Tapping the Can

I came across a YouTube video this morning that sparked a memory. It was an experiment to determine if tapping the top of a soda can reduce the bubbles and foam when you open a shaken can. It was something my girlfriend at BYU used to do and was something that I picked up later. Did I think it reduced bubbles? No, not really. It became more of an homage to a time in my life, as a lot of my quirks and obsessions started around the same time. In any case, it brought a particular incident to mind.

I’ve already written about my depression on my mission. I didn’t even know it was depression until about 7 years ago. In any case, my depression and desperation for acceptance led me to my being a first-class tool. It led to the person I trusted and cared for the most to tell me to never contact her again. I promised if only to myself, to respect that request. I can’t say I kept that promise, but at the time I did. This led to a self-loathing and realization that I had become someone I despised. After establishing that, I had to ditch the personality that I had fostered the past year and that the culture of the mission and the church, in general, had to get out of my sphere of personal influence, not easy to do on a mission. I purged. I mean, I decided to only focus on my upcoming return to school and rebuild my personality into something that I could be happy with. I never wanted to be such an ass ever again.

So where does that tapping of a can of soda come into this story? It will. Patience.

When you wipe out a lot of your own self and ignore aspects of what is going on around you, you have to fill it with something else. I had a companion that would listen to me. I don’t think he particularly liked me, but he at least would listen. I feel sorry for the guy now, as I was sad almost all the time. Even then, it was an emotion that I didn’t want to have. Anyway, I remember driving once with him and my arm was out the window playing with the airstream. He abruptly stopped the car, pointed at me and said forcefully, “Stop it! You’ve been copying all my mannerisms for the past couple of weeks and it is driving me crazy. You want to be you. You have no right to be me!” I remember being shocked, looking down at my hands with the realization that I was doing that. OK. So I was now aware that I had something else to watch for. I apologized. I pledged that I would do better. 

I’m not sure how much longer that companion was with me. I know he allowed me a wide berth as I tried to find out who I should be again. I know the self-imposed isolation that a mission puts on missionaries was driving me crazy. I was an introvert, true, but I couldn’t deal with such isolation and I did the first thing that got me a reputation to being a rebel; I subscribed to a newspaper. I only kept it a few months, but it did remind me of something about myself. When I was in Boston, I would listen to NPR occasionally, just because I needed a connection to the world. In New York, I joined a scientific book club because I needed intellectual stimulation. In CT, there was a large group of nannies that worked there and it did me so much good to talk to people, girls even, my age. By the time I left to go back to school, I had re-organized myself so I could be normal again, a person that I wanted to be. I was still weird  (and Tracy can verify), but at least I overcame the worst time in my life.

And I decided to tap the top of my soda cans as a reminder that I can choose to be who I want to be, down to the mannerisms I carry with me, even if I borrowed them.

Note: I want to state that I don't post these for anything other than my own cathartic processes. I have not talked about this most of my life and I want to be a fairly open person. I don't do this to embarrass anyone or for any other reason other than to give some things words. What I wanted to share with this post was my interaction with my companion, and how my actions at the time upset him, and what I took away from it.

The bad part of being the most influential time of your life doesn't necessarily mean it was pleasurable. It goes against the accepted narrative. It isn't something that you might choose for yourself.