I’ve made a comfortable life for myself- a cushy and undemanding job as a software engineer, an apartment within walking distance of work. I usually roll out of bed around 9 and stumble into my office by 10:30. On any given day, I get maybe 2–4 hours’ work done, then get out the door at 5pm sharp. Usually, I’ll walk across the street to the bus station. I’ll take the 803 into town so that I can go to something called circling.
For those who aren’t familiar with it, circling is a relational meditation practice- mindfulness, but for your interactions with the people around you. Perhaps you feel attacked by what someone said. Maybe you feel dismissive or skeptical about a person’s opinion of themself. Maybe you just feel anxiety welling up in your body. In circling, you disclose these things, which leads to intense moments of intimacy and connection.
A man with a powerful frame and striking, masculine features begins to talk about the way that he twitches in his seat sometimes. I assumed it was an affectation, someone trying too hard to have an emotional reaction to the things being said in the circle. He starts addressing it directly, talking about how it’s something that he can control, but that he has to make an effort to control, one that he feels embarrassed about- Something like, “People see me twitch and you probably think I’m insane”. I sit quietly, mildly ashamed of my own judgments.
He starts to tiptoe around the thing he wishes to disclose, slowly getting closer and closer to it. He talks about how brutal it is to approach the subject. He’s usually a listener and defers space to other people, but this time he’s laser focused and even asks us to stay with him, to stay in his story. We can tell that it’s wearing on him, that the force of his emotions are mounting as he talks about feeling emasculated, about feeling helpless and scared all the time. He talks about carrying a weight with him every waking moment of his life. He says, “I’m a survivor” and begins to weep. He says it again, louder, tears streaming down his face. I want to love him and care for him as I once loved and cared for someone else.
Another man with a soft voice, a gentle face, and greying hair starts to talk about his family. He talks about a gap of years where he was estranged from his children. He talks about his regret that he couldn’t be there for them, that he’s going to therapy and figuring things out and had to do his utmost for a very long time before he could be in their lives again. He talks about saving up and wanting to provide them with not only money for college, but also money for years of therapy. I start to cry, thinking of my own father and the work that I wish he did. I share this. A woman tells me to have some empathy for my father. She knows everyone will hate her for saying it.
It’s mid january and I’m going to the sperm bank to store a couple of samples before I start to take estrogen next week. I go to circling as usual, and a man shows up who I haven’t seen before. He’s wearing a green hoodie, and he doesn’t talk much during the circle, except side comments to the friend who accompanies him. We ask him what’s going on, and he tells us. He and his girlfriend don’t want to have children, so he went to a doctor to see what his options were, only to find out that he’s already infertile. He’s confused by how much he’s hurt by this, by the way that his choice was taken from him. He feels like a disappointment to his parents. His feelings are echoed by a gay man, who talks about his own experience with his family. I say nothing, but am gripped with the irrational conviction that I am watching my internal world play out, embodied by the people in front of me as they cry together.
A woman screams because people do not understand her, because people are trying to comfort and diffuse her anger when she wants to be active, powerful, perhaps even dangerous to those around her. I tell everyone to stop making it worse, and she turns her vitriol on me, asking what else I have for her- if I know everyone else is doing it wrong, why can’t I do it properly? Am I not asking to love her the way she wishes to be loved? I don’t have an answer. My body tightens up, my face flushes with shame. As I make my way home that night, I feel helplessly insufficient. It was only my fantasy that we spoke the same language.
I’ve shared my own stories with them as well. I’ve talked about my own fantasies of omnipotence and cruelty in my relationship with a suicidally depressed person. I’ve shared what it felt like to be torn between fearing and secretly wishing that it would end, even if it ended in disaster. I’ve told people that they feel like my father or my mother or my lover, that I’m filled with irrational love or hate or indifference to their struggles.
Every night I leave quietly, walking quickly in the cold Texan winds, hoping that my bus doesn’t leave before I make it to the stop. Sometimes I’m filled with frustration over the things I didn’t resolve. Sometimes I’m proud of the courage that others have expressed, or resentful of their judgments. In the morning, I go to work. I silently stare into my computer for a couple of hours, then return to my apartment to prepare lunch for myself. It’s barely noon and I’m half exhausted, half bored. I lie down in my bed and stare at the ceiling, alone. I check my phone, and my notifications are spam emails, co-star, work meetings, and old lyft messages.
