Jul 22, 2022 |
Rector's Blog Throwback Series, Angry and Beautiful
| The Rev. Philip DeVaulRector's Blog Throwback Series, Angry and Beautiful
Editor's note:
As part of our When Love Shows Up Throwback Series we are re-posting this blog
post which was originally posted on March 18, 2022.
Six months later I found out my parents were getting a divorce. My mom came into my room and, with an unusually delicate gravity, said we needed to talk. “Did someone die?” I asked. “No,” she said. I followed that immediately with, “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?” “Yes.” She was sort of surprised and relieved that I said it before she had to. I was grateful for her bluntness. But the thing I remember the most about that moment was that I had guessed it. You know what that means? It means I knew it was coming. It means that even though I wanted to be a perfect kid with a perfect family and a perfect life, not too far under the surface I knew things were a mess. My parents weren’t separated. They had never mentioned splitting up in front of me. We were all trying so hard to be ok and to seem ok. We weren’t. None of us were. I had no idea how to admit that, much less articulate it. I couldn’t ask for help because I didn’t even know I needed help.
We might think we grow out of this, that I’m just describing adolescence, but I wonder if that’s true. Do we really grow out of not admitting we’re not ok? Do we really grow out of not knowing we need help? The most significant growth and maturity I have experienced has not come simply with age – it’s come through practice and intention. So if we do not practice the ownership of our broken feelings, how do we think we will ever actually get good at being honest with ourselves? If we only practice putting on the best face possible and moving forward as if things are ok, aren’t we just getting better and better at denial?
Nirvana’s music, that grunge, that angry beautiful wall of sound, tapped into the part of me that was not ok and gave me something I couldn’t even ask for: It made it ok for me not to be ok. It made anger beautiful. It gave melody to my fears. We’re all so afraid of being alone. They made me less alone.
Six months later I found out my parents were getting a divorce. My mom came into my room and, with an unusually delicate gravity, said we needed to talk. “Did someone die?” I asked. “No,” she said. I followed that immediately with, “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?” “Yes.” She was sort of surprised and relieved that I said it before she had to. I was grateful for her bluntness. But the thing I remember the most about that moment was that I had guessed it. You know what that means? It means I knew it was coming. It means that even though I wanted to be a perfect kid with a perfect family and a perfect life, not too far under the surface I knew things were a mess. My parents weren’t separated. They had never mentioned splitting up in front of me. We were all trying so hard to be ok and to seem ok. We weren’t. None of us were. I had no idea how to admit that, much less articulate it. I couldn’t ask for help because I didn’t even know I needed help.
We might think we grow out of this, that I’m just describing adolescence, but I wonder if that’s true. Do we really grow out of not admitting we’re not ok? Do we really grow out of not knowing we need help? The most significant growth and maturity I have experienced has not come simply with age – it’s come through practice and intention. So if we do not practice the ownership of our broken feelings, how do we think we will ever actually get good at being honest with ourselves? If we only practice putting on the best face possible and moving forward as if things are ok, aren’t we just getting better and better at denial?
Nirvana’s music, that grunge, that angry beautiful wall of sound, tapped into the part of me that was not ok and gave me something I couldn’t even ask for: It made it ok for me not to be ok. It made anger beautiful. It gave melody to my fears. We’re all so afraid of being alone. They made me less alone.