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.