The sound ghosts make when they dance
Hypervigilance, a pretty face, what is music?, the sound of ghosts, final drafts, toddler temper, finally knowing what my Roman Empire is, and this iguana invasion.
My tutor and I were supposed to go through some exercises in systemic psychology, instead, we ended up talking about something I’d said weeks before and had caught her attention.
“Why did you say you always knew how everyone around you feels, but you rarely get a clear view of your own feelings?”
“Because it’s true. And it’s exhausting. Sometimes, after we go for dinner with friends, my husband and I unpack whatever was discussed, and he’s always oblivious to the little moments of tension or what this person felt when that person said whatever. But I can always tell,” I explained.
“And do you think that’s a good thing?”
“Is it bad?”
“Well, not necessarily, but it signals something about your childhood that maybe you haven’t thought of: you learned to constantly scan your surroundings (other people’s behaviour) because you didn’t feel safe. That’s hypervigilance, and it’s unfortunately more common than it should be. Were you in a hostile environment when you were, say, one to six?”
“I don’t remember, but I guess.”
“Okay. You know what tells me if a child feels safe in their home?”
“What?”
“They can play with one toy, completely locked in, and they’re not bothered by whoever is around them in that moment.”
I nodded, feeling moved, sad, and vulnerable, thinking of myself at that age. Having been told how those years went, I can tell I lived in a hostile environment. My feet, hands, and jaw are always tense to this day. But then I thought of my son. I analyzed his behaviour. He loves to play on his own. And when he does, he doesn’t care about anything else. He’s focused. He’s not hypervigilant. And, right then, sadness was replaced by an overwhelming relief.
I was working on draft 2.2 of my novel when it hit me: in life, there’s only the first draft. That’s the final draft. The one you’ll have to defend in front of everyone. Of course, a life is not like a book. It is still scary, nonetheless.