Where Fires Burn Up Batman Towels (Blog #1026)

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This afternoon I saw my chiropractor who works with emotions and their effect on the physical body, and we ended up talking about the fire that burned my family’s home down (and killed nine people, albeit none of them were my family or friends, in the process) when I was four. Now, I didn’t walk into my chiropractor’s office WANTING to talk about the fire. Indeed, I rarely if ever WANT to talk about the fire. For one thing, it was thirty-five years ago. It’s like, way, way over. For another, I HAVE talked about it–with my chiropractor, my therapist, hell, with the internet. Frankly, I’d rather talk about boys. Or chocolate cake.

No, I’d rather EAT chocolate cake.

Yes, that’s it. I’d rather eat chocolate cake than talk about the fire.

Alas, I’m finding out that just because an event is over in reality doesn’t mean it’s over in your body. Likewise, just because you’d rather talk about something else doesn’t mean your EMOTIONS would rather talk about something else. Or eat chocolate cake.

I’ll explain.

The process my chiropractor uses involves my picking a subject (physical or emotional) that I DO want to talk about. Then–often but not always–he helps me find two emotions (one positive, one negative) that are related to that subject. From there, we work our way backwards. “When was the first time you remember feeling these feelings?” he asks. For example, the thing I DID want to discuss today was my sinuses. (I’ve been fighting an infection for three weeks. Sadly, this infection is the 102nd sinus infection I’ve had since being born. And yes, that’s an approximation.) Anyway, the emotions that came up were adore (positive) and vulnerable (negative). Thinking about how vulnerable sinus infections make me feel (because when I’m sick I can’t work, can’t provide for myself, and can’t pay for all the shit I try in order to get better), I said, “Yep, that’s the right descriptor. It’s like my body is undependable. Like I’m exposed.”

Tracing these feelings back, I landed at the fire. Well, wait. With the word “adore” I landed just before the fire, since adoration is what I felt for our newly renovated and moved-into home. They say you don’t remember much when you’re a kid, but I remember SO MUCH about that time in my life, those six weeks before everything changed. My room on the second floor. My own bathroom and the Batman towels that hung on the rack. Our toy room on the third floor, and the laundry chute that went down to the first. Finger painting in the kitchen. Playing hide-and-seek in the closets. Pitching one of those cheap plastic tents in the hallway. Having our friends Tom and Jean over and Jean washing the dishes with only a cup of water (she was a missionary).

The unfinished stairs.

My chiropractor said the fire was “a turning point,” that although my life had challenges BEFORE the that night in 1985, my worldview as a four-year-old would have sounded something like, “I can expect good things. Life is a bowl of cherries.”

“But after the fire–” he said.

“After the fire,” I said, “my conclusion was, ‘If you fall in love with something (or someone), you can expect it to leave you. Life is a bowl of pits.'”

Pointing out that not only did my family lose our home that night but that we also lost our business (my dad’s store was on the second floor, and our home was below, behind, and above it), my chiropractor said my conclusions were completely logical ones for a child to make. Also, he said that given my age and the fact that I was most likely overwhelmed by all that went on (you think?), it would make sense for “that little boy” to 1) not know how to express his fears and emotions, 2) feel that they weren’t important or urgent enough to be heard even if he knew how, and 3) consequently shove them down. Er, shove them up (into his head/my head).

Coughing, I said, “That would make sense.”

A turning point.

I wish I could tell you that everything my chiropractor did today (he has a whole process that involves clearing or reprocessing old emotions) both healed my sinus infection and made me feel safe in the world. Alas, things are rarely this simple. “Think of the major traumas in your life like a root stem,” he said. “It’d be nice to pull it out all at once, but that really can’t be done because it’s so deep and so many other smaller roots have grown off of it. Thankfully, we can get at the smaller ones pretty easily. We can work a little at a time.”

Because I’m a writer, my chiropractor suggested writing about all this, which I’m doing now. Unfortunately, I haven’t had a major breakthrough. Again, it’s the root stem thing. What I can say, however, is that I’ve had some little breakthroughs. Pulled up a few smaller roots. Specifically, I’ve recognized and felt some feelings. Not just the “I’m vulnerable ones” but also the “I adore my life” ones. This is something I’ve never really done before today, really owned who I was and what I was like pre-trauma. I’ve only focused on The After. What I mean is that I’ve known for a long time that I lost a lot of stuff in the fire, I just never stopped to fully label those losses. My sense of security. My playfulness. My belief that things will work out.

