Caution: Monstrously long post dead ahead. Turn back now.
Last night I finally got the chance to watch this week's The Voice. One of the the contestants, Lily Elise, sang Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry." While never a big Fergie fan, I've always been a bit partial, probably because it's something of a mantra for me. Then, after the performance, one of the judges complimented her performance, saying, "Sometimes vulnerability is the hardest thing to show;" that rang true for me.
Over the past couple of days, I've really been confronted with the concept of vulnerability. First, on Tuesday, I went to one of my friend's house. Nina is a foreign exchange student from Liberia who returns home on Sunday. While still somewhat guarded around her, I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was a bit freer with her by comparison and the subconsciously-acknowledged fact that she would soon be leaving seemed to somehow decrease the "risk" involved in being "real" with her. Then, that evening, I came home, boxed up all my "fun," and dealt with my real life.
Wednesday, I spent most of the day with Jill, one of my youth leaders. I pretty much just tagged along on a day in the life of a stay-at-home mother of toddlers. As much as I may hate to admit it, kids are great, especially when you need writing material or want to learn about life. They're open and honest, and possess a unique, simplifying insight into some of life's most complex and important issues. "Out of the mouths of babes," eh?
Well, that afternoon, Jill and I had a chat and much of it centered around vulnerability and my inability to truly be vulnerable. The fact is I honestly don't know how to do that. I wish I did, but I don't. And I desperately wish someone would teach me. But I know that it would likesly be nearly as difficult to te teach me as it would be for me to learn.
On a marginally more positive note, Jill's a pretty cool gal. She's certainly not an overly-emotional individual, but she cares, and care in a real and concrete way. And she's pretty good in the Common-Sense-That-You-Really-Don't-Wat-to-Deal-With department. She's really someone with whom I can be open and honest without having to worry about betrayal and hurt feelings, and that's pretty special. I also know that even if she gives advice that I don't necessarily like, she's saying it because she's trying to help. And yes, when I'm honest, she's usually right (Jill, if you're reading this, enjoy it, 'cause it's highly improbable that I'll ever say that to your face :P).
That evening, I packed away all my feelings and thoughts and questions and headed off to church. I sat down at a table to peer into the gym and imagine having the courage to make an attempt at socializing. A little later, another older girl - a bit of a "misfit" herself - comae in and sat down at my table. We talked a while, and eventually Nina and her friend - another foreign exchange student - arrived and joined us. As we talked, I (as my nature dictates) began to think a bit philosophically about the situation; Nina and Pollynna - foreign exchange students, Ashley - an infrequent attendee who was socially awkward, Mariah - a junior high girl whose friends were out of town, and myself - an emotionally-damaged, socially-stunted hermit. Why were we all sitting together? Why could I talk in this setting but no other? Here, it was "safer"to be "real." Not really real; I don't have a clue as to how to do that. But with these people, I cold at least speck about something other than a simple fact that might answer a direct question. None of us were "in," so to speak, so there was less pressure to "measure up." I certainly wasn't "real," but I was definitely less reserved.
When it was finally time to start the service, we all headed toward the fellowship hall to give Nina a proper send-of. Eventually, most of the people in the room were in tears or quite near it. Of course, I wasn't one of them; I was dry-eyed and quietly jovial in my little "Island of Misfit Toys." That doesn't mean I wasn't going to miss my best, if not only, real friend at church; oh no, I was quite upset at the prospect of losing her. But there was no way I was going to let that show even if I were alone and knew that no one would ever know of such a tiny breach in my defenses. Big girls don't cry. So, I bid adieu to Nina Harris of Liberia and left for home.
At home, that night, I indulged in a bit of a Star Trek marathon with my brother and father. Afterward, with my over-compensation for an oncoming slump over the loss of a friend and a bit of lightheartedness due to my indulgence in an open conversation that afternoon, I succumbed to a fit of sheer idiocy with my brother as we mocked some of my sister's less-refined choices in music. I wasn't "open" or "myself" or anything soppy of that sort, per se, but I was less restrained.
Yesterday, I slept in and watched some TV with my siblings, but I never let my guard down. I stayed in control and didn't allow the frivolity that would surely have ensued, had I not been there to prevent it. Eventually, I grew weary of it all and retreated to my room, where I lost myself in a numbing string of movies and television shows for the balance of the day. When my father came home, he immediately became enraged over the state of the main living quarters of the house and instantly cast all the blame upon me, as I was the oldest and obviously should be the parent. Rather than explain how I felt about the situation and thereby become vulnerable, I returned his hostile onslaught with a louder, harsher, and more eloquent rebuttal, silencing the opposition and removing myself from the situation.
I spent the remainder of the night in the same fashion as the afternoon, drowning my feelings in the anesthetizing effect of a constant stream of media. Even alone, I would never let my guard down; such a thing would be unthinkable and, at this juncture, truly impossible for me.
Vulnerability. What is it? How does one find it? Would anyone respect and protect it, were I to give it them? I don't know the answers to any of these questions; all I know is that I'm a big girl. As much as I wish I could be a little girl and just have someone scoop me up in a big, safe hug and let me know that I cold let go, that I could jump and they would catch me, that's not what's real; I never learned to be a little girl. I'm a big girl - always have been, probably always will be.
And Big Girls Don't Cry.
