We all have these moments, where everyone else seems to be happy and we're fighting back the tears as something hits a sore memory but what do you do? I guess for most of us the simple answer is we sit through it. We try not to cry or upset anyone else and sometimes people notice and comment and sometimes they don't it just depends on how good an actor/actress you are. But there are times when I wonder if people really do have any idea of what it feels like for someone who's depressed or who has suffered from a past that most people cant' even imagine. In fact I feel most people don't think about it they assume that peoples lives are going to be quite similar to their own. Well this is a little story about that assumption and how it can impact peoples decisions about wanting to be around people.
The crowd pleaser
Oh yes there have been many moments in my life where the world has seemed like a very distant and cruel place and none more so than now. It’s an ordinary night out with friends, the pub we’re in is quite full and despite the background music we can still hear each other speak. A rarity I’ll grant you and one that I would much rather forego right now for my friends are talking about their childhoods. The happy times that they had and they are reminiscing about the wonderful toys they were given and the enjoyment they got from them. And here I am cold as ice, trying desperately not to cry, not able to move or smile or join in and certainly not able to run away and hide like I would very much like to.
I cannot look at them and although I cannot move I wish most fervently that this topic of conversation will pass swiftly. The men liked the macarno, the lego sets, and board games. The women played with dolls and doll houses, rode bikes and even occasionally chemistry sets. And then there’s me. I don’t remember what I had, well one or two things but even then I’m not sure and I certainly don’t remember what I enjoyed. In fact truth be told, I still don’t know what I enjoy. They talk of their mothers and fathers, friends and family who gave them the toys or played with them and again I am frozen.
They don’t notice me at the end of the table quietly sipping my drink and casting my eyes anywhere but into their eyes. They don’t notice that I haven’t spoken for a good 15 mins since they started talking about their pasts and even then it was a very short ‘Oh yeah I remember that,’ and I am glad. I’m also quite bored and as mentioned quite tearful. My heart rate is elevated and I can feel the icy spikes of adrenalin and cold sweats of fear. In checking the mirror behind the bar I can see that to the rest of the world I seem fine; normal in fact, although maybe a little bored. Just need to work on that smile and the slightly glazed look to my eyes and no one would ever guess. I look at my hands gripping the arm of the chair I’m sitting on and feel the taught fiery stress of my overly tense legs and wonder what good this is doing me.
Get out they said, meet new people and enjoy yourself they said and you’ll feel much better. Little did they know how it would affect me. I want to be happy and enjoy being with the friends that I have made but there is so much that is so painful and who would have thought that talking about what toys were available when we were young would cause me so much stress and pain. They certainly didn’t, don’t as their animated faces and much joking around proves. They have completely missed what is going on for me and why should they not. Their childhoods were not like mine and they have no idea what mine was like as it has never been something I have talked about. I have pretty much avoided thinking about it to for the most part: I can’t change it so why upset myself.
I want what they had. I want to have felt loved and wanted, deserving of those toys and attention and I don’t, and hearing about their childhood and how good they were cuts to my heart, strips it bare and yanks it painfully in my chest taking my breath away. They may as well be stabbing me with every joyful laugh and excited exclamation and their desire for me to join in with them.
I can see their affront when I say little and without enthusiasm. I can see the way they deflate in front of me and I wish I could explain but they look so happy and excited, and I don’t want to see that change; but I can’t change my past or how I feel about it. I can only keep it to myself. I look around watching them and the rest of the pub and I want to be away from here. Far, far away where there is no one watching and I can let the tears flow and the anguish out. Where I can scream and shout and sob theatrically like a child and throw a tantrum, like I never did then. But I can’t, I can only sit and listen and grasp at my chair or my leg until they have finished. They are my friends and I don’t want them to be unhappy like I am and I definitely don’t want them to feel that they can’t talk about their past because I am with them.
“Drink?!” Pete holds up a glass and looks around the table.
I smile briefly. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
He smiles back with far more feeling and genuine warmth.
I sigh and my eyes prick with tears. I blink. “Just a J2O, I’m driving.”
He nods and looks at Rosa next to me.
“So what’ve you been up to?” Sarahs looking at me.
I shrug. “Not much.” And I tell her what little I have been up to and the conversation moves on. I take a deep breath and sigh. It has passed and I am okay. I can begin to relax: to breath a little easier but it will be a while before my heart rate is really steady.
