mp3 player set to pick random songs out of my entire library.
HP,
I did go back and read it, and it was very interesting. It was about how higher education in the Americas has changed with the introduction of neoliberal econonmic policies.
CAD,
I actually didn’t get this hocicona until I was probably into my late teens. My older brother was always the one who wouldn’t shut his mouth. He would piss me off because the lecture just got longer or the punishment was wrose. Somehow, I started to develop that and in the process I’ve tried to become more mindful of how I use my words.