Words with self: The challenge of being present and not getting lost
Genevieve is 13 months old and beginning to develop a vocabulary. Noises have evolved into repeated words and phrases. And she yaps all the time. It feels like an eternity since we first heard the regular patterns of “Dada” and “Mama” — the former she uttered in happiness, the latter in distress. I’m glad to be affiliated with the happy emotion, though it’s not so fun holding your daughter as she whines “mamamamamamama.” Then again, she’s a baby; you get over it.
Recently the words and phrases have become so commonplace that we’re now expecting certain reactions at certain times. For example, I’ll be standing at the kitchen counter, back turned to the doorway, when I hear her footsteps on the tile floor. I’ll turn, and she’ll look at me, and I’ll wait for it, and she’ll say “Hi.”
She knows “hi.” She knows what it means. Just as she knows “Oh, wow!” because she only says it when something interesting or unexpected takes place. For example, I took Genevieve to our village’s Christmas tree lighting ceremony last weekend. We stood there staring at the bare tree with all the other villagers until, in one moment, all the lights showed up and we cheered. And a second later Genevieve, looking at these burning white lights, said “Oh, wow!”
There’s another phrase she says a lot, maybe more than anything else she says. It started somewhat accurately as “hashish,” which is odd because, as far as I know, she hasn’t even been in the same room as cannabis. But that phrase has evolved just enough, and now, several times a day, she’ll say “Oh shit.”
She said “Oh shit” at the pediatrician’s office, which spurred the doctor to joke that he was sure she’s never heard that around the house. Well, maybe. I casually swear, but infrequently, and trust me, I’ve been working on it. But I don’t go around the house just saying “Oh shit.” Anyway, she’s not really saying “Oh shit,” even though she is really saying “Dada” and “Mama” and “Hi” and “Oh, wow!” Right?
I worry. (This is not new for me.) I talk to myself all the time. If you were to rank every human across the world by the rate in which they talk to themselves, I’d have to be in the top 15 or so. Sarah is well past the point where me talking to myself — and the things I talk to myself about — are odd. She casually lets go of the fact that, in my head at all times, sometimes at the same time, I’m simulating a fake baseball season, writing out stories I hope to write, predicting future conversations with people, singing out pop melodies, and commentating some sporting event that probably has never happened and never will happen. When I’m alone I talk to myself so much that I don’t realize it, until finally I catch myself because I ask myself “What the hell am I doing?” but that question is out loud, and so I’m still actually talking to myself.
I still can’t believe I shunned therapy for so long, because one of the wonderful products from it is I can talk to someone. And it’s someone who won’t talk back to me. She’ll guide me, maybe provide input, but mostly I can just talk to her. In fact, today, during my weekly appointment, I opened with “I just need to talk,” as if that’s the thing we never do (it is). I expounded that I’d spent most of the week writing my book, deeply immersed in work and not giving myself time to think. Well, that’s what therapy is for; I’m not breaking ground here. But before I used it I had no idea.
So I worry because Genevieve is going to inherit this. It’s at least trending that way, because she doesn’t stop talking. In the car, if she’s not whining because she’s in the car seat and can’t see anything, which means she can’t be a part of the world (another trait of mine that she has inherited), she’s babbling onto herself. Maybe she’s telling herself a story. Maybe she’s running through the thoughts in her head. Maybe she’s talking to us, but who can tell? Either way, she doesn’t stop talking, and she does it everywhere to everything. I love this, because she’s outgoing and isn’t afraid to speak, but I worry because, well, I can’t get out of my head.
That’s one of the reasons I opted for therapy. It’s sometimes impossible for me to stop, remove myself from my thoughts and take a breath. In the clarity of my therapist’s office I can map out my life — organize this, send these emails, write things this way, treat people like this — but the other 99.4 percent of time I spend in life is often in disarray. I can’t get a hold of anything because I’m too busy wanting to talk to myself, whether it’s run through another baseball simulation or predict another future conversation.
Over the last year I’ve found something akin to gold coins in a treasure chest. Several times I’ve driven out to random places in America, engrossing myself in culture while talking to as many people as possible, all because I have a book to write. During the days in which I’m doing this, I’m spending 12 hours or so driving, talking, driving, talking, driving and talking without time to stop. Which means there’s no time to talk to myself. Which means I’m completely focused, doing my best work, the results showing much later when I put words on the screen and realize I got a lot done in 12 hours.
But that can’t happen every day. I have a wife and child and other people around me. I have a job that both demands constant work and invites procrastination because, hey, there’s no boss in the neighboring office. So I can — and do — talk to myself and get lost in myself a lot, but at the end of the day I have deadlines, and I meet them, and the work is good. But it’s never enough.
So I’m my own worst enemy — always have been and always will. For 99.4 percent of my life I’m fighting with disarray, sometimes finding moments of clarity, but often scurrying from one corner of the room to another in an attempt at collecting every tennis ball that bounces off the walls.
I hope this doesn’t plague Genevieve like it plagues me. I want her to talk to herself, to engage her imagination and let it run free, but I also want her to be able to police herself. I want her to know when to stop, so that she doesn’t want to get lost in herself like I want to get lost in myself. I want her to appreciate the present more than I’ve been able to. Because I want so much to be able to look at each present moment and say “Yes, this is full, this is clear, this is untouched.” But I can’t. I lose moments. I lose myself. And it’s always hard to get myself back.
For now we revel in the words and phrases, the “Oh, wow!” and “Oh shit.” I hope “Oh, wow!” stays forever. I’m looking for it all the time.
