“There will come a time when you have a negative experience with someone and instead of triggering your trauma, it triggers your healing and you are reminded of the work you have done to rebuild yourself.”
Nate Postlethwait @nate_postlethwait
I would say winter was a general cluster $#%# of emotions. From Christmas, New Years and all the way through Valentine’s Day, it felt as if the universe sent me a wake-up call on multiple fronts. It all kind of came to a crescendo when I realized how easy it was to turn off the outside world for a bit and generally not think about much of anything else other than the work in front of me and within me.
Is anyone feeling like the same person after all that we have been through this last year? After this uninvited guest of a pandemic, and through a series of encounters and conversations these last several weeks, I realize now that I need to approach my challenges, learning and state of being differently. Specifically, I need to change how I think about humility and this feeling that I need to apologize or defend myself for being exactly who I am, where I am and doing what I am doing. In a nutshell, I’m not sorry for the awakening to things this past year–to the things that contribute to the awkwardness of life. However, I am sorry for the loss of lives, the loss of connections and the loss of normalcy.
So what am I not sorry for at this point:
- I am not sorry for struggling to learn two languages at an age when most people have just started having colonoscopies,
- My grief is mine, and I’m not sorry for not knowing how to move through it day in and day out,
- I am not sorry for being selfish with my time
- And finally, I’m not sorry for saying “no” when I really want to say no.
Perhaps after one year of this altered life coexisting with a pandemic, this is about stopping the pattern of reaction that ultimately takes a toll on me. This is being aware of my normal go-to responses and realizing they are not always in my best interests.
Parlez vous…who gives a shit.
When I was traveling recently in Biarritz, Sofia and I were walking through a public park and a lovely couple stopped to play with her. They were probably late 50s in age. I said hello in French, and then as they talked to Sofia, I said, “Elle s’appelle Sofia, mais elle parle Italien.” In English it means, “She is named Sofia, but she speaks Italian.” It’s my new strategy of letting a stranger know that both the dog and her master have limited French skills. I’m always trying to lessen the language burden.
The lady smiled at me and said, “Ciao,” and then started talking in very basic Italian. Her Italian was like mine. We understood each other, even though we both had competing accents getting in the way. After speaking a few sentences, I got the impression she was a bit under the influence of something. I, however, was not. She slurred in a weird French/Italiano manner. All of a sudden she said surprisingly, “I think I speak Italian better than you.” She was teasing, or drunk, but in that moment I thought, “What does she have to gain from pointing that out?”
Last year’s Luke would have humbly smiled, probably apologized and agreed with her to make her feel better. However, she triggered something in that moment. I was 100% positive this woman could not speak Italian any better than me. Rather than feel ashamed and apologize, I simply said, “Ma no, non sono d’accordo. Non la capisco molto bene. Grazie e arrivederci.” Or, “But no, I don’t agree. I don’t understand you very well…thank you and goodbye.”
I think she was a bit taken aback by the abruptness of my response and subsequent exit, but at that point, I realized I wasn’t going to be left feeling ashamed by a stranger.
And the French version of the same experience
There’s a certain bakery in the village of Nèrac, I call it the “Orange Bakery” because of the color of the building facade. It’s my least favorite bakery, because it feels like the fast food of French bakeries, impersonal and transactional. However, they have the most flexible hours…and so I find myself there more often than I care to admit.
Last weekend I went in to purchase bread. Now the difference between masculine and feminine nouns matters in Latin languages, it changes everything. A baguette is feminine, however a loaf of bread, pain, is masculine. So you order “une baguette” or “un pain de whatever”. The difference between the pronunciation of “une and un” is a world apart in French. Un is a sound that is not common in English..kind of like “aohhnnn”. If you watched “Emily in Paris” on Netflix, you saw this exact situation. Here’s the scene on YouTube to make meaning to my point.
So I order “aohhhnnn baguette” and “oohnn petite pain de campagne.” The person behind the counter, a young girl maybe 20 years old, immediately looked at me and corrected my “aohhhhhnn”. I said excuse me and tried to repeat the sound. She corrected me again. At this point, I felt exhausted. She waited for me to try again. All I could muster is, “Mais, vous comprenez, oui?” Basically, “You understand..yes?” In other words, “I have no patience.” She half-smiled, and then promptly handed me my things.
Clearly I’m working with a low bar of tolerance for anything less than genuine kindness in people after the last 12-months.
I’m really trying
I don’t think people understand that when somebody is trying to learn, there are all sorts of thoughts in their head about inadequacy, perceived failure and even shame. Communication is such a critical need between people, and the fear of being unable to communicate is the most unsettling feeling for me here. Having it pointed out in a way as if I’m purposefully choosing to not try is a new flashpoint for me.
This weekend i was in Bordeaux with some friends. I was riding my bike around the city and decided to stop and grab a coffee at Starbucks. (I know. Please don’t gasp. I wanted a mocha.)
As I stood in line to order, I met a young French girl just behind me. We made small talk as we waited. I understood enough of our conversation in French to know she works at a bank, she was born in Brittany and she agrees with me that Bordeaux is a beautiful city…perfect simple conversation for my level of French. She did not speak English, so we managed. I told her learning French felt easier, perhaps because of my Italiano. She said she wished she could speak another language, like English or Italiano. Then she folded her hands and symbolically bowed her head. She said, “Vous essayez.” That means, “You’re trying.” That woman got it! That’s the reaction we need to foster daily–acknowledging complete strangers just for the effort of trying.
