Ode To Keanu Reeves

photo by me

Ode To Keanu Reeves→

“I know that the ones who love us will miss us.” Keanu Reeves

          Writing is a display of vulnerability and vulnerability is an act of insanely, courageous stupidity. Lining up words intentionally connected to emotions takes this experience into something akin to lighting oneself on fire.

The brain astride the horse of my creativity is a marvel of compartmentalization. There are tiny houses lined up on a cul-de-sac that may be visualized when I turn away from the world to face inward, losing the noise of friends, family, and others to “listen” to the voices of my many-me’s. These individuals carry the suitcases I refuse to handle—each labeled with ages from the past and filled with feelings and snapshots of memories. For this current and particular twist in our life-healing journey, it is those separate clusters of thoughts that I am humbly requesting assistance in a process of dropping a segment of our protective wall to its knees.

          May we survive the experience to finish this tale.

         

          Not everyone adores Keanu Reeves. Many forget their loathe or love affliction until he says something that sears through obnoxious memes, kittens in knit caps, and toddlers speaking gibberish, to briefly fly to the peak of social media frenzy. It’s Keanu’s superpower.

Keanu and me, we go way back. I’ve never met him and have missed many of the movies he headlines, but there’s something about the guy’s “knowing” way of spilling words that could be interpreted as spontaneous “ah-ha” wisdom or purposely odd, idiotic drivel. It gets me every time. For days I wonder what his creative horse wrangler is thinking. This process I label as “affinity seeking’— desire for the awareness of like-meets-like.

          With this brain of many-me’s, there are containers without a connection to emotions. I, the one writing, am a member of that analytical and dissociated team, and we’re quite content with this state of our affairs. Feelings are messy. Unpredictable. They create ripples, waves, and tsunamis. Once set in “e-motion,” these living essences do not have a singular method for achieving doneness. The energy of them will only dissipate through the passage of time. I’ve been told conversation may help in this process, but from my point of view, that is highly illogical. Talking about gut-wrenching agony provides me a distant assessment of a Rorschach blot of undefined chaos. The jumble of it seems to agitate easily. No good can come from poking a school of jellyfish.

          Which is why it will likely come as a surprise I have allowed the all of us to investigate emotions-in-motion with a therapist.

          Keanu Reeves and I ride a similar timing plane within this existence. He mysteriously evaporates from public view, living his private life off the grid for large chunks of life until springing from oblivion—the reverse of Finding Waldo.

In typically Keanu-related fashion, he pops into thought-place, hanging for a bit in my mind, to then disappear into the ethers of his life.

          When a therapist, after several months of intensive Post-Traumatic-Stress-related therapy, mentions how emotionally dry my responses have been to highly provocative memories, I laugh.

          “My mad life skill.”

          His face and words disagree.

          “Is it?”

          Already tired of the conversation, I sigh.

          “You tell me.”

          “I would like you to tell me.”

          With magnificent restraint, I do not slap him silly with an enormous eye roll. Instead, I throw down one of the therapist’s favorite phrases to launch my reply.

          “What I hear you saying is, you want me to notice that my life might be less fulfilling without emotions. It isn’t. It is in fact, quite manageable this way.”

          In response, I receive the silent treatment. The kind designed to get the other person to continue talking. I don’t. We wait until someone becomes uncomfortable. It isn’t me.

          “The way I see it, life has the ability to be more wholly vibrant with emotions.”

          “You’re a therapist. That’s what you’re supposed to say.”

          Dr. Ben laughs.

          “I actually believe what I’m saying.”
          “I bet you do.”

          “Are you being sarcastic or do you accept what I said?”

          “I accept you imagine that having emotion is a good thing.”

          “I detect an ‘and’.”

          “And there are times when you do not like having emotions.”

          “That’s true.”

          Having passed “Go” and received two-hundred dollars, my voice is gleeful.

          “Ergo my point. This is a mad life skill…my not having emotions. There are plenty of normal-ish people who would agree with me.”

          The therapist whips out his therapy 101 guide book language.

          “However…”

          “Oh, here we go…the sell job.”

          “I’m not trying to make you agree with me.”

          “Yeah, right.”

          “I’m actually not. What I would like to help you understand is that in the main respect, you’re right, emotions are not easy. But they are important. Take one of them for example…Love.”

          Without passing Go, we skip a turn in the silence jail as Dr. Ben waits for me to grow weepy or something. I don’t.

          “Do you have any thoughts on love?”

          “What do you mean?”

