We who dream bright dreams,
sing songs as we dare to hope.
Still we stand...Still stand.
My skin becomes a little thicker, but not so that I can no longer feel at all.
I sat beside a youngish man at a bus stop years ago. After a few minutes, he asked, very quietly and politely, with all seriousness: "Do the noises in my head bother you?"
I looked at him, smiled: "No. Not at all."
I said nothing more. My intuition told me that was enough. We sat in silence until the bus came. I sensed no threat at all...in fact...the young man seemed more at peace than when I'd first sat down. And I was also more at peace.
My experience over the years has been that people with mental issues seem to be attracted by something in me. I have a nephew who was diagnosed some time ago as schizophrenic. One day I sat across the living room of the mobile home he shared with his mom, my sister. I looked up to find him staring at me, not kindly. I knew not to maintain eye contact, and I withdrew my energy. I'm not going to explain what withdrew my energy means. I figure those who enjoy my diaries and make comments will understand.
Years ago, at work, I found in a shopping cart a ball of tin foil. I unwrapped it to find a not-in-great shape baked potato. I threw it away, and put the cart in its place. After about fifteen minutes, a lady came rushing up to me in that familiar way; that frantic search for a lost object one has learned to hold dear. Even if, to the rest of the world, it's just a cold potato wrapped in wrinkled foil. "Excuse me! Did you see a potato? It was in foil...!" I looked at her and smiled sort of sheepishly. "Uh, yes. I threw it..." "Could you get it?" She did not seem angry, just relieved that I had been aware of her loss, even if I had tossed it. So I dug it out of the trash, handed it back to her, and her relief increased tenfold.
About five years ago, working at the same store, a lady I'd not seen before or since came rushing up to me: "Did my boyfriend talk to you about me!" I said, "No." She walked away.
Yesterday, a young co-worker was in a state. I had for some time sensed a certain instability with him, and yesterday he seemed quite disturbed. "Back up!" He sort of hissed at me as we crossed paths. Then later, as if a sort of recognition that he had not been kind...at least I thought that was it...he whispered, "What's up?" Am I some kind of psychic magnet?
Am I oversensitive?
Homeless I was then,
my German shepherd and pup.
Not for long, but long enough.
I had no business getting a dog back then, but by-god, I wanted a German shepherd. I had been very careful not to let her get out of the house I was sharing with my brother, as she had come into her first heat. But she did get out one day, ran around the corner, me chasing. I found her with another GS. She had eight pups...all gorgeous. Her name was Luah. I gave most of the litter to the animal shelter, but kept one. I named him Thearot. (Rhymes with arrow.) If you have read this far, please stay with me. After my homeless period, I gave Thearot up to my mom, and she kept him for a short time, then took him to the shelter.
Things improved, I moved to another state to work for my dad, Luah with me. After about a year, I talked to my mom. She told me a story. She had recently been to a baseball game to watch one of my young cousins play. Nearby there was a young woman and her son. The son (he was eight or nine) was in a wheelchair. Beside him was a beautiful German shepherd, around a year old. Mom looked at this little family, focusing particularly on the dog, and an odd feeling of recognition came to her. She began a conversation with the woman. The dog was accepting of my mom as she came a little closer, but he still was very focused on the boy. Mom asked, and the woman told her how the boy had wanted a dog...and so they had gone to the shelter, and found this prize, this magnificent creature. "They're inseparable." The woman beamed. As Mom looked at the boy and his dog, that feeling she'd had increased. So she spoke to the dog: "Thearot." He sprang from a sitting position, his tail waving joyously back and forth. Mom stroked his ears, tears falling down her face. When she recovered to find a naturally surprised and perplexed reaction from both the boy and his mother, my mom told them the rest of the story.
Now, when I started this diary, I had no conscious idea I would end up telling that story. But it turns out it was quite therapeutic. Thearot is the name of a main character in a short story I wrote, and never finished. But the story I just told you is true.
A certain sensitivity, a vivid compassion and sudden memory that causes my cheeks to get all wet...this is what drives me as I type for you.
There is only one smartest dog in the world, and every boy has it. --Anonymous.