On Repetition

Hello. My name is Keanu.

Three years ago, on this day, my mother was killed. Every year since then, I have written about my thoughts and emotions and posted something online to share. I treat this as a way to share my thoughts with those who are interested. I seek nothing in return. Each year I write about whatever I would want people to know about me at the time. This is not a way for me to solicit condolences or to cause worry. This is a way for me to share parts of myself in a way that would otherwise be impossible.

This year I feel ready to share these thoughts with more people. If this is your first time reading one of my posts, thank you, sincerely. Here are my previous posts, if you are interested:
On Grieving (2018)
On Being Okay (2019)
On Being Alive (2020)

I would like to talk about two experiences from my life. If you choose to read this, please do not feel obligated to let me know that you have done so. I write these for everyone and for no one. Perhaps I write these for myself.

Before I issue this warning, I assure you that I am not in any danger. These events are from over 3 years ago and I am simply recounting them. Let me reiterate: life has been difficult, but I am doing okay right now.

[CONTENT WARNING: I discuss suicide in this post.]

The Time I Met My Mother's Killer

My uncle and my cousin (my mother's brother and his son) were visiting California, from Hungary, in August 2017. If I recall correctly, neither of them had been to America in quite some time. My mom planned to take them on a number of trips during their stay. One of these trips was to get lobster from a restaurant in Baja California, Mexico: La Casa Del Pescador. I didn't really understand why we needed to go to Mexico to get lobster, but I was interested in the miniature road trip. I can't remember what tipped me off to do so, but I repeatedly asked my mom to make sure that it would just be a family outing. She promised me that it would just be the five of us, in one car: her, my grandmother, my uncle, my cousin, and myself. She promised me it would be a one-day trip, there and back. It wasn't long before both of these promises were broken.

Shortly after leaving the house, we made a stop in a nearby parking lot. My grandma and my cousin left our car and met a man who stepped out of the car parked beside us. I had never seen this man before. They got into the car with him and we resumed our trip to Mexico. No matter how much I pleaded with her, my mom refused to tell me who this person was. I overheard a couple speakerphone conversations along the way. Since they were discussing driving directions, I gathered that my mom was talking with this mystery man. The worst part of these calls was hearing him call her "love", "honey", and other nicknames. Each one made my stomach turn.

This wasn't the only time that I had ever felt alone, ignored, and kept in the dark. However, this was the first time in a while that it had happened. I had to bite my tongue and endure it when I was a child, but I had found some autonomy since moving away for college. At this moment, it felt like that agency was stripped away from me again. I felt like an afterthought. My plan for the rest of the day was the same as it always was in these scenarios: participate at the bare minimum, avoid conflict, and bottle my emotions.

We made an unexpected (to me) stop at Pala, a hotel and casino, about an hour later. The drive to the restaurant is only two hours long, so I didn't understand why we needed a pit stop. I tried asking my mom and she told me that we would spend the night there and go to Mexico the next day, in the morning. Stopping at Pala for the day further rewound me into my childhood. We seemingly spent every holiday there, and it always went the same way: my mom and grandma would spend the night at the casino while I tried to find ways to occupy myself. I hated it there. It didn't seem like this would be any different. I resigned to my plan and tried to stay calm under the increasingly stressful circumstances.

This is when I met the man who was driving the other vehicle in our caravan of two. While my mom was arranging the rooms for our stay, he and I stood in silence by each other. He introduced himself as Stephen. I didn't have to introduce myself because he already know who I was. Some more silence passed. He piped up and tried to make small talk about what he did in college. He told me that he knew I was a math major, and that he had studied some statistics in school. I responded with the bare minimum. He tried another subject: he knew that I played tuba in school and proceeded to tell me about how his children (who were now adults) had played instruments in school too. I responded with the bare minimum. He asked me if I had ever heard of George Carlin, because he knew that I enjoyed listening to stand-up comedy. I told him that I was familiar and enjoyed his work. He responded with some more. I responded with the bare minimum. Lastly, and unprompted, he presumed my nonexistent curiosity on the matter and began explaining to me why he had nail polish on just one finger. He told me that it was part of the Polished Man initiative, in which men bring awareness to end child violence by sparking conversations about the topic. I responded with the bare minimum.

Shortly after this interaction, I made a depressing realization: this man felt like he knew who I was because my mom recited our most recent conversation to him. Indeed, in a recent conversation with my mom I had told her that I was studying math in school, that I was playing tuba in the band, and that I had been watching stand-up comedy in my spare time. Is that what she thought was descriptively important about me? Is this all she was able to tell him about me? Is that all she really felt like she knew about me at the time? These are question that I'll never have answers to. These are questions that continue to haunt me.

I tried talking to my mom about how uncomfortable I was with the entire ordeal. I didn't want to be there. I didn't appreciate the surprise add-on to our party. I didn't want to spend more than a day away from home. All of these protests were met with her ignoring me. She accused me of being rude, inconsiderate, and unappreciative. I told her how creepy Stephen was and how uncomfortable he made me. This, too, was ignored. I spent the rest of the night in the hotel room by myself, while everyone else was at the casino.