From STDs, egoists and psychopathic tendencies
This week I went to see my French physician. Last year, he ordered a number of blood tests, but I never found the time to do them with all of the work on the house and the COVID limitations. I finally went to the lab and scheduled the follow-up appointment this week to review the results. And there were a lot of results.
When you’re a single gay man in France the doctors like to pull out all the stops. The good news is, most of Europe can sleep comfortably tonight. You will be happy to know that I do not have syphilis, gonorrhea or chlamydia. The rest of my laboratory results are exactly where they should be.
I arrive at the doctor’s office early and wait for my name to be called. I have all of my lab reports in hand and am fully prepared to talk about the gold stars I received for everything, including the STDs. After a few minutes, the physician office door opens and a woman doctor asks me to come in to the office. I ask if Dr. Granier was here, and she replied in French, “I am Dr. Granier today.” I immediately realize this is not going to be easy. I sit down, and we begin.
My appointment lasts for over an hour. After the doctor got over the shock of my array of STD tests (Neither of us understood why my doctor ordered all of them), we then talked…a lot.
This is what happens in most European physician visits. There is never a rushed feeling. You sit in what feels like a business office. It doesn’t have that clinical environment one would expect to see in America. I find it much more comfortable. If you want to read about my first medical experience in Torino, Italia, there’s a great post to be found here.
So towards the end of our time together, the doctor asked what I do in France. I told her I write, and that I am in the process of settling into a second home here. She asked if I made a living writing and what do I write about.
I told her I write about my life in a sort of autobiographical way. She then said, “Oh so you are an egoist?” Immiedately, alarm bells went off in my head. I kept calm and responded, “Well I write about my life in Europe since leaving America. It’s not for my ego, but for my recovery.”
Then she asked why I didn’t write about Napoleon or other French history. I wasn’t even sure how to answer that question.
After she heard my full story and what I write about, she said to me in English, “You know in France, if you are still grieving after four years, we consider that you have a psychopathic disorder. You must move-on to a new life.”
Did I hear that correctly..psychopathic? I hoped she meant something kinder, perhaps psychological or psychosomatic, but psychopathic? Was this a lost in translation moment? Did this woman think there was a clinical entrance and exit door to grief?
So again, I held my breath for a moment and avoided folding away from the conversation. I said to her in English, “The least three years have been about trying to move on to something different. It doesn’t mean you forget about what you lost. Writing about this process doesn’t make me psychopathic. It helps me heal.”
I’m not sure if she understood it, but then she said, “Yes, it’s possible that writing is therapy.” And with that, she finished the subject.
She was clueless to the impact her statement could have had on me. She whipsawed me from STDs, European rulers, egotistical behavior and psychopathic tendencies in a matter of minutes, but to her, she remained unphased. I left there feeling that I’m not sorry for writing about grief, and I’m not sorry she thinks I’m an egoist that may have STDs.
Finding my voice and changing my response
In each of these situations, I took a bit more of an offensive versus defensive approach. It seems that perhaps that’s the difference. This isn’t about asking for forgiveness, or saying, “I’m sorry.” This is about finding your inner voice and holding your ground confidently, even if it may counter someone else’s desire.
I recently was talking to a long-time friend of mine, and sharing the subject of this recent blog, I‘m not sorry. It actually hit home with her.
We met on our first day of elementary school, and 45 years later, I still adore this person. She has the same context of growing up in our small town in rural Western Pennsylvania. It was a place that perhaps failed to prepare us fully for how amazing, scary, diverse and wonderful the world is.
We came from industrious blue-collar parents mostly of European descent. Because of that strong European family upbringing, there was a mentality of humility and appreciation for what was. There wasn’t much talk about traveling the world, seeing different places or experiencing different things. Dreamchasers and stargazers weren’t in high demand.
There was also a sense of “duty” to do things that you really did not want to do. If it helped somebody feel better, if it avoided conflict or someone else perceived it as selfless, you did it.
What I realize now is that sense of dutiful acceptance created a tremendous amount of tension in my adulthood. I think much of my upbringing brought me to a place of unreasonable humility and perhaps a sense of shame. Shame for wanting or being something different or simply saying no and setting a boundary. That shows up in how I have been creating safety in this new world.
It seems that once again I am at the beginning of a newer version of myself. Thank you Universe! At 50 years-old, you continue to remind me that I’m far from figuring myself out yet. I’m not sorry it took this long, but perhaps a few years ago, it might have been more helpful.
I realize that in those situations where I swallow more pride than I should, hold my temper when I shouldn’t or bite my tongue, they come back and demand attention. That demand seems to be persistent until you get it inside your soul. I mean really get it deeply: the meaning, the history behind it and the entire point of the lesson.
So after a year in suspended isolation and all of this time to think alone and work on myself a bit more, I don’t think I have left anything that requires an apology. I can comfortably say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry…However, I am trying.”
This post is a tribute to my late husband. He was always helpful in keeping me above the water-line when I wanted to dive deep into something that wasn’t always the best or healthiest way to react. Tomorrow, March 16, Darin will be gone three years. I’m not sure if life has really gotten easier or if grief has lessened these last 36-months. In some ways it seems grief is more defined. It as if it has settled in to stay for the ride of my lifetime, and I’m beginning to adjust to the passenger.
There isn’t a day that goes by that i don’t think about all of the “what-ifs” if Darin was still here. But now I also think of the “what-nots”. I know that there is so much in my life now that I would never have seen or done, and I guess that’s what it’s all about. It’s not whether you prefer this life over the old one, it’s learning to appreciate it for what it is. Be well my friends. Thanks for being part of this life. Sending much love to you. – Luke