One of the things that eleven year-old Chris (or Christopher, I'm pretty sure I was still going exclusively by Christopher at that point) wanted more than anything else was the three issue series Superman/Doomsday: Hunter/Prey. It was the much anticipated rematch between the Man of Steel and the monstrosity that killed him (Superman got better). But it was prestige format, which meant it was more expensive than a normal comic book and I had to wait until Christmas before I could read the latest adventure in my favorite superhero's never-ending battle.
One of the things which the reader learns in the story is how Doomsday became this unstoppable killing machine. Eons ago there was an inhospitable planet: the atmosphere and temperatures could not sustain life save for these horrifying creatures that would devour anything in sight. So an alien scientist sent a baby out into this hellscape. The baby died. Then the scientist would send a robot out to collect the remains, clone the baby, and repeat. Each time, the clone would evolve a little bit more and survive a little bit longer: after years surviving the uninhabitable conditions and after years more killing all the hostile monsters on that planet. The creature--the result of this cycle--became Doomsday.
If the same thing happens over and over again, it will slowly change you.
A few falls ago, I was in a class called Interpersonal Relationships in which we learned how to give pastoral care in group settings. We learned mainly through our professor leading us in group sessions: inviting us to share our stories, allowing us to ask one another questions, and helping us deal with the sore spots of our lives.
At some point while I was sharing my story, the professor remarked, "You carry a lot of pain, don't you?" I hesitated for a moment because I have a wonderful life and have been blessed in many ways. But, yeah, I carry around some pain. We all do. I'm just learning to admit it.
Growing up, my parents ran a church youth conference. Each summer, we would work with a staff of college and seminary students. These were and still are some of my favorite people in the world. They looked after me like a kid brother and then later I became one of their peers; later still I was one of their bosses. When you work at a youth camp, there is an intensity to the relationship that comes from that combination of living and serving together every waking hour for a few months. Then everyone would go back to their normal lives.
I would not trade those summers for the world, but the trouble was I was not the most popular kid at school or at church. I talked about this a few weeks ago. I wasn't a recluse, but I never quite felt like I fit in and so I would mainly look forward fondly to the summer. Summer would come, I'd grow close to people, and then they would leave. And we'd try to keep up with people over the rest of the year but you get invested in your everyday life. So we'd lose touch. People would mean a lot to me for one, two, four summers and then for the most part would just disappear.
The same thing happened over and over again, year after year, and it slowly changed me.
Even though I know in my head that I could go to many of these people and pick up where we left off, I cannot extract from my heart the feeling that I am someone's friend only until they return to their normal lives. Unlike Doomsday, the cycle hasn't turned me into an unstoppable force. I do not protect myself by attacking but by withdrawing. I became something that preemptively protects itself from those hurtful elements. I am starting to see that I often close myself off more to avoid that loss. Against knowledge and evidence to the contrary, I fear that I am not the kind of person that people stay connected to. I'm a transient friend.
So when I sense distance, I withdraw into myself. I don't reach out. I am a worse friend for this...this whatever that is inside my head. I know that it makes me appear aloof. And I hesitate to write all this because it's not my parents' fault. Again I would not trade my childhood for anything. Besides, my brother and sister grew up in the same environment and seem better adjusted in their friendships. And it's not the fault of years' worth of staff members. It's just something in my personality and the ways in which I responded to situations over the years that has created this sad, little monster that whispers lies in my head.
I originally wrote all of this back in September and I sat on it. I was afraid of letting these thoughts out into the wild. I didn't want it to seem like I was fishing for sympathy. I don't like my insecurity to be that well known. But as I sit here in this season of limbo, I am realizing that I need to put the past to bed and inch forward the best I can. If we keep things quiet then it gives those things power. So I am trying to sift through some of my crap by writing about it.
The feeling of insecurity isn't going to disappear. Even as I was realizing the changes that I needed to make back in September, I have wrestled with it since. Yet by not ignoring it, I hope that I can better figure out what I am supposed to do next. That insecurity doesn't just have ramifications on relationships but on how I see myself, how I understand calling, how I think about what I can and cannot do.
But in all of this, I want to do better. I want to be a better friend than I have to people from my past and people in my present. I don't want to live life closing myself off from pain, even though there will be friendships that last for just a season; that's just part of life. I want to live in an open and sharing manner. It is going to be an ongoing process, but in the end I can promise you the way in which I grew up will be seen more as blessings than a series of doomsdays.