For as long as I can remember, I've hated summer. I despise it: the sweaty, sticky heat, the glaring light, the mindless buzz of insects. I understood, growing up, that mine was a minority opinion. Children are expected to enjoy summer. It's taken for granted, especially back then; I can't count the number of nostalgic pieces by boomers & my fellow Gen Xers I've seen online, lamenting the cultural shift away from idyllic unstructured outdoor free play.
Even though I knew I was weird, it took me a long time to even begin to articulate why. In a severely dysfunctional, abusive family,
double binds and
cognitive dissonance are ambient. Elemental, like water or air. A child born into a toxic dynamic finds itself instinctively
needing poison, like a drug. A doubly dangerous addiction, because its nature is that it can't be acknowledged, spoken of, or even seen. It is the absolute antithesis of the medium human children grow best in: trust.
Summer meant misery, growing up in my abusive family in Memphis. It always meant more time with my parents, one way or another. When mom wasn't working, my brother & I actually got a bit of that ideal childhood freedom (it usually involved drama & fights with neighbor kids but hey, at least it was outside); on the other hand, she often sent us to our grandparents when she had time off. Which would have been wonderful (grandparents = best!)... except for dad's inevitably fury on finding out (she cheated on him). More often mom had to work, so we were sent either to (unspeakable) professional daycare or to amateur acquaintances (religious nutjobs whose kids always hated us). Sometimes we were just dragged along by our father as he went from one 7-11 to the next on his management inspections (ambivalent nostalgia: we liked the video games & the junk food, but dad's temper was always a threat).
On the surface, circumstances seemed to get better as we got older. Dad stopped drinking when I was 12; a year later, they decided it was safe enough to save money by letting us stay alone. They'd been reluctant to trust me to keep my brother in line. With good reason, since by then I had adapted to an existence of constant anxiety coupled with passive aggressive rage. He could've burned the house down, I wouldn't have minded one bit. I knew I was weird, and weird was wrong, and that wasn't okay; I hated it.
By the time things "got better," I'd already learned to hate the dog days of August as much as I hated myself. That perspective has remained part of me ever since, a recurring theme in my personal story. I was conceived in August. Throughout my life, bad things have come to me in August. At times I've even told myself it makes sense: I have a decidedly un-sunny disposition. Predestined depression. It's a convenient story I might have been trapped within forever, if I hadn't met my husband. This post isn't meant to become a public love letter (I admit I have a proclivity for such), but a collection of insights by Gregory Bateson that my husband shared with me is critical to my theme. Bateson linked the concept of double binds to two of my favorite things: schizophrenia and evolution.
Bateson was an amazingly creative scientist in a variety fields. In the context of anthropology & psychology, he hypothesized that schizophrenia was not necessarily an inborn mental disorder but a learned confusion in thinking, that people habitually caught up in double binds in childhood would have a greater chance of becoming schizophrenic. But Bateson was also a semiotician, a cyberneticist & an evolutionary biologist. He suggested that all evolution is driven by the double bind, whenever circumstances change: If any environment becomes toxic to any species, that species will die out unless it transforms into another species, in which case, the species becomes extinct anyway.
The key word -- the one that made this concept magic, at least for me -- is
transform. To transform is to experience metamorphosis, to suffer a "
sea change." Transformations are the
alchemical matrix of stories, and stories are the means by which we relate to ourselves and the world. Being good at understanding and telling stories is one of very few talents in which I'm even remotely self-confident. And even with that glimmering confidence, I always felt reluctant to take my talent seriously. After all, another word for "story" is "lie." I'm an excellent liar because I am both creative and sensitive. Should I be taking pride in this? Capitalizing on it? Telling
Giuliani to hold my beer? All my life I've resisted, whether from empathy or masochism or laziness. When you're really good at stories it can be hard to choose between them. What's more, it's ridiculously easy to shrug off the positive efforts of well-meaning people. Pleasant stories are just plain suspicious. So easy to see through.