The next day we actually made the trip to Mexico. I tried, and failed, to ignore all the fawning and romantics that Stephen put on display while we were there. I clenched my jaw, gave minimum participation, and tried to remind myself that this would be over by the end of the day. By now, my cousin, my uncle, and my grandma had noticed that I was not having a good time. They each tried to convince me to lighten up and enjoy myself. I could do no such thing. My mom continued to ignore my attempts to tell her how uncomfortable, unhappy, and disrespected I felt. She told me that I was disrespecting her. We were on our way back by the early afternoon, and I felt my emotional clouds parting. Soon I wouldn't have to ever deal with Stephen again, and I could spend some time alone trying to deal with (read: compartmentalize) the experience of this trip.

There was a bomb threat at the border shortly before we arrived.

I should have expected this, but it surprised me when we made another stop at Pala. It was my understanding that we were done with the trip and on our way back home. My mom told me that we were actually going to spend another night at Pala because she was planning to watch a concert there. She hadn't told me about that until now. This was the second time I felt lied to, and I really had enough. I was 19 years old. I was my own person. I didn't have to be dragged around like this if I didn't want to.

At this point I protested by refusing to order anything at dinner, and I stopped trying to give the bare minimum. I felt hurt. I felt sad. I felt exhausted. I felt ignored. I felt alone. I asked if I could drive myself home that night because there were two cars and only six of us. My mom took that as an attack against everything she stood for. She told me that wasn't an option, lest my dad see everyone else come home in an unknown car. I tried one more time to tell my mom how uncomfortable and hurt I felt. This time she ignored me.

I spent the rest of the night in the hotel room, texting my dad and a close friend. Had they not been house-sitting at the time, my friend would have been more than willing to make the hour-long drive to pick me up from my personal hell. When I texted my dad about what was going on, he seemed to be apathetic about the situation. I told him how excruciatingly uncomfortable I was with how this Stephen person was acting around my mom. He told me, "I don't know, I wasn't invited to go with u guys, so I have no clue" who Stephen is. I asked him if he could take me home, and he told me that he could be there in two hours as long as I told my mom that I was leaving. At that point I didn't really care, and I just wanted to go home. I was emotionally wiped out and I just wanted to have my own space.

Two agonizing hours passed and my dad arrived at Pala. He asked me if I told my mom that I was leaving yet. I said that I hadn't. He casually told me exactly where she was in the casino. I went up to her, trembling, feeling every emotion, and on the verge of tears. I told her that I was going home. She was shocked and asked how. I told her that my dad had come to pick me up. She was incredulous, "You called him?! He's here?!" He was standing some distance behind me. My chest was violently shaking, but I felt the need to take this opportunity of apparent mutual communication to try, one last time, to tell her how I felt.

I told her I was hurt. I told her that it hurt me that she was ignoring my feelings. I told her how disrespected I felt because she wouldn't listen to what I was saying. She held out her palm, faced toward me, and simply repeated "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You're done. Bye. Bye. You're done. Thank you. Thank you." I started crying and raised my voice to avoid choking on my words. I was causing a scene in the casino. A scene that would normally mortify me: people were stopping and staring. My entire existence was on fire. Stephen was sitting across the aisle from her, watching this unfold. I kept going. My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest. My mom looked past me and mouthed to my dad, "Please take him away."

I bawled on the way back home.

My dad asked why I was crying.

I went to sleep feeling empty.

The Time I Almost Killed Myself

I woke up feeling empty.

My eyes were open, but I wasn't present and I didn't want to be. I lied motionless on my bed. My mom came in to say something. I couldn't pay attention. I couldn't react. I couldn't respond. She left. Later, my dad came in to say something. I couldn't pay attention. I couldn't react. I couldn't respond. He left. Soon the house was empty. I had been actionless all morning, and each waking minute grew heavier and denser. I lost my grip on time, and my grip on space was soon to follow. I needed to be over.

I tied a noose. I tested how much weight it could bear. I felt everything and nothing all at once.

A fragment of my consciousness remembered a promise from long ago that a friend had made to me: "If you're ever in trouble, call me. If I don't pick up, then leave a voicemail saying anything, and call again right after that. I will pick up the second time."

I called him.

He picked up instantly.

I wept for minutes before I could tell him that I was standing on a chair.

He talked me down, and asked if we could meet up later that day.

We met later that day.

We walked around.

We talked about life.

We repeat.
We repeat successes and failures.
We repeat habits.
We repeat mistakes and improvements.
We repeat stories.
We repeat highs and lows.
We repeat ideas.
We repeat nightmares and memories.
We repeat others.
We repeat waking and sleeping.
We repeat patterns.
We repeat repetition itself.
Repetition—as an idea—repeats, regardless of us.

These experiences have been repeating in my head for quite some time. This is not uncommon. I often have repeated nightmares surrounding the trauma that I've experienced. Sometimes these nightmares bleed into my waking, conscious hours. However it seems that these are two of the louder nightmares that weigh on me, more so than others. I have been working in therapy to understand why certain experiences like these weigh more than others. There is no single answer, but I have developed a hypothesis: repetition, and lack thereof.

