I’ve had this dream, over and over I’ve had it, about a giant wave coming from far away—towering over everything and casting a shadow on thousands of people as we watch it. It always starts out as a pleasant day on the beach. It always ends with me wondering why I decided to go to the beach, on this day of all days.
Every time, I go through the same set of thoughts.
- If I run as fast as I can it will still be too little too late. I can’t outrun it.
- There is nothing that could shelter me from the coming blast.
- While it’s taking a minute to get here, it will come, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
- Everyone here with me is going to get hit by it too.
- The only thing I can do is find something to hold on to.
And so I always end up running anyway, but not to try to get away. I run, looking at everything around me. Cars. Buildings. Mailboxes. Until I find an object that goes deep into the ground and that I think I can get a good grip on. It might be a tree, or a lamp post. But whatever it is I grab it with my arms and legs and hold on tight as I watch the giant wave coming in. And I hope, with everything that is in me, that I have chosen the right thing to hold on to. Because now it is too late to choose anything else.
Every time I see the news and every time I actually allow myself to think fully about what is happening in the world or how really scared I should be, I see the wave. It’s a vision almost now, more than a dream. I remember it as if it had really happened.
What am I holding on to? Is anything I’m holding on to something that will simply be crushed and washed away by the wave that is coming? Do I have time to adjust my grip? But it’s too late now, really to do much about what I’m holding on to. I can cling tighter to what I’ve already brought near, but I have no time to go looking for anything else. No time to develop a new heart attitude or place of trust. Things are frozen as I watch the wave.
We’re in the shadows now. It’s coming.
I know that it would be kinder to write something uplifting or hopeful. And I’d like to give you that. But what I really want to say is, make sure you are holding on the right things. Adjust your grip if you can. Don’t worry about anything that will be washed away.
The wave is coming. I’d better be holding on to God himself at this point, and hope that I have never made any substitutions. Never erected something in His place and given it His name. My faith is not enough. My religion is not enough. My church is not enough. My creeds are not enough. Only the Unmoved Mover of the Universe stand firm through tidal waves this big.
If it helps, the dream never ends with the wave crashing. I always look through the swirling chaos, and see light overhead. I find myself somehow letting go and navigating the water, knowing I still may yet surface. And it is almost fun. The wave is not the end at all—though the world behind me has surely been washed away and I will surface to find out what is left.
We have a moment now as the water recedes to leave dry land in front of us to feed the wall of water, and we hear the roaring of the approaching wave. Take a deep breath and hold on.
I didn’t know I was doing it. I didn’t know my world was any different from anyone else. I did know it seemed like a had a harder time with some things than other people. And I thought that meant I was bad.
It started small. I never liked talking to people in public. I always said the wrong thing. DID the wrong thing. People’s responses confused me. So I kept to myself. I remember that look teachers would get on their face. The angry look from the front of the class with everyone looking at me. They knew something I did not know. The teacher said something I was supposed to respond to, but I don’t know what it was.
“I don’t know” was never sufficient. “Can you say that again?” Was a guaranteed way to get in trouble. It just meant I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Or trying to. There was something else going on in my head. I was looking at the way the teacher’s face moved. The way she felt. She was tired. She was frustrated. She was concentrating.
Oh no. Now she was looking at me. I didn’t hear the words. I saw so much, but I didn’t hear. Or I heard something. Noises that were supposed to turn into words but never did.
And then that promise to myself. I’ll do better next time. I’ll try harder. I figure out how the other kids are hearing what she said. But I always ended up watching mouths instead. Or eyes. Or the bird out the window. Or the ideas flying through my head.
Mrs. Green was the most terrifying. Everyone LOVED Mrs. Green. She was so fun and so exciting. We dissected sharks and went on field trips and counted money and so many many grown up responsible things. But she yelled. And she expected a lot, and she knew my father. It was the first time I realized my Dad being who he was changed how people saw who I was. And my father was wonderful. But I never seemed to improve to match how good he was. It never helps me change the noise into words.
“YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” I didn’t. I still don’t. I have guesses. That’s all I have. And that look on her face. Incensed. That’s the look. Total offense that of all people I didn’t hear them.
And that’s what life became. Guesses. Constant never ending guesses. But something happens when you guess all day, every day. Guesses become educated predictions. And predictions start to be right more often, all the time. You start to see patterns everywhere, and then you start to see the patterns you draw as truth–forgetting they’re a stand-in for the real thing.
It’s what I have to go on. I look at my friend’s face. I have to think quickly. Who’s birthday is it? How long was she speaking before she stopped? She looks curious. Oh! It’s a question. Who’s birthday could she be talking about. Oh! Mine! She looks happy. Ok, she’s probably asking what I’ll do for my birthday. That fits.
” Oh, I just usually enjoy a quiet day. Good cake. Time to read. You know, that sort of thing.”
My friend looks pleased. Good. I was right. I watch her mouth closely and think. Listen listen. You can’t miss more.
“Oh! That sounds great!…” I hear noises. She looks excited. I’m so happy to see I got it right. I like my friend so much. Oh no. I’m doing it. I know what she feels. I’m so happy I’m talking to her. I have no idea what she’s saying.
No problem. She just told me what she likes to do for her birthday. The pattern is easy. This is fine.
“That sounds really fun! What a great idea!”
My feelings are genuine. My words are what I guess I would say if I was sure she said what I think she said. I can’t respond in greater detail without too much risk though. I feel terrible. It feels like a lie. But telling her I couldn’t listen feels worse.
The Drivers Ed teacher is inches from my face. I didn’t notice him until he got close.
“You have to respect me enough to listen in class! If you spend your whole time in here drawing, you’re out of here!”
My face turns red. I look down at the margins full of drawing.
“No, Mr. Krupp. This is a road I drew when you were talking about speeding. See the sign? And this is a steering wheel. 10 and 2. This is how I listen.”
He is unconvinced. I don’t mention that I am constantly reading the text book in between trying to listen. My desperate drawings of his words are interspersed with notes that fit the topic. I’ve been doing this so long, I’m confident it works. I’m angry a low level drivers ed teacher thinks he knows better. No one knows better how I learn than me. I look up at him with contempt. I am simultaneously ashamed of my own attitude.
“Ok, smarty. If you were listening what is the law for…”
I don’t remember what he asked now. I know I got the question right. I almost always did. the crazy puzzles laid out on my notes were life. I was almost always right, so who cared if I listened?
I love sitting next to Jessican in Psych Theory. She hardly talks. She mostly smiles. It’s like she feels at the world instead of talking. I could not love her way of being in the world more. It’s not exhausting. It’s easier to try to listen. The professor is so animated and loud and he tells constant stories. I remember so much more when they tell stories. But Jessica also takes the worlds most amazing notes and she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. She always shares. I borrow notes from several people every class. I diligently piece them together. I look for disagreement. Things one person caught that the others didn’t. But Jessica’s are always the best.
Have I ever told you how much I love the Jessica’s of the world? Jessicas are life.
Diana looks at me in confusion. “Wait, you get all A’s? So what is the problem girl? Why are you so worried about starting college? It sounds like you’ll be just fine!….” she says more reassuring things. I don’t know what they are. I can’t tell my dorm RD cares. I can also tell she’s annoyed.
I put my head in my hands. I’m angry. I’m exhausted. I’m sad. Diana had finally gotten to the point of frustration with me, like everyone did. She told me to make lists. I make dozens. They don’t help. She told me to get organized. What does that even mean at this point? She told me to ask for help. What do you think that I’m doing?
“I’m not worried I will do badly. I’ll do ok. I always do. I just don’t think it’s supposed to be this hard. I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt like this.”
Diana says more things. I see her face. She feels bad for me. That’s all I know. That’s all I hear in the student common room we are sitting in. I hear ping pong balls. Yelling. I see people pass by with food. All I know about Diana is that she is trying to find a way to leave. And that this is the last time I try to tell someone about the world inside my head.
