Frozen

Gasping for breath. Looking upward with another boy's chest on mine or my arm held in an L or chicken winged behind me. Hopelessly I bridge, putting the top of my head on the mat; pushing on my heals and arching my back. Pressure. His grip tightens and he moves his chest to cover my face. Maybe a tight head lock and my face is in his armpit. How many times? Of course this is how things end. I frequently scored points in the first few minutes before my asthma kicked in and I ran out of gas. So I hung on to those minutes, the few matches where I was dominant or at least on equal footing for the first minute or so. Why? Why did I like this? Why did I withstand getting pinned over and over? It was familiar, and if even for a minute, I had an opportunity to push back against my adolescence; against the tide of inadequacy that burdened me so. I didn't want to be so small, to feel so small. Who coined the phrase "98 pound weakling"? Not helpful. That was the weight class I wrestled in. My freshman year I weighed 80 pounds. I wore my school clothes when I got on the scale, shoes and all.

I tried to belong. I wanted to be popular. Still, that word has weight to it. Popular: liked, liked by many, even adored. I parted my hair in the middle, fighting a strong cowlick. My tight shirts emphasized the definition of my small frame. I stole money from my mom's purse so I could go to Quick Trip with the guys and buy a microwave burrito. But none of these things helped me to break through to the holy grail of Popular. I was always looking up. I found alcohol during my freshman year and it softened the blow of rejection. It also made me care a little less who liked me,  for a few hours anyway. I was a binge drinker. I lived for the weekend. I was daring enough to ask girls to dance with me at the school dances. I went to parties, sometimes with a wrestling buddy and often alone.

I generally dismiss these recollections. I don't want to go back there, not even in my mind.  I didn't talk about this; not with anyone. I was ashamed of my size. I was angry that I couldn't seem to do anything that made me feel like I belonged. I was jealous of my older brother and sister who didn't have to make an effort. They were both adored. My brother was class president. He lettered in three sports. My older sister was on the swim team and an honor student. They both had groups of friends, long term friends from grade school and junior high. I didn't. I made friends in places I didn't expect to; through a church youth group and acting in plays. Later, after graduation, I played cards with a few of these guys. We were free of school, which meant more to me than anyone else there. They were proud and ready to move on. I was glad to be out but it still weighed on me, like the boy with his chest covering my face. It will be thirty years next year and I have never attended a class reunion.

The term "Frozen Needs" comes from Re-evaluation Counseling (RC), a self help system invented by the late Harvey Jackins. Basic to RC is the principle that most of our problems in life come from hurts we experienced as a child. I didn't know Harvey but I have been a student of RC for almost 20 years. While the time with my co-counselors is peripheral (we don't do things outside of counseling together), this process is central in my life. Over these many years, I have had the opportunity to look inward, observe and then release. In my thirties my dad revealed to me that, when I was adopted, I was unable to to lift my head. I was three months old and this was something I should have been able to do by then. In that gap of time from birth to adoption, something happened (or more likely did not happen). I was not handed to my mother and placed on her chest. Not the fault of my birth mother nor my adoptive mother. By my birth mother's account, the nuns in the hospital were not nurturing (to her anyway). It could be that they transferred the contempt they had for this unwed mother to her newborn baby. Probably subconsciously if that is what happened. Most hurts we experience are not intentional.

This particular hurt, however it got in, has been present in varying degrees throughout my life. It's one reason I took so well to writing; I didn't have to deal with others judging my performance (or my existence for that matter). Through the process of re-evaluating, I learned that I can not fill this need to be accepted. It is a frozen need. Being clingy in relationships, agreeing with folks I didn't really agree with, drinking, rebelling, looking for physical intimacy- these were all things I did trying to reach the nirvana that I imagined existed in some relationship somewhere.

In his book Contributions to Human Trinity Hypnotherapy, Fr. John Powell borrows a quote from     

L. Richard Lessor: "Happiness is like a butterfly. The more you chase it, the more it will elude you. But if you turn your attention to other things, it comes and softly sits on your shoulder." The other things were not easy things. It has been work looking inward this way. But I can lift my head now. I have been called to leadership. I have chosen a vocation that puts me next to others who struggle with who they are and where they fit. My writing has complemented the many phases of my life so far and my aunt Barb tells me I should write a book. I may. It is a good life; a life of love and learning. The ice has melted and I am not so frozen. There is a crucial element of community that welcomes my family and lets us be welcomers as well. When we sit down for Thanksgiving dinner next week, I will again be thankful for the warmth and love we continue to share. Happy Thanksgiving to all! (Don't forget to take your bird out of the freezer).