I hope I don’t sound hopeless. I certainly don’t feel hopeless. Rather, I feel hopeful. Hopeful that it’s possible to feel secure again. Even in a world where fires burn up Batman towels and feelings of adoration. Hopeful that it’s possible to feel playful and trusting again. To feel at home both in my body and on this planet. Hopeful that I can finish building this house–the one where my heart resides–and live here a while at ease. That there will be another turning point.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."

Now Green Grass Grows (Blog #836)

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I’ve spent today reading three different books online–The Kingdom Within: The Inner Meaning of Jesus’ Sayings by John A. Sanford, Cathedral by David Macauley (about gothic architecture), and What Your Childhood Memories Say about You by Dr. Kevin Leman. And whereas I love reading and learning, after several hours of this my eyeballs felt like they were going to fall out of my head and roll around on the floor, so I shut my laptop and went for a walk.

While strolling, I thought about the book I’d just been reading, about childhood memories. The author of the book contends that we form how we see ourselves and the world around us basically by the age of eight and that our early memories can clue us in to not only who we are and what we believe, but also why. Anyway, I started scanning my memory banks and came up with several instances when I felt excited about learning or figuring things out, as well as several instances when I felt afraid or embarrassed. This is important, the book says–if it’s really a formative memory, there will be an emotion attached to it.

Because I’m currently tired and would like to keep this short, I don’t intend to go into my specific memories. Plus, I’ve already discussed a number of “the biggies” here before. What I will say, however, is that although I haven’t finished reading the book, I already agree with its premise. Those emotions I just mentioned–excitement (about learning or figuring things out), fear, and embarrassment–continue to motivate nearly everything I do.

Here’s one way to think about all this. While walking tonight in downtown Van Buren, I stopped by what’s left of what used to be my family’s home, which burned down when I was four. The building itself has since been cleared, and there’s a park. Still, one brick wall remains, and even after thirty-five years, you can still see black smudges all along it. What I mean is that simply because something happened forever ago (when you were a child) doesn’t mean it can’t leave a long-lasting and permanent impression.

For me, the impression that the fire left was Something bad is going to happen. It really was a horrific night. Although my family was spared, nine people died in that fire, along with many of my stuffed animals. The next thing I knew, I was sleeping at a friend’s house, being given someone else’s toys to play with. Another emotion that comes up in a lot of my early memories is confusion, and perhaps the fire is where that feeling started. How confusing for a four-year-old to one day be living in a newly built three-story home and the next day be living on his friend’s pullout couch.

Because our home that burned really was lovely and then it was all gone, I think another impression the fire left was Good things get taken away. This is a belief that’s been reinforced for me a number of times–when Dad went to prison, when our new cars got repossessed. When all that happened, in my teens, both me and my family started getting more hand-me-downs. When I graduated high school, a family I deeply love gave me a car. And whereas it did the job and it was mine(!) for a few years, it was in rough shape. So, without meaning to, I guess I developed a spinoff belief of Good things get taken away–that I’m only worth second-rate things. Used things. Things nobody else would want.

This isn’t easy to talk about it. I don’t like the fact that something, a number somethings, that happened so long ago continue to influence my attitudes and behaviors even today. And yet they do. They continue to have sway over my platonic and romantic relationships (like, I don’t deserve the best), my relationship with money, how I think about healing, and even how I go for a walk. Because when you believe Something bad is going to happen, it’s difficult to ever relax. When you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, it’s hard to let your guard down.

The good news is that all of this is getting better. All of this is better than it used to be. For me, a lot of healing has come through writing and this blog, through simply stating the facts–I was scared when I saw the smoke that night, I was embarrassed my Dad went to prison, and I was embarrassed I couldn’t afford my own car. As I understand it, something magical happens when you can, with compassion, be a witness to your own life. Also, for me it’s been important to really grasp how much my difficult childhood experiences laid the groundwork for my personality, a personalty that although it experiences a great deal of fear and embarrassment, also experiences a great deal of inner fortitude and determination to overcome. I wouldn’t trade these positive qualities for the world. This is how life works. Whenever it takes something away from you, it gives you the opportunity to cultivate something better in return.

At the spot where our house once burned down, just next to that smoke-stained wall, now green grass grows.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some days, most days, are a mixed bag. We cry, we laugh, we quit, we start again. That's life. In the process, we find out we're stronger than we thought we were, and perhaps this is healing.

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An Extremely Neat Child (Blog #101)

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When I was four my family and I moved into an old three-story building in downtown Van Buren that we’d recently remodeled. There had been a lot of construction, and a lady who worked downtown paid me and my sister a penny for every nail we picked up off the ground. I guess it was my first job. I remember putting the money in some of those plastic easter eggs, putting the easter eggs in a drink carrier from McDonald’s, and then putting the drink carrier on a shelf in my closet. I can still see it–everything just so.

