Seen on the internet: Did you have a happy childhood or are you funny?
Last night I went on a long walk. Usually, I have my earbuds in. Craving stimulation, I listen to podcasts (mostly about how the world is falling down and the landing won’t be a soft one). If I want to walk faster, I’ll pump music into my head and swing my arms faster. On this stroll, I was in a mood to ruminate. I walked in silence for a change, listening for what my brain offered up. Unless I’m at my keyboard engaging in the writing life, this is generally a bad move.
Sunny people see a sunset and enjoy the beauty. I move on from those feelings quickly. The looming sunset in a silent sky served as an existential reminder of Nature’s cold indifference. I can be funny, but my nature is not sunny. Irony and dark humor? A lot of that comes from a dark place.
And so I plunged headlong into the past
Passing through a stand of trees, the green aroma pulled me back to memories of Nova Scotia, where I grew up. I ran through a lot of woods in those days. If I did that now, all I’d think about would be ticks and Lyme Disease. (I’m fun at parties, but that’s hard to imagine, isn’t it?)
We like to think we are proactive, a cause in the world. Sometimes, history condemns us to little more than an effect. My father refers to Nova Scotia as “God’s Country.” I would say it is a nice place to visit. It’s not all bad, not at all. I miss the sound of foghorns lowing to each other when a thick white blanket falls over Halifax Harbour. I miss Atomic Subs on Jubilee Road (sadly and inexplicably, long gone). In my hometown, the #4 Special at the House of Cheng was special. There are kind people there, but my mind doesn’t allow me to remember much of that.
Years ago, I met a fellow at a party who was born in the same hospital as me. Though he never actually lived there, he rhapsodized about how great our little town was. He became irritated when my lived experience didn’t match his fantasy. He seemed eager to overlook the casual racism, for instance. I could never watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys. I knew too many guys like that in real life to find it funny. I recognize that people are just as different and also the same everywhere. Human failings and mental deficits are certainly not unique to that place. However, painful memories specific to me lie there in the shadows. I am haunted.
When I wrote The Night Man, the town of Lake Orion, Michigan is just as much a character as it is a setting. I grew up in a small town. I know what it’s like when everyone remembers you from when you were in diapers. I remember how gossip is an engine that never stops revving. Growing up where I did informed Ernest “Easy” Jack’s experience of coming home to Orion. I have plenty of ghost voices in my head. They’re useful for what I do for a living.
History is generic, trauma is personal
The writing life is a sedentary one. I aim for 10,000 steps a day. Last night was a 14,000 step walk, plenty of time to dwell on regrets, unforced errors, my own shittiness, and the shots not taken.
Unfortunately, I have an eidetic memory for every negative thing I’ve witnessed. In perfect, excruciating detail, I remember the look on my mother’s face the last time I saw her. On her deathbed, she was furious, angry that she was dying, at how unfair it was. Loathing any display of weakness, she seemed most rageful that she was not immortal.
I remember every unkind word spoken to me like a fresh wound. I have always had a problem with authority and giving up control. In childhood, the locus of control is always elsewhere. Perhaps that’s why that time can feel so terrible. Everything feels important, even when it isn’t. Every failing is the end of the world. Everything is taken personally. (Still is.)
Indoctrinated into ideas I now find abhorrent, young adulthood was difficult, too. I couldn’t get hold of all the variables that might allow me enough independence to be left the hell alone. I was told I was too young to have a valid opinion, that my thoughts and feelings did not matter. I think some people might be getting better at valuing children so they learn to better value themselves and others. Sadly, there’s still a better than average chance you were told the same things I was. Maybe you got over it. I hold grudges.
I’m still resentful of the interview for the publishing job where I was told that, if hired, I couldn’t possibly have a valid opinion for the next seven years. Shit, why not just go train to be a brain surgeon? I’d get to a position where I counted as a human being a lot faster that way. Or how about those job interviews for newspapers where the interviewers tried to bully me? That didn’t go well for them and I learned that I was truculent. (That’s also how I learned the word truculent.)
I know grudges are not healthy, but I don’t know how to unring that bell.
In silence, my busy brain breaks open the floodgates: the crazy Spanish lady I should have fired, the landlord who cheated me, the boss who scooped up my commission bonus, the thousand little affronts, the threats of assault, the bickering, the anger that’s always simmering…the constant grating sense that for every little win I might eke out, I’m still behind and losing ground. The near-certainty that I WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH.
Thinking about it last night, I will never return to Nova Scotia. Though I enjoy being in faraway places, I hate the process of traveling. The last time I flew, my left eardrum burst. With a pandemic burning across the world, staying in my blanket fort is best. I still have family Down East, but it’s a long way to go to be told I’ve gained weight and my hair has turned white (as if I didn’t know).
I don’t feel a desperate need to be underestimated and condescended to in person. I outsource my self-esteem and moods to strangers on the internet (AKA book reviewers). Besides, there are lovely tourist destinations calling. Why go for awkward personal interactions where criticism is mistaken for love? Some families write off cruelty as “teasing” or “banter” where they are rude to relatives in ways that would rightly earn them a bloody nose from a stranger. Exposure to conflict does not breed warm feelings. It often breeds anxiety and hypervigilance.
Conflict used to be a steady diet for me. My interactions with the public are rare now. Through careful choices, astonishing luck, hard work, and seclusion, I’ve edited out most potential for conflict. It’s a peaceful, contained, and controlled life wherein I often manage substitute humor for anger. I write in a literal blanket fort, for God’s sake! However, since I worked in retail from the age of 13, I’ve got plenty of drama to draw on to spin my stories of murder and mayhem.
I remember very well the urge to commit homicide, for instance. That coworker deserved it. That feeling is still handy, anytime I reach out to fire up those neurons. Humiliation, rage, and fear are all on call, ready to flow into the keyboard. All our experiences can be rewoven to create new patterns, new characters. To weave plots, to tell engaging and relatable stories, pain is useful.
Despite time and growth, I remain hypervigilant and anxious. I still feel that I will never be enough and that I am losing ground. If you are, like me, a writer who can’t let go of every evil thing, use that shit.
If you’re a reader, enjoy it.