But science is different. Methodical. Meticulous observation and testing, mindful skepticism allied with curiosity. Science gives real power by producing repeatable results.
Chemical transformations are tangible, empirical. Metamorphosis isn't merely a metaphor; it's a physical fact.
Recognizing the reality of change as a pervasive quality of the universe was one thing; applying it to myself, way more difficult. It happens in little bursts of insights. I've learned I have to cultivate them with care, because depressed demoralization remains my default state. No breakthrough is likely to turn me into a shiny happy extrovert, it would be absurd to expect such a thing. And honestly, I'm not sure I'd even want it. Learning to notice what I actually like, as opposed to what other people expect/insist that I like, has been a critical challenge. Which is why Saturday, August 25 2018, was such a wonderful surprise.
I have been lurking in my basement for most of the month, hoping that by avoiding everything I might escape this summer with only minor wounds. Last Friday night, my husband informed me that his sister had offered to take us & our teen daughters to a
local botanical garden. Normally I'd evade any kind of outing, especially with so little advance warning, especially in summer. But I've learned that I absolutely love botanical gardens. They weren't my own family's cup of tea, so I'd never even tried one until fairly recently. Since the weather forecast was surprisingly mild, and I felt tiny intimations of mood ascension... I said okay. Knowing in my heart that I flake out on my most-desired personal adventures more often than not.
"Serendipity" means good luck you encounter without expecting it. "Synchronicity" is the simultaneous occurrence of events that appear significantly related but have no discernible causal connection. Because of my upbringing, I never ever expect good luck. And yet, I have a gift for perceiving significance.
It's taken decades of
hard work to get to where I am. And I remain acutely aware that my story -- the one that's currently working for me -- likely looks ridiculous to most other people. I am
St. Jennifer-of-the-Knife, edgelord avatar of
lunar seas. Awkwardly gifted survivor of child sex abuse,
@BeltwayPsychic. I pretend I'm pretending pretend psychic powers. It's weird, but it's
not wrong; it's okay, and I love it. So....
In the morning before our family expedition, I cracked open my Kindle & opened an app: "
Galaxy Tarot."
Yes, I am a hardcore skeptic. I am also a natural storyteller. I view divination as an ambiguously powerful tool humans have created for communication between our conscious & subconscious mental processes. We're brilliant because we're adept in two separate ways of analyzing data. But we're limited by the divide between those paths: logic and intuition don't like to intersect, even when they come to similar conclusions. We require real (painful)
xenophilia to evolve, to break the chains that doubly bind.
How lucky was I to learn this? Kinda, sorta, maybe. I disbelieve in luck. Fortune gets my middle finger every fucking day. My own parents called me "bad karma girl" because my skeptic vibes seemed to screw with their summer casino vacations And yet... my most powerful discovery has been that it's not actually necessary to be lucky or smart, privileged or intellectual... or anything. It's objectively obvious that we all innately possess potential for
transcendence on at least two levels: material and magic. Humans are weird spooky mammals, evolved to
love &
tell stories. That's what got us here; what's worked for us, so far. Compassion and creativity are meta-virtues with the absolute incredible capacity to counter
anything, even despair.
My sister-in-law is a
Master Naturalist whose yard is a
certified Wildlife Sanctuary, so outdoor adventures with her are an intellectual treat. However, because she's so much saner (so much more normal, more pragmatic) than myself, I instinctively try to keep my distance. It's the easiest choice, the path of least resistance. And yet it's a disservice to my SIL & myself, an artificial barrier between us. Sarah Mayhew is typically both kinder and more capable than me. Not because she's a saint, or that I'm just trash; we're simply separate people, with totally distinct biochemistry & personal narratives. The fact that I fell in love with her Aspie brother was amazing enough; the fact that his & my angsty teen daughters fell in love with her park... counts as a stupid crazy bonus!
And I am finally mature enough to enjoy some of the advantages I happen to encounter.