I remember the first time I talked to Abigail. I don’t remember what she said. She was always so nervous. She wanted to do the right thing. Kindness and concern and anxiety dripped from her every moment of every day. When I talked, trying to figure out what I was supposed to say in return, she didn’t get mad. She didn’t look at me like I was from another planet. She was more worried that what she was saying was ok too.
Some of my favorite conversations were about nonsensical phrases we made up. Things I said that made no sense, that made her laugh instead of mad. Silly things she made up to say back. I usually felt like I vibed with Abigail more than I talked to her. She was my first sensitive friend. And she came with other sensitive friends. My first people who’s feelings were as important or more important than what they said. I didn’t have to hear them. I just had to know what the feeling was. I just had to be nice back.
There’s a secret underground world of people who are incredibly nice, and all they want is for someone to be nice in return. To be sensitive to how they feel at the world. They became my life raft. My salvation in a sea of confusion.
And like Jessica, they took really amazing notes. They did not fuss over all the questions I asked, all the holes that needed filling. And in return, I tried to help them with math. I loved math. When you’ve spent your whole life trying to piece together what happened well enough to function, things that are meant to be puzzles are easy. Joy even. Not that my explanations were always helpful, or anything like repayment for having friends, and people who cared in my corner.
Adventures of tang and dwarf fingers, chinchillas and houses full of people who ran and felt and yelled nonsense and liked me even when I said things that made no sense. Or when I responded to feelings instead of words. Or when I sang, humming constantly to give the part of my head that would not ever be calm something to do so that the responsible bits had half a chance.
The Abigails of the world are life.
“Andi, there’s no knife on the table.”
Frantically I search through the hand drawn maps and notes in my lap. I told my husband I’d be bad at a text adventure game. I told him that when I can’t see the text, it’s a bad scene. So so bad.
I’d asked him to repeat everything about five times. I’d drawn pictures as fast as I could, like my life depended on it. And I found the picture I’d drawn of the kitchen as he read out the description from the game.
“Read it again.”
“There is a bag on the table that smells like pepper.”
I scribble out the drawing on my paper. I’d drawn peppers.
“It looks like someone has been preparing lunch.”
“Read it again.”
He does. I finally hear what isn’t there.
“Oh no! You’re right! I heard table, and peppers, and something about prepare, and my mind just decided there had to be a knife. Like I’m still shocked there isn’t one! I was so sure!”
He looks at me. I blush. I’m bad at letting him see the process. Years of fights where he heard me lie about something that had been said. I never understood. I never intended to lie. Unless lying includes saying what you think someone said based on their emotions and your own emotions and all the chaos and trying to fill in the gaps under stress.
I feel relieved and angry with myself. This is why I can’t tell you what anyone said just before it got heated. Because I don’t know. I don’t ever know. But I’m not stupid. I’m just a professional connect the dots artist. I try to find the dots. But sometimes, I think it’s a cat when it’s really a dog. There just aren’t ever enough dots in the world to prevent mistakes.
“This is the map you drew? This is crazy! This is what came out of your head?”
I look at the crazy assortment of drawings and arrows and stick figures all being wrangled with lines going every which way, trying to recreate the map and the descriptions in the game. It’s hopelessly confusing. And I also know, that I will be able to piece it into something understandable and even impressive later. I just don’t usually let people see this part, the process of how I try to record it and reassemble it later. Is anything I ever show people or tell people about what I’ve done true? It’s always a restitching to make it look better than it was.
It’s making more sense to me why sometimes my husband and I have to have serious discussions over instant messenger and can’t talk in person. I do so much better when it’s on the screen and when I can refer to what was actually said. What I remember is never right. The accuracy of my feelings betray me every time. The words don’t stick if I didn’t see them. I’ve even learned to see in words. Times New Roman. Comic Sans. If I picture the words, sometimes it helps. Really seeing them is always best.
Later on I will try to write the story. I know I’m making up what I think was said. I don’t really remember. I’m guessing. I only remember how it felt.
I’ve become a walking Wikipedia page for anything I’ve ever been interested in. Theology. World War II. Cooking. Random anything and everything.
