Saturday, July 2, 2011

Dumbbell Syndrome

She is sitting. The dry grass bristles beneath her little hands. On either side of her, she can see patches of concrete alternating with dormant lawns all up and down the street of ticky-tacky houses. She’s in a carefree, three-year-old state of mind, thinking only of her playmate a few houses down. She sings her name as loud as she can, over and over. From the house next door, a man steps onto his front stoop. Whiskers pepper his chin and strands of hair hang from one side of his balding head. His face plumps as his eyes squint.
“Shut up, ya dumbbell!” His words startle and silence her.

Although she does not know what a ‘dumbbell’ is, in that moment, she does know three indisputable realities. She is a dumbbell. She knows a dumbbell is not good. And she is all at once aware that everyone else knows she is a dumbbell.

She is immobilized. She cannot cry, though she wants to. She remains perfectly still; perhaps no one will notice the dumbbell still sitting on the grass. She sits there for a very long time.

***
She boards a Greyhound on Long Island, venturing off on her own for the first time. She is headed to New Hampshire to visit her brother. A trip all by herself feels precarious, but she’s doing it anyway. She is eighteen after all—practically grown up. In Hartford, Connecticut, she needs to switch buses. A Vermont Transit Bus parks in the spot where she believes she should board, and so she does.

As soon as she takes a seat, and as she watches the driver ready to put the bus in gear, she is overcome with panic. Is this the right bus? She reads Vermont Transit overhead, but she is headed to New Hampshire. She should ask the driver if the bus stops in Claremont, but she cannot make herself move, let alone speak. Somewhere inside she hears a voice, Shut up ya dumbbell!

For five hours, stop after stop, she is immobilized, never knowing until the last moment if she will ever arrive at her destination.

***
She reads a review of her writing, something she has bravely poured her heart and soul into. Her chest pounds with such discomfort that she stops breathing. She is reading a blur of isolated words strung together with venom. They make no sense and she squints harder, trying to understand. Now, they come into focus. Shut up ya dumbbell!

10 comments:

  1. Oh my. I didn't realize. It is so sad the things we remember from childhood that make us who we are today. And it's not true. NOT AT ALL. So let it go, take a deep breath and push on. You are not 3 years old anymore. You are a bright beautiful intelligent brilliant writer/artist/mother/wife. You are not 3 years old anymore. You are not a dumbbell.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh Bridget. Why do we hold on so much tighter to the bad things instead of the good? Do not give that idiot man any more power. He has had ENOUGH! You are everything that Anne wrote above and more. Concentrate on the good...you have so much.

    ReplyDelete
  3. say it ain't so JB,,says it ain't so..sometimes people can be such an AH.

    ReplyDelete
  4. That sounds so painful. I hope that careless comment will soon cease its hold on you.

    ReplyDelete
  5. All of you: I do appreciate your kind words. For the most part, I do know I'm not a dumbbell, lol. Keeping things in perspective, I realize it was a relatively benign occurrence, especially when weighed against all the horrific abuses many children have suffered. Just the same, it is a pivotal occurrence in my young life that seems to creep into my automatic response to some situations. When I'm not making jest of it, I'm battling against its frustrating ability to send me spiraling...alas, such is life...

    ...and I am feeling better now...:)

    ReplyDelete
  6. I am glad you are feeling better. And I get what you mean about knowing that there are people who suffered more than what we had yet still feel the sting and power of our experiences.

    Don't know if this will cheer you up but my daughter glanced at the title of your post and asked if alarm clocks are smart bells.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Yat-Yee, :) Hehehe, your daughters comment put an ear-to-ear grin on my face.

    Thanks so much for taking the time to leave your comments and to share that! :)

    ReplyDelete
  8. Hello, Bridget! Your touching post made me sad, but it's good to see in the comments that you are doing better. I hope you know that I think you are wonderful, amazing, and brilliant. Hope all is well.

    ReplyDelete
  9. It's true. Sometimes things stick with his and hold us back for the rest of our lives.

    I've got my hangups too. And I haven't the foggiest how we fix them :(

    ReplyDelete
  10. Michelle, that's quite a string of adjectives...not sure how to respond to that. I guess it's best to reply the way mother taught: 'just say "Thank you"'

    I am doing even better, still. After a lengthy dry spell, I've been doing some intensive writing and it feels wonderful!


    Claire, I think that too often I feel alone with my 'psycho-plights.' It's too easy to forget that we all have issues that weigh us down, things that will continue to burden us to a greater of lesser degree. Perhaps we who are writer/artist types feel it even more acutely. Thanks for stopping by and commiserating. :)

    ReplyDelete