Letters to God

I was cleaning my room and found a little notebook that I had used to write some letters to God. It was at a time where I was experiencing little attention from the family, going through puberty, and realizing how I different I was compared to everyone else. There was so much I didn't understand at this time, but was at the very least able to see I needed help. I knew there was something better than what I was experiencing. These letters were my cry of the time. Things have changed greatly, but I think that the letters can explain things about me, revealing sides of myself I didn't know existed until now:

5/7/01
Dear God,
I decided to keep a journal because I find myself becoming mentally insane. I prayed for your strength to help me. I ask for your help. I think I need to see a psychologist. I’ve thought about it before but today I’m sure. I can’t stand this family. I try so hard to keep straight and not loose hope in them, but it just doesn’t work. If one day I do see a shrink I would show you to them. I need their help.
It all started with my neighbor Alex. He had a report for school due today which he laid off till the last minute. I helped him get a really good start. I did as much as I could for him as possible. He had a sub today so he had extra time to work on it. I couldn’t come up to help him but I told him to just do it and later I’d type it for him.
Well, he didn’t do it at all and at 9:15 he calls me and asks for my help. It was just too late, and it was his fault, so I turned him down. He hung up on me. My sister gets mad because I wouldn’t help him and that’s what she tells my parents not letting me explain. So when I finally get the chance they won’t listen.
My dad told me to shut up. I left him for that. My mom is mad because I won’t help him when Alex’s dad is sponsoring Marlo in like $300 for baseball and I won’t help him. I told her I don’t have the time at 9:00 and I gave him all afternoon and then I get told to shut up?
So then my dad comes in yelling at me for talking back, grabbing my neck and pushing me, and telling me to go to my room. My mom called him up and did the rest with him till 10:15 at night. I just went insane. When my dad hit me I didn’t get mad and immediately forgave him praying for your strength God. Help me get through this abuse. Get me the help I need. Help me get through this. Give me your strength. Amen.

On Thursday the 3rd we had off from school and after I took my shower I looked in your eyes and cried. I was so confused. I prayed for your strength. I did a tarot reading and it told me I work too hard on myself and I try to thing things through and become too confused. It said to just let go and trust in the universe. The next day as hard as it was I let go wand was free. I was very happy and self-satisfied. I don’t know what happened. It led me back to here.

5/8/01
Dear God,
I just tried to explain to my mom what happened yesterday with Alex and show her how I was going nuts. She listened but she felt as if I didn’t do things right and I was overreacting, and I would of done things differently. If I would of done things differently he would of gotten a lower grade than his 50%. I just couldn’t help him. For the crap I handled yesterday and the stuff he pulled off wasn’t right. He doesn’t want help he wants me to come and look up the answers so he won’t have to do it. Now he wants my help to do his corrections and his homework. I wasn’t sure about going to a psychologist today, I was nervous. As I talk more to my family I realize more and more why I should go. I’m scared that I won’t get what I want from it. I don’t want family counseling I just want out. I also typed my paper this morning for English because everyone was using the computer last night. I know they needed it and when I had the chance yesterday to use the computer I was writing the report. So when I’m typing it I get yelled at for doing my homework in the morning. I could of done it in study hall and it wouldn’t of made a difference. Okay so at supper- the conversation came up and my dad asked why I couldn’t help him. I explained it to him saying it was too late and then I got yelled at for it. He said, “By who?” I told him, “You and Mom.” He said, “I didn’t yell at you for helping him I yelled at you for refusing to…” then he realized what I said was right and he said, “I yelled at you fro talking back.” I only talked back in the first place because I did most of his work and when I tried to explain it before I got told to shut up. I told my mom I don’t appreciate being told that after I did all that work.
Then my mom and I got talking about what would help Alex get straight. I told her there isn’t much we could do because his parents are never home and they are busy they can’t help him, and what he needs is counseling or therapy. My sister buts in, “Who?” I’m like, ‘we are talking here mind your own conversation.’ She then asked again, “Who?” I told her we’re talking. My dad is like, “don’t but in,” to Marlo. Then he asks what I said. “Nothing,” then mom tells him, “Psychologists.” Dad asks, “For who?” I said, “Not a shrink a consoler.” He just butted in after he told my sister not to. My mom didn’t tell him for whom though. My sister asked why I was so grumpy. I said, “What does it matter to you?” She said, “I’m not even going to talk anymore.” Dad repeated, “Me too.” Then mom joined in, “Me either.” They all act like little snobs. I felt like screaming ‘Shut Up!” They act so stupid. They’re so noisy and they don’t’ even care at all. I think I’ll see that psychologist tomorrow.
Later Alex came over and did more of his failing report. He got my mom to do some by acting stupid. I don’t think he is going to make it far in his life at all.

