A New Vulnerability

“Do you feel it too?“ I asked one of my closest friends. She replied no at first then thinking more about it said: “Yes, I guess it is there for me too. I just never had thought about it this way.” This is what I call my new vulnerability; I am super sensitive to reactions, words, looks, even jokes and comments not directly aimed at me. I see rejection even when unintentional or part of a typical event that I never would have felt badly about some years ago.

I ask myself is this the new me? Is this part of realizing I am an older person now and others may not take what I say or do as seriously? Whenever I read in the paper about someone my age, seventy or so and they are labeled as elderly I flinch. Suggesting things to my children especially makes me feel tentative; years ago I would have stated it much more firmly. At a luncheon recently with others like me, one of the women spoke about being a “duct tape grandmother,”’ we all laughed and I echoed that is often but not always the case for me. I do try harder to think about what I say and write to my children and their spouses.

Lots of things bring me pangs inside that I try to hide from others. I don’t want to be so easily hurt, to feel wounded while holding back my tears or sighs. Writing for my blog or reading my writing to a group and painting pictures are public displays of me. I, of course, enjoy positive comments but questions and negative words leave me open to doubts of my pursuits or my communicative abilities in either medium.

Art is less risky because even I feel it sometimes just pours out of me and I don’t totally control it. However, I still do make decisions about colors to add, ways to change the composition and to better express my vision. I am struck by people’s comments when they tell me they can see my ideas about love and relationships in the people who float in my paintings, some near each other, some do not connect or touch each other. This could be true but is very unconscious I think. I have at times taken out my anger in imagery and colors attacking a canvas wishing perhaps I could do this in real life, knowing I cannot.

Writing is something I can look at, tweak, put away and then edit again. Speaking however is immediate. Telling stories of my past or present and getting appreciative laughter is wonderful though at times I feel like the party clown I used to hire for my children’s birthday parties. Am I there to entertain or do they really like being with me? Can I be my sad, or angry or withdrawn self with them too? At this point in life I do realize that no one but your most significant other wants to see those sides of you and even then it is a gamble to be that open and transparent.

I want the independence that I used to have, the ability to do so much and still be able to take on more. But that is not realistic now. I am finally learning not to order all the food I want on the menu nor buy all the fruit that looks good in the supermarket. It won’t fit in my stomach nor can I eat it all before it spoils in my refrigerator. However, I am comforted when I am well provisioned. That seems important to me now as well. A well stocked refrigerator gives me the satisfaction of knowing I can take care of myself even in a very stormy, snowy winter like this past year.

I recently used the words “our fragility” in a meeting with other educators to describe what was going on. It was the first time I did that even though the idea of fragility was not new to me. When I was asked in that meeting to voice my thoughts, feeling the tension in the room, I decided it was important to develop our empathy for each other. So I talked about all of our fragilities, defining some I recognized, adding my own. I probably would not have done that when I was younger but I was glad to see it helped diffuse some of the anxiety in the room and open people up to sharing their concerns.

Acknowledging being weaker in any way is very scary to do now. I want to be seen as vibrant, still having a lot to contribute and definitely as part of this new technological world. Yes, I do text, though not with abbreviations, I do Google everything I can and offer to do so for others. Am I comfortable with all of this? No, but I shudder to think of admitting it to people. “I’m not a luddite,” I once declared out loud unsure of its total meaning and trying to be so modern. The next step will be to add a twitter account and Instagram for pictures. I will do it soon, I tell myself.

So, are these feelings here to stay? I think they are. They dissipate when I am actively involved with others, reading a book I enjoy or at an engaging movie, play or performance where my mind does not wander into its depths. There is another piece of this that colors everything; it’s the realization that everything is more finite now. What we choose to do or not, whom we see, how we react will not go on forever. Like the Shakespearean monologue “All the World’s a Stage” I memorized for a speech contest I didn’t win in seventh grade, I recognize the trajectory of the future. Now I think that it is “mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything” that I am fighting against and winning this battle means being more courageous not less at a time when risking is harder.

Leaving the beach late yesterday with a friend we commented on how it was more difficult to walk uphill on long sandy paths now. “Yes, “I added, ”that is why they say getting old is for the brave.” We both laughed and trudged onward.