Rock

I shall not be joining into the Rock Flipping week. Not that I object to those who have a reason, experience, knowledge that will make that a meaningful exercise. But to expose the hiding creatures for my own amusement, not edification, not even curiosity, seems mean. Pohanginapete gets to the heart of why more eloquently than I can.

When I was in nursing school, in clinicals, I tended to not want to push in on patient care experience. I stood as far away as possible to observe, desperate not to intrude. Clinical instructors had to push me in, until I had an actual role. Then, I took deep breaths, entered with apparent confidence and due humility. There to offer assistance, I still will leave an OR with too many people 'helping' if I do not have a real task.

Living at home, in particular the post pubertal years of greatest tension and malice with my father, I hid in my room as much as humanly possible. He would still come shouting through the house, calling for me, until I answered. This was not just a matter of making sure I was home and safe. This was if he hadn't seen me downstairs for an hour, if he'd been out in the garage and come in, even after mom told him where I was. I feared and detested him, because I was dependent on him, subject to his orders, his pleasure in harassing me. Or perhaps, just that if he was anxious, then I must be. If he was angry, I was angry, and I had no right to be angry.

Had an anesthesiologist rip me a new one for a previously unstated personal preference that I was supposed to psychically know. He spent the rest of the day effusively buttering me up, assuring me that he wasn't mad at me, really.

Ah ha.

Jerk. Never occurred to him that I had seen what he was, and no, we weren't friends, sir. As though his feelings were all that mattered, and whatever he felt, I felt. And I would of course know how he felt.

In grade school, without a desk in my room, I studied at the dining room table. My father could not leave me alone, always talking to me, expecting a response, poking me in the ribs walking past, asking me for something from the kitchen, having me answer the phone beside him, because he was busy watching TV, then talking loudly when it turned out to be for him, after expecting me to talk with his brother for a while, or else I was being "rude." When the desk came to me, left behind from my brothers, I would pack up and go upstairs as soon as he came home, and he would assure me, "You're not bothering me, stay there."

Married one (ex) who thought me closing the bathroom door was a rejection of him.

I was thinking about this, because D keeps track of where Moby is. I have to remind myself that, well, this is different. We do want to make sure the cat is not stuck in a closet inadvertently closed. Sick cats hide. And, once found, we try not to disturb him. Still, I tend to not go looking for him on my own initiative.

Moby occasionally lies in the middle of the hall, where we have to step over him repeatedly. He looks up at us as if to say, "No problem, you're not bothering me." This is amusing. I don't have to wait for Moby to feed me.

D and I are very respectful of each other's privacy. If a friend tells either of us a story in confidence, we may allude to it, but there is no expectation of details, and both treat it with utmost discretion. He is guardian of my privacy. He asks before looking in my wallet, or opening a piece of mail for me. He has all my passwords, but always asks before using them. I would no more read his email than wear his shoes out. I have to keep nothing from him, because he would never assume. If I hid under a rock, he would make sure where I was, ask if I was ok, then sit nearby quietly.

You children, scientists, naturalists, folk of the woods and streams, you have a purpose, a right, a responsibility to flip stones. I shall let the things sleeping under rock lie. I have no good reason to bother them.