          “Situations you’d like to discuss relating to love?”

          “No. I can’t think of anything.”

          “Is there a time you were in love?”

          “Sure.”

          “Isn’t that relevant to this discussion?”

          “Not unless we’re talking about why emotions are a pain in the ass.”

          One of the things I like most about Keanu Reeves is that he appears to be as befuddled and enamored as I with the mysteries of this life. When I imagine him wandering through a day, his brain spits out wonderings about how this place is sense-less, infuriating, wondrous, and without care for how we feel. When it comes to emotions, I don’t think life gives a hoot if we’re having a good time, or whether or not the last kick in the teeth hurt.  Keanu seems to have this part of the equation down—while life doesn’t have an emotional playing piece, it’s firmly in charge of the rules and the kitty.

          It’s been a couple of years since the feeling gauntlet was catapulted onto my field during therapy and I haven’t changed my thinking on the topic. Having an emotion in front of another person isn’t something I want to do. In recent months, I’ve exercised “no” more often than would be considered polite or economical, considering every dime for my sessions comes out of a finite amount in the bank account. It’s easily understood that honesty is a primary and necessary dictum in sessions with a therapist. Up until now, I’ve leaned heavily in that direction, while also holding a few odds ‘n ends deeply in the crevices. These items are mine and not mine, things the me’s individually consider private and sacrosanct.

          “May we talk about why you have difficulty sharing an emotion while we’re working?”

          The habitual answer “no” bubbles up to my lips, but I swallow it, burping slightly with the effort. Dr. Ben is given a polite alternative.

          “I don’t know.”

          “Is there a part of you that has an answer?”

          I nearly laugh, a smirk wandering outside before her mother shoves the girl back in the corner. Once the urge has gone away, I answer.

          “Of course there is. I’m just not going to say.”

          “Why do you suppose this is how it is in here?”

          “…Safety?”

          “Does it feel unsafe in therapy?”

          “It feels unsafe to have emotions.”

          “Why is that?”

          The laugh bolts out of the corner, no longer taking no for an answer.

          “Come on, Dr. Ben. Emotions aren’t exactly safety-inspiring.”

          “No they aren’t, but in here it’s meant to be a safe place where they have an opportunity to be experienced…Can we try EMDR to see if a reason for not feeling safe will present itself?”

          EMDR is the acronym for Eye-Motioning, Desensitization, and Reprocessing. It’s a technique that can help the brain find resolution for PTSD, traumas, and in this instance, canoodle with a resistance to emotions.

Dr. Ben passes his hand back and forth in front of my eyes while I consider the question “Why don’t I want to have emotions in this overly-familiar, blue-walled office with a therapist I’ve known for so many years?”

          An image of Dr. Ben bent over laughing appears on my mind screen.

          That’s ridiculous…The guy probably doesn’t even laugh like that over a perfectly-delivered, hilarious joke.

          When I share what was viewed, the therapist appears disturbed.

          “I would never laugh at something you shared with me.”

          “I realize that. Your therapeutic training wouldn’t allow it. And I have my doubts whether you are someone who laughs in that way about anything.”

          “That’s also true. What’s more important is that I certainly wouldn’t laugh if you shared an emotion in therapy.”

          “I’m clear on that.”

          “Then why do you suppose the image came up?”

          The cul-de-sac of tiny houses in my brain is lined up left-to-right, with the opening at where I sit when I’m talking or thinking. Inside these mini-cubicles are at last count, eighteen different personalities. Each has activities that pertain to what they individually do best or worst depending upon the life happenings that are engaged. Currently, the image of Dr. Ben faces “Look,” a twenty-something female with a plethora of issues, most notably a belief she has lost every-thing. I share the information with the therapist.

          “The “you” that is laughing is sideways, toward Look.”

          Again, a shocked questioning “what” sweeps across the young-old man’s face. I scurry to remind him it is understood he would never behave in this manner.

          “Seriously. I have no idea why this is coming up. You wouldn’t act that way.”

          “And yet, that’s how she’s feeling.”

          “Feeling?”

          “Yes, feeling. Can you describe the feeling for me?”

          “…Worry?”

          “Anything else?”

          “I don’t know.”

          “Why would my potentially laughing worry her?”

          “She doesn’t like being laughed at.”

          “No one does. Why would it matter if I laughed?”

          “I have no idea.”

          When Keanu spontaneously pontificates and I happen to catch the event, an unexpected, unnamed, unconscious sigh slides from my lungs—warm, gooey-goodness coating the mouth for a millisecond-eon. These events are little houses rolling slowly toward a barely discernible dip until they have gathered in silence.

