Speaking to a brick wall
even the ones I cannot see.
This wall seems to be invisible to me, and visible to everyone else.
I enter into a room guarded, they say. We have to read between the lines to tell how you feel, they say. A side-eye, a quick jab, emotionally-stunted they might add. I laugh, which according to them, is the thing that cements the brick of this glaringly obvious, totally visible big brick wall that I have apparently knowingly placed between myself and the rest of the world.
The common metaphor used for overcoming this great affliction of invulnerability is to smash the wall down, or build a door and let people in (which I have also found to be a silly image, because you can’t just cut a door into a wall without causing some kind of structural damage). This does not work for me.
Its not denial per say. No, because I do trust those loved ones who have probably rightly pinpointed this digression of expression on whatever map of my personality they are reading. What it is is ignorance, or more accurately blindness.
I have no idea to what wall they are referring to. Those supposed guards I enter into a room with are all but fiction from my perspective. Every therapeutic conversation I have had—either with the coveted professional opinion of a drunken too-late night on an unknown sofa, speaking too close where you can smell each others cigarette tainted breath and the subtle stench because that deodorant stopped working by the third bar, or, if you prefer, a trained psychologist—well they feel the same.
A foggy recount of a drunken night. All these things I did, feel vaguely like something I would do. I mean who am I to believe that I didn’t? This supposed structural barrier I have built must exist, because enough people have given me some kind of fractured telling of what and where and why it exists. Who am I to argue?
But the thing is, with things you can’t see, you can’t really begin to try and tear them down. Or even climb over them. That does not mean I haven’t tried. I’ve jumped and flopped my arms above my head searching for a edge to grab so I could at least peer over to see what I am missing. An image of the future, something to strive for. A little motivation to take the first swing. I don’t think I can quantify how many times I’ve jumped, hoping to see over the solid edge that feels invisible.
When that tires me out, I turn my attention to something I can see. I turn inward, and start doing pushups and chin ups (metaphorically) so if I ever do grab that edge, I could just hoist myself up and stand on top of the wall and proudly say,
“Well, would you look at that! All I needed was the right muscles!” And I could jump down, and join the rest of all you perceptive little shits who read me so well. But unfortunately for me, walls work. And no one sees.
Destruction was never a solution for me. I’m sure its liberating, to tear down the walls you build for self-preservation. But to me, I don’t recall ever building them. I couldn’t tell you why they are there. How they got there. I don’t know who laid the bricks either, or if its laughter or tears that sealed them in place. When there are so many unknowns, I don’t really want to destroy the evidence.
What I want, is to look on from the outside, marvel at its creation, even if it has a sorry past. I want to examine its cracks and imperfections, hypothesizing how they got there. Conjuring narratives of the unknown to make sense of why this wall existed for years, a two-way mirror, perceptible to all who stood on one side, and imperceptible to the one it was built to protect. Only fools are blind to what is right in front of them. I feel like a fool. Because right now, even when I reach out, eyes shut tight, all I feel is soft air. I do not have the solid wall of protection to lean on, and I am getting tired.
I hope that wall exists. I hope you are all right.
Most of all, I really hope these push-ups are worth it.
-jess