We’d lived in that house for about six weeks, and then one night while we were all gone, a semi-trailer truck lost control while coming down the big hill in front of our home that doubled as my dad’s drugstore. The fire started when the truck collided with a station wagon at the bottom of the hill, a station wagon with a family of seven inside. All seven people, along with the newly married couple in the semi-trailer truck, died. Three buildings, including ours, burned. The event made national news.

My memories surrounding the fire are pretty spotty. I remember that night seeing smoke in the sky from the front yard of my grandparents’ house. I remember sleeping on a pull-out couch that wasn’t ours. I remember getting hand-me-down stuffed animals. My aunt says I would arrange those stuffed animals according to height, that the year the fire happened was when I went from being a neat child to an extremely neat child.

At some point we settled into the house we’re in now, the house I really grew up in. My room was two doors down from where I am at the moment, and I can still picture the baby blue walls and the railroad-train wallpaper border that stayed the same until I became a teenager. Every now and then my dad would help me rearrange the furniture, but certain things never changed. Always the Legos sitting on top of the dresser were lined up parallel to the edges, the VHS tapes on the shelves in the closet were alphabetized, and the books on my desk were arranged according to height.

Everything just so.

I’m sure the fire was also when I started collecting basically anything that wasn’t worth a damn. That’s when I started hanging on. For a while I was into rabbit’s feet, which I hung individually by chains on a pegboard on the back of my closet door and arranged by color. And then there was Batman and then there was Coca-Cola (the new stuff, not the antiques). Every birthday or Christmas I’d take any newly acquired gifts and start searching for a place to put them. However, because things went into my room but rarely went out, finding empty shelf space became more and more of a challenge with each passing year.

Once after a birthday I remember lying in bed and my mom sitting on the edge. I’d gotten a bunch of new toys but didn’t know where to put them, and it was so overwhelming that I began to sob. Another time I dropped a paperback in the bathtub, and even though the book was okay, some of the pages got wrinkled. I recall being so upset that it was no longer perfect and how even after my mom bought me a new copy, I couldn’t get rid of the old one.

For nearly thirty years now, I’ve struggled with holding on and wanting everything to be perfect and just so. And whereas these things have been a challenge, they’ve also been my salvation, my way of bringing order to a chaotic world, a world where homes turn to smoke and fires take the lives of strangers just as easily as they take the lives of your stuffed animals. I’ve never been officially diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), but my psychologist friend Craig says a little OCD is functional. I know that my desire for order has come in handy in my life as a remodeler and interior decorator. Sometimes I like to think of myself as a household chiropractor, someone who can walk in, immediately spot any misaligned picture frames or candlesticks, and straighten everything up. Snap! There, that’s better.

Today after having lunch with my aunt Terri (the one who said the thing about the highly organized stuffed animals), I had coffee with my friend Kara, whom I’ve known since the fourth grade. Honestly, she’s one of my dearest friends, but she told me today that she’s learned things about me from the blog that she never knew before, like how much I’ve smoked over the years. (A number of other people have echoed this sentiment.) I guess we all do that to some extent, try to control the information that other people know about us, since no one likes to be judged. I know that for the longest time it was easy to stay in the closet because I’d only date people out of town. I could have a boyfriend on nights and weekends, but I never had to mix that part of my life with my family or my friends at the dance studio.

Kara accurately described this sort of behavior as compartmentalizing. Work goes over here. Friends from high school go over here. And let’s see–sex and cigarettes go waaaaaaaayy over there. I told Kara that I thought I’d made a lot of progress. I don’t compartmentalize nearly as much as I used to. (She agreed.) I guess it’s harder to do when you put a good majority of your thoughts, feelings, and secrets on the damn internet. There’s a certain amount of control that’s given up every time you get real with yourself, write it down, and hit the “Publish” button. In this sense, perhaps I’ve come a long way from that scared, little four-year old who lost his stuffed animals, the one who thought he needed to find a way to control the uncontrollable.

Still, this evening when I unpacked my bag from the weekend, I put my socks in one drawer, my shorts in another, and my t-shirts in the closet–according to color. I organized my calendar for the week. And then I put my change in an orange bowl, which–now that I think about it–looks not unlike an easter egg. All this I did in my sister’s old room, the room I now sleep in, the one with the bed where I lie awake and worry about things like whether or not I’ll ever move to Austin, how my body will recover from my recent car accident, and if I’ll ever be a husband. Of course, all of these thoughts are overwhelming, and sometimes I feel like that small child who doesn’t know where to put everything in his life. But then I sit down at my laptop and–word by word–place my entire chaotic world extremely neatly on a page, all the while wondering if this is simply another way to hold on, another way to get everything just so.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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