Swing-System

When I was very young we use to live in a different house. My parents had rented a home in the mountains. We had a large back yard, a dog, and the house had a second floor. At that time we would hold parties that the whole family would attend. It was when we were the closest, and possibly the furthest apart.
My sister was celebrating a birthday, probably her third, and it was a hot summer day. She was given a swing set that my father decided to hang in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. There was a toy in my hand, some sort of contraption that had a yellow, plastic punching fist/glove attached to a yellow structure. There was a trigger that when pulled, the fist would spring out and the one using it would be able to jab another as much as a plastic punching fist could handle.
I was placed in the yellow fisher-price swing with the blue handle-guard as my sister had volunteered to show me how this device worked. I don't think she had mastered the art of letting go, nor the art of understanding the swing, as her way of demonstrating her knowledge was physically pushing and pulling me without releasing the rope, but moving me none the less.
Once she had gotten board of explaining the swing, she had abandoned me for our fisher-price kitchen set where her and cosine Patrick had take the liberty of cooking everyone a delightful plastic meal.
My God-mother Anne had replaced Marlo’s profession of ‘swing-pusher’. My gram Bucko was seated near me, holding the punching-contraption. As I would swing forward Grammy would pull the trigger and the punching glove would extend to meet my tummy. As I'd reach the climax of the swing I would tense my arms to my chest knowing she was going to get me. As the toy touched me she would let out a "Boop," sound.
Excitement ran through me and I would cry out the most tickled giggle that one could imagine possible. Every swing became an enjoyment; every ebb and flow was bliss. Swinging forward, 'Here it comes,' "Boop!" Laughter fills the room. Swinging backwards, 'here we go again. Getting closer. Oh God!' "Boop!" Laughter all over again. This simple pleasure is most enjoyable, but more so of it's little need for complex entertainment.
The wisdom I find in this swing-system gives me hope for darker times. If we focus merely on the moment that’s most enjoyable, daily life can become pure happiness. The initial swing we're in the moment, getting closer and closer until we reach climax. When we’re there we love every bit that we can consume. Then the back swing is our opportunity to realize we're only getting moment-by-moment, closer to the time we return to that forward swing. Ebb-getting ready for it; Flow-Enjoying every minute.

Sentimental Box (Fiction)

It wasn't till years later that Becka realized she would keep her job at the law firm. She had plans to go away to school, but that was 15 years ago, and she had already started a different life. It didn't sadden her though.
Sure, she had faced a few rough years with her dad dieing, and almost leaving her husband, but her grief had passed and her marriage has been strengthened.
This was her daughter's sixth Fourth of July celebration, her son's ninth, and they were spending it this year at her sister's place. Since her husband's job location has been switched every couple of years, holidays were usually held in different locations. After setting up the picnic table she began to retrieve the decorations. Judy, her sister, was gabbing away about the recent news as both of their children ran through the yard. The wind was blowing a calm gust and laughter surrounded the children.
Becka watched silently, leading Judy under the impression that she was absorbing every word said. She interrupted her, "You know Judy, I just realized, our kids. They don't have the same childhood that we had." The way that the kids were playing under the Maple trees made her see they were making an attachment to the place they were at. For her children this place would become a memory in the sentimental box in their heads, and as they'd grow older, now would be their childhood. This is how they would spend it, and it would never be the same as her experience. 'When did I become my mother,' she thought to herself. She now knew why adults would cry at the strangest moments.

Recent Observation

My mother wanted to tell my father the news about what recently happened to her. My dad was listening, but moved himself from her instant path of sight to get a cup of coffee. She was getting ready for church in the bathroom and was talking with the door open. Because she could no longer see him she instantly panicked, “Wait! Why are you walking away? I’m trying to tell you something.” The tone of her voice practically shed tears that yelled, ‘Give me attention! Why doesn’t anyone listen to me? Don’t they care?’
Annoyed, my father yelled, “I’m listening! Can’t I get a cup of coffee?” Was he supposed to stand there like a British guard? Should he have stopped her in her speech to announce his plans-respecting his intent but interrupting her speech? Should he have let her speak on without saying anything just as he did? Should she have been able to recognize that he would not have been interested in her news? Should she have been able to see he has his own intentions, that maybe her story’s only important to her? If she had thought about her conversation coming out of her own mouth would she be as interested in it as she is now? Should she have been able to see that he does care yet that standing there wont prove or disprove his interest? Should he be able to see that she didn’t understand he was listening? Should he be able to see that she just needed attention or some validation? Is she supposed to understand that he didn’t know what she needed? Is he supposed to understand that she didn’t know what ‘he’ needed?
No body told each other these things. They did what they felt. They responded to the situation just as they would have meant to do, without any other influence. It was just an observation that I made. That’s all.