          Dr. Ben continues gently prodding the-one-who-will-not speak by talking to me.

          “Is there another memory that comes up with this?”

          “I sense old relationships nearby.”

          “With who?”

          “Evan, the high school boyfriend and the guy who was ten years older named Kent.”

          “Is there anything that resonates between these two people?”

          “They broke things off…well…not the Kent guy. The last time with him was embarrassing though. Actually, embarrassing covers both situations.”

          “How so?”

          “Neediness. Needing them.”

          “How did you need them?”

          “Look needed them, not me.”

          “Yes, I understand we’re not talking about you. We’re talking about Look. How did Look need these men?”

          “The Evan guy dumped her for someone else and the end of it was brutal. That’s the time she almost ran the car into a brick wall.”

          “I remember that memory. What about Kent?”

          “When things were really bad with the guy I’m married to and it seemed like it was going to end, Look called Kent and asked if he could help her remember who she is.”

          “What did Kent say?”

          The gruff voice of Kent from twenty years ago fills the ears as though a recording has been waiting to be asked. The sensation as the sentence whisper-parrots out of the mouth is plummeting.

          “I can’t help you with that.”

          “Why do you think Kent responded in that manner?”

          “He…was married then…His wife called right after the phone was hung up…started screaming at Look.”

          “A case of bad timing.”

          “That’s one way to describe it.”

          The mouth goes rigid so no more words escape.

          Where do these Keanu moments come from? Are they a product of a multi-minded brain or are they something singular brains do? Having not researched the phenomena I can only guess all people have access, though I’m probably more hyper-aware of it happening. This could be due to the vast number of different activations with eighteen separate players, the occurrence becoming a pattern that is more easily detected. It might also be true that inside a life with frequent painful trenches, the sublime is a delectable retreat one wants to tarry in, and after leaving strives desperately to rediscover.

          Stuck on this idea of emotions, with session time still available to him, the therapist is relentless.

          “Why are these relationship situations important for Look in terms of having emotions in therapy?”

          Instead of answering, I turn inward, as the personality mentioned is shouting without speaking.

          Leave them alone. These feelings are mine. No one gets to touch them or analyze them or make me share them…I’ve lost every-thing. You don’t get to fix or take, or peruse. Leave them alone.

          Dr. Ben notices I’m not in the discussion with him.

          “Are you noticing something?”

          “Not anything I can or will say.”

          As we sit in silence jail staring at one another, I am certain he is wondering why I didn’t cancel this session and play a game of Monopoly with a stranger.

          There are periodic, mild social media wars over whether or not Keanu Reeves is icon-worthy. I doubt he notices or cares. There are strong opinions on both sides and a large swath who respond the same as Keanu by blinking past the occurrences. Personally, I don’t pine for icons, the golden calf story simmering in my rules-to-live-by tome that’s utilized to keep me from experiencing more trauma. Keanu isn’t an icon to me, he’s a person with an energetic essence that somehow dances to a similar rhythm as mine does. There is no understanding for the mechanics of the process, only that it exists and I have no control over who the tango erupts with. In this most recent dip with Keanu, he had been answering the question “What do you think happens when we die?”

          There was a long pause as the raggedly-bewhiskered man stared off in the distance before speaking.

“I know that the ones who love us will miss us.”

          Therapy is a pair of dice tossed across a wide river to bang against someone else’s rocks. There is no guarantee the dice will be seen or more awfully, intentionally avoided, and even if they happen to be collected, the winnings can be opaque. It is pulling a card from the deck of Chance—finding a therapist who takes insurance, an ability to afford the cost, personality and scheduling conflicts, beliefs that refuse to coexist with other beliefs, and always-always, the effed-up shock factor.

          Trauma is shocking whether it is within the experience, shared, or heard. That’s why it’s called “trauma.” Fully witness-listening when people relate their experiences means going on a journey and allowing stories to happen as though they are unfolding all over again.

In my brain when I read or hear someone sharing events, a video ensues, and because I can be without emotion, I view the occurrences without another person’s trauma coming home to breathe. Most people are not able to separate themselves from what they are learning, wandering off in their minds instead of being present in the moment of telling. It is a sad thing to me, we as a people not having the life abs to support each other as we individually attempt to heal. Perhaps this is why many-me’s dance in silence with Keanu, our respective songs mingling across the chasm that is him and me.