an open space

safety and self-intervention
My brother wrote a story once in middle school titled Charlie the Chair, personifying the leather chair that seats patients in the dentist office. He used to whisper words of encouragement to my brother as he sat, blurry-eyed and mouth open, syringes uncomfortably poking at his gums. And while that made my brother most uncomfortable, I personally remember, dreading that plastic gummy tube they put over your nose. The one that came in neon colors and attached to cans of nitrous oxide, as the dentist, muted behind his medical mask, told you in hushed tones, to "breathe slowly, and just relax." I would begin to feel light-headed as I struggled to take in breaths, and I remember feeling once as though I had floated outside of my body and was watching myself from up above, laying helpless and indolent, on Charlie's leather exterior.

Sometimes, I metaphorically attempt to look "outside" of myself, at how a close friend might interpret the motive of my actions, or what a stranger might conclude as they observed me from afar. And I think about how often we act according to how we are expected to, rather than how we would like.

Last night Jacob and I stayed at Tyson's house. His roommate Mark was gone away at the coast, but I am always tickled to see what books he is reading, or what music he likes, or what shows he is going to, because the life he seems to live is very purposeful, and full of expression. He shoots a lot of photography, solely manual, with an empty closet in his house serving as a makeshift darkroom. His photo prints litter the house, and I love to thumb through them. This morning he had a book lying on his couch titled: Meetings with Remarkable Trees, which made me laugh, and I loved. And as I stood in the shower, I thought, terrified, about how invisible so many of my actions are, how thoughtless they are, and how motivated they are by lethargy and complacency and safety. Though I might have the same stated values as Mark, I settle and strive little to fulfill these purposes, for excuses like time or money or courage. This struck some innate chord, that I needed to create my own form of proactive self-intervention, because when I observe the history of my actions, and the potential of my heart, I am often pretty uncertain of where I'll end up, and worry about myself a tremendous amount.

Jekyll and Hide surely have it easy. Sometimes the voices in my head become so numerous and dissonant, that I revert to a state of paralysis. But this morning, instead, they stood around me, opening the curtain of the shower, facing me naked and in my most vulnerable state. Some of the voices in my head are full of strength, motivated by love, have been fed and grown by striving after selfless and worthwhile things. And they wrapped around me, much like a memory I have, months ago, of sitting in a crowded hotel room, a planned intervention, expressing concern for another troubled friend.

"Trina," they said," "we worry, we love, we believe . . .".