The Naïve Skeptic

As a child I was skeptic. I needed tons of proof. I figured if the tooth fairy is a real person then she must have a last name. While visiting the bathroom I overheard two boys talking about her existence. I confessed my belief and didn't hold a doubt in my mind that she was a phony; I just needed proof other than the cash in my pocket.
During her next visit I had a letter prepared. I asked her to autograph her full name. The following morning there was a contract waiting that was signed, ‘Tooth Fairy’, Fairy being her last name. I was expecting something a little more elaborate, but she had already left the cash and that was a done deal.
I wanted to prove that she traveled all around the world, so the following opportunity I wrote another letter asking if she would leave money from a foreign country. In the morning, under my pillow was a Spanish bill. I found it suspicious since my parents had once taken a trip to Mexico, but this bill wasn't anything I could recall seeing in my mother's scrapbook. It was good enough for me.

My grandmother had given me an address to write to Santa Clause. Her explanation as to why it was addressed to her hometown was that her post office was one of the locations that would collect his letters. From that point the letters would be placed in a helicopter and flown directly to the North Pole (as if there would be enough fuel for the engine to fly from Kresgeville, PA).
I had written a few letters here and there and with successful responses. Knowing this system was legit I developed the brilliant idea to share this information with my first grade class. Mrs. Birchiellie loved the idea and wrote the address largely on the board. That day we spent the afternoon writing letters to Santa, placed them into a large yellow package, and sent them off.
My grandfather was a sign painter. Before he retired he rented a P.O. box at the post office for his business. I was told years later that when my Grandmother was checking the mailbox she had received a packaged filled with letters addressed to Santa's Workshop. She took the role of Santa's helper and responded to each letter appropriately, along with a message letting each person know that Santa was very busy making toys for Christmas and would be unable to write any more letters.

From an old e-mail to a bird.

I don't know if I ever told you this, but when I was young I was very attached to my mother. I would love to touch her and be close to her. I loved it when people would touch me, even if they were just putting their hand on my shoulder for a moment. I loved it when teachers would stand close to me. Their presence would help me. I loved having female teachers because they made me feel more comfortable with myself. Men would disturb me because they never touched each other. About the age of 8, I was constantly hugging my mother from the moment she walked in the door from work. All I wanted to do was hug her, greet her, say hello and be with her; Momma's boy to the extreme. If I told my mother about this today sadly, she wouldn't remember a thing. Eventually she got annoyed with this behavior and would have to push me off or tell me to go away when she’d be doing other work. She would spend hours doing her paperwork. It bruised my heart. I didn't understand the adult work life. I didn't know how to be compassionate for someone who refused touch-intimacy. I didn’t understand why they would reject touch.
From there I went into a touch-celibate mode. I could never touch anyone. My body became a private temple that couldn't come into contact with people. Regardless of my appearance, weather feeling fat or thin, I became very insecure with my body. I would never take my shirt off, even if it were in the privacy of my own home. The only time I would ever be naked was bathing or when dressing in my room. Nudity would last for mere seconds and I would use two towels to hide myself from the bathroom to my room. When I would see my reflection in the mirror after opening the shower curtain I would cover myself with a rag.
When I first discovered my dance class I was very shy. Here I was, Mr. insecure body, surrounded with strangers who were comfortable being intimate with one another. For the longest time I would laugh silently while warming up. Sometimes the warm-ups would require a slow hip thrust which made the group look like they were having sex with the air around them. All of the warm-ups were constructive and stretch-worthy, but I had trouble just moving in front of these people, showing my body. Being one of three men (one of them doesn't even dance but instead plays our music) I was insecure with myself. I have a penis and God forbid that I have a bulge in the crotch of my sweatpants. It was difficult for me to learn how to move comfortably. Just moving my hips, without feeling self-conscious, was a struggle. Eventually, this began to change. It was when I experienced Contact-Improve, the dance movement that requires constant touch with another individual, that I broke my discomfort.
My dance partner that night was Susan and she was an excellent person to be paired with. She held me closely, touched my body, and held me against her breasts. I grew up forbidding myself to ever touch a woman’s bosom or even dare look at. To me, such things were the privacy of the individual that I could not intrude, even with permission. A person's body was their temple and I was most unworthy to even be in the presence of such things. When moving with Susan, who ironically shares the same name as my mother, I took the opportunity in that closed and safe environment to venture into touch. I brushed my cheek against her foot, observing what such an experience would be like to place one's cheek/face against another's foot. It was intimacy on a whole new level, and for once in my life I didn't associate intimacy with the idea of sex.
Growing up, if anyone touched me for any reason, it was special. I think it's obvious that some of these corky habits about showing my body, touching others, and insecurities of touch have continued into my adult relationships. I think it's funny how I can have such a huge ego, but then touch me and I melt.