Being Heard

In the shade of a giant tree, in a neighborhood park, Susan tells me about her life. She talks about her divorce – it happened a long time ago – and about a son she doesn’t meet very often. She tells me her mother grudges her things she needs and about the jewelry from her grandmother that should have been hers. In her mind, not getting these things is somehow connected to her former husband.

At one point, I think she is paranoid. She weaves through the start and end points of incidents, mixing random events. She makes up motivations for why someone said something, why certain things happened. I don’t know Susan very well. She is, at best, an acquaintance. I listen because I know that she needs someone to listen to her.

But I feel slightly jaded. My attention flits away. I think, here I go again, playing my default role. What use will my listening be? Then, I think, not everything has to have a use. This is something I can give. I will myself to listen.

After she has talked for a while, Susan looks cheerful. I walk back home, realizing that it’s been almost two hours. For the last many weeks, I have been extremely resistant to doing any creative work, whether it’s writing or photography, and I have completely stopped writing my daily morning pages.

It’s only when I start writing them again that I acknowledge what’s been happening. Writing wipes down the smudges, gives a clarity that’s threatening. It’s easier to just float along and think that everything is pleasant. As soon as something uncomfortable comes up, I shut down.

Given a choice between telling my own truth and displeasing other people, I have usually chosen other people and abandoned myself. Not this time, I think. I start my writing practice again, without scolding myself for stopping.

At the end of our conversation, after having got some of the gunk out, Susan told me she knew she got anxious. Maybe it was just the anxiety talking. I think of Susan – how she is both fanciful and lonely. Can not being heard make you go crazy. Can turning your imagination against yourself make you less than sane?

I decide that Susan is not crazy. She has just built up so much loneliness that she has entangled all the different things in her life.