The more I know the more dots I have. The more dots I have the clearer the picture is. The less the missing dots matter at all. But I have to learn that spewing out Wikipedia pages at parties in entirety is a bad scene.
Hitler makes poor party conversation. Why didn’t I know that?
When your assembling a puzzle of what you don’t hear and what you don’t remember, it’s easy to miss what was never there in the first place.
Hitler. People don’t casually talk about Hitler.
I have another dot. Is it a negative dot? I realize the list of things that aren’t in the picture matter as much or more than what is. It is depressing. Really depressing. How can I know what isn’t there when so much already isn’t? Should I have just known this? I start running experiments in safe places away from my social goals. If you randomly talk about hitler with people on the internet, it does not matter nearly as much if they block you.
The internet is wonderful. And also terrible.
What’s missing is not my only problem. What I’m not doing is just as bad. Cabinets don’t get closed. All the drawers in my dresser are almost always open. Laundry stays in the machine for days. I never remember anything I was doing before I changed rooms. Everyone else says they do it too.
“Yeah, but it just seems it’s not nearly as much.”
This is apparently not the right answer.
“You’re not special.”
I will agree with you there. And if this is special, special certainly isn’t good.
Room mates had to point out I never remember to flush the toilet or clean the shower when it’s my turn. I lose my cell phone once a season. Coats, pants, socks, keys, student I.D.s. Life is not about remembering things. It’s about how to strategize and replace things as seamlessly as possible when I do. It’s about moving quickly. Because it can’t be about remembering. It can’t be about just doing it. Everything every day is about covering mistakes and recovering before people see.
I learn that making fun of myself helps. People find it charming. Humble. I don’t have time to think about if it means anything good about me. Only that it makes piecing the puzzle together better. It matters less when I fail if people like me, and if I’ve somehow made it my thing.
I start acting like this is the way I want to be. I’m just aloof. I’m eccentric. I don’t have time to listen to everyone. I don’t care. It’s boring. I say weird things because I’m just so smart you couldn’t possibly understand. My insides and my outsides get so far apart I don’t feel like one person anymore. I feel fractured so much of the time, it becomes reality.
It is years before I realize I’ve made making fun of myself and being stupid my thing. Years before I realize I’ve gotten rude.
Because I’m not stupid. And no matter how crazy my circus gets, sometimes it’s the only thing I DO know. I’m not stupid. And I’m not mean. I care so much I want to die that I can’t do a better job at showing it.
And my mind is my enemy and my refuge. It is so much easier to stop forcing it to sort out the outside world. Inside is perfect. Inside I connect kingdoms and fantasies and ideas and theories and nothing is ever missing. And no one gives me that look.
Cindy looks at me. But there is compassion there.
“Oh Andi, thank you for sharing! That is so vulnerable and so courageous! You need to know that it is always ok to ask for things to be repeated here. And did you hear what your friend just told you?”
I blush. I remember how she looked. I remember knowing she loved me. I know she said nice things about my family in a vague sort of way. But I don’t have the words.
“No, I’m so sorry. I know it was nice”
Everyone laughs. It’s a nice laugh though. I didn’t have to make fun of myself first. It’s just too perfect. I would laugh too.
Marie smiles and grabs my hand. I can see her face. She loves me. She knows I care. She doesn’t even repeat. She doesn’t have to.
We have been talking about what it means to have an entire soul. A soul completely in-line with itself. I remember because I got to see the words on the page. I’m so glad it’s a book and not just a video series. But what does it mean to make my outside match my inside? It means admitting a lot more than I ever do. It means not pretending I know what I don’t or that I hear what I haven’t or that I follow when I can’t.
I write this later, only guessing at what people said. But I remember how it felt. I know what it meant.
The Cindys and Maries of the world are life. Like streams of water flowing from God. Friends who forgive you, who see you, who love you, and who repeat for you and take good notes. Who don’t judge you because your bag is coffee stained and your boot zipper is broken and your name tag is barely legible.
Pure life and abundance.
Maybe Jesus can use the dot connecting. And maybe “I don’t know” is more generous than pretending ever was.