Lucky are the Confidants

I found some time tonight to read this pink-lit book I've been putting aside. I hoped to read it through. Perfect, since there's been a lot of sudden rain creeping about and what kind of book-lover doesn't enjoy an easy read in a storm. I had to put it down immediately to write this out, though. This was when I was struck by a recurring method the author used to explain the motivations of one character: Jackie.

Jackie is an African-american lesbian who just turned 40. Recently single, all she has left in her life is her bar, the place-to-be in ol' Provincetown, and her empty home that's been growing colder day by day. The bar was bequeathed to her by a lady named Franny upon her death, her sort of lifelong mentor and sponsor, wherein the bothering matter begins. The author drew on Franny's image and raspy voice in Jackie's imagination to provide counsel and guidance in the critical moments of the plot, a sort of plot-device from beyond the burial-plot (sorry, pun).

It was refreshing to read these exchanges. Must be great to have someone older and wiser than you to tell you what's wrong and right in the world, I wondered. It suddenly hit me that I've never had these kinds of confessions. The truth of it is, I've never had anyone older to confide in. Whenever I do have some weighty issue at hand, I usually just throw it into the melting pot of the next conversation I find myself in, with friends or acquaintances, whichever's on hand. It's usually something mundane. The last was, "What's a nice brand of umbrella to buy?" The brooding topics that usually involve a lengthy story (usually about love) are up for public critique, too. But this tendency to be open I've only lately learned to do.

Before, in moments of inquisitive bankruptcy and desperation, I imagined in my head a one-on-one session with myself. I first imagined the setting to be an empty train running/flying across the clear orange sky of sunset. Later on, it turned into a dark room with no walls and a single light above me and myself. The other me in my head stood straight, wore dapper clothes, and in the eyes of the young me, this was the imaginary equivalent of someone mature, someone who knew all the answers.

The mature version of me stood and talked little in these psychotic episodes. Instead, he communicated his wisdom physically: in the brief, sharp contact of his knees and my stomach, the jarring right-hook across my face, and the forceful kick to my sides as I tried to get up. I know it must sound really emo, and also a little masochistic, for a teenager to imagine beating himself up, but I did. It was my way of trying to get over mistakes which, at the time of my youth, were the only things that ever provoked thorough opportunities for introspection.

I guess I was a lonely kid. Parents were out nightly and since all I had were friends from highschool and gradeschool, there was no safe harbour of advice and guidance to be found nearby. I just learned to trust my gut with things. And when I fouled up, since no one was ever there to tell me I did my best, I just made an appointment with myself again, fight-club style.

My mistake is I never had the heart to tell anyone of my problems and give them the opportunity to care. But now that I'm older, I have no regrets. I feel I'm tougher after all those years of roughing it up with myself, forming emotional callouses that have protected the things I've held most dear about myself: like blatant naivete and optimism.

I can't quantitatively admit that I'm a better person for it though. But I can vouch that nothing else makes you grow mature faster than coming up with your own answers in life, and finding out the hard way if you're wrong or right.