I'm Listening

It’s been nearly 15 years. I don’t remember who was doing the talking, or what was said. Honestly, the only reason I remember the place is because I’ve gone back nearly every year since. (Curse you, COVID-19!)

They say that people don’t usually remember what you say, but they remember how you made them feel. Certainly true in this moment. I don’t remember a word of what was said, but I remember the lesson I took from it.

I’m listening.

My home was not a place of safety of expression. If I was too excited, I was told to calm down, to behave. If I was obstinate (a frequent occurrence), I was told to get with the program without being told to get with the program.

Then again, from conversations with my father, apparently my memory has some holes in it, so that could just be the lesson I took from it, rather than the message as was intended.

Either way, I grew up quiet and quite effectively hidden in every fantasy world I could find or make. Reality was a torturous example of wasted potential and emotional minefields, so I went to the places where things worked out nicely. And, if I didn’t like how something worked out (looking at you, Boromir) I went outside and imagined myself as an additional fellow in the ship who fixed the problem.

Real life didn’t tend to be so kind. Or so happy in its endings.

Don’t get me wrong, I had a really good life. Still do. Didn’t have a silver spoon, but the spoon I had always had enough food, and (being one step short of the definition of American Privilege) I’ve pretty much always had it easy, on a physical level.

In fact, the only issue I really had was that I didn’t believe anyone cared about what I had to say.

Probably an alarming line to read, given the literal tens of thousands of people who have died because of similar sentiments, but if everyone of those people’s stories had a moment like mine, the world would be a much fuller and much happier place.

You see, that lesson that I heard, those two simple words, they gave me a way out. My parents didn’t want to listen, my sisters were preoccupied, my best friend was physically distant and emotionally besieged. Didn’t really have any options.

What I needed came looking for me. Not with any words that I can remember, not from any voice I can pick out of a crowd, not from any individual I could name, but from somewhere, something, a voice whispering in the wind.

I’m listening.

And I so desperately wanted to be heard that I wandered out into the lonely places (oh how few of those remain to find), first with friends and then still further with only my own voice for company, and I spoke. I spoke of fear, of excitement, of the future and the past, of the dreams and desires and disappointments and discouragements. I sang when words did not suffice; when no click or cadence fit my heart, I unleashed it upon the streams and stones in nonsense syllables strung together by the ache of teenage angst.

I’ve no doubt that much of what I said that day was silly or immature or melodramatic. To this day, I spend far too much time in such places (probably why I enjoy writing as much as I do). But the important thing is that I said it. The words were able to leave my mind, flow down into my throat, and take flight, not a one of them hitting the ground for the first time in my entire life. Tears fell, that I remember, and laughter rose, I remember that too.

Because I remember how I felt, being told by that whisper from a forgotten voice that someone was listening.