I haven't talked about these experiences with many people. Those close to me probably know what happened to my mom, but I have only talked about that trip to Mexico with a handful of individuals. Only a few people know that I've come close to taking my own life. This lack of external repetition forced these experiences to ferment in the catacombs of my emotions. Not only that, but further traumatic experiences repeated and exacerbated these feelings. That trip to Mexico was excruciating in and of itself, but it took on a whole new pain when my mother was killed. It evolved into an unbelievably harrowing memory once I learned that Stephen was responsible for planting the package bomb that killed her.

Each time I caught a draft of these deep, dark nightmares, I relived those emotions. The repetition echoed and distorted my perception to the point where I began falsely associating these two experiences with each other. Until this week, I thought that these two events were causally related. I thought that I was so empty and defeated from the trip to Mexico that I wanted to take my own life the next day. That is not the case, however. When I was reviewing my old text messages to confirm contextual details, I realized that the trip to Mexico happened weeks after my attempt. How could I have falsely connected these two events?

Herein lies a sinister effect of repetition. By only repeating these memories to myself, I developed an internal canon which seemed emotionally sound but was causally incorrect. These experiences happened within weeks of each other, and it simply made sense at some point for my brain to associate them with each other. This speaks to the incredible—and often subconscious—drive that we have to make reason out of the unreasonable. More importantly, my experience of recalling and writing about this speaks to the value of repetition.

Anyone who speaks with me for long enough might recognize that I use an abundance of metaphors. Personally, it's the easiest way for me to communicate. They allow me to capture more of the abstract, intangible aspects of my thoughts while remaining intelligible. As such, I've been making heavy use of a class of metaphors while in therapy.

I feel as though all of my experiences that I've bottled up and compartmentalized amount to a warehouse of glass jars. These containers are all sealed air-tight, but the pressure is slowly building in each of them. Some are so old that they're caked in dust and I can no longer even tell what's inside. I can't investigate these without opening them up and risking an emotional catastrophe. The pressure in my emotional warehouse builds without any sign of slowing. Sometimes I pick the wrong jar to unpack, and countless others come crashing down on top of me when I am least prepared.

Each time in the past when I tried to seek therapy, I brought with me the mindset of hoping to eliminate these jars. However, eliminating these experiences would amount to eliminating fundamental aspects of my life. The cycle repeated with all of my previous therapists: I would get frustrated that these emotional jars weren't disappearing, I would "disillusion" myself, and I would grow increasingly skeptical of the efficacy of therapy. It got to the point where I refused to search for a therapist in the last two years because I didn't think I could handle repeating that self-defeating cycle.

Fortunately, several months ago, I had a revolutionary chat with a sibling of a friend. This person happened to be a therapist, but we spoke casually. I explained my troubles with past experiences, some of my traumas, and some of my worries. He explained to me that I need to be aware of why I'm going to therapy: "If you're not talking about the things you want to be talking about, then either you're holding back or something about your relationship with your therapist is holding you back." He shared a wealth of knowledge about developing my relationship with a therapist, and with therapy itself. I called this conversation meta-therapy. He chuckled, "I suppose you can call it that!"

I've started seeing a therapist twice a week since then. Though difficult and exhausting, it's slowly helping me understand my own patterns. I'm able to carefully pick out the right emotional jars to unpack when we're in session. Even if I drop some containers and make a(n emotional) mess, I have someone to help me untangle and clean up. Furthermore, I have been finding new ways to interpret my emotions and experiences in a way that is less combative and anxiety-inducing. One of these ideas that I've developed is the importance of "closing the loop" and "repeating the loop".

I'm finding that sometimes certain experiences weigh more than others because they're open loops, fermenting out of control in their emotional jars. In a sense, this is a lack of closure. I have long denied myself the opportunity to sincerely feel and engage with the emotions contained in these events. By wholeheartedly talking about them with others, with my therapist, with you, I feel the loop close. This is not enough, however. Inevitably these thoughts and experiences will resurface. At that point I must embrace the repetition of the loop. I re-experience, re-contextualize, and re-interpret these emotions, but something is different... Each time, something is different... The variation is less important than the repetition itself. By embracing the repetition, I gain new insight, awareness, and even solace. Repeating the loop is how I am able to keep growing, even when it feel like I'm stagnating, stuck in the loop.

(At the risk of putting a metaphorical hat on a hat on my metaphor...) Closing and repeating these loops evokes the image of tracing a circle, naturally. I see poetry in this resemblance. Try to draw a circle, freehand, and it will probably come out a bit oblong. Try again, over your previous attempt, and it will probably be slightly off in a different regard. But, if you try over and over again, you slowly develop an actual, well-formed circle. It's not that any individual future attempt produces a perfect circle; you will never reach perfection. Each repetition contributes to the overall progress toward the goal. Each repetition, though imperfect, is vital. Progress is not measured by individual attempts. Rather, progress is the entire journey itself. Such is life.

So I learned cut out the middle man, make it all for everybody, always
Everybody can't turn around and tell everybody, everybody already knows, I told them
But this means there isn't a place in my life for you or someone like you
Is it sad? Sure. But it's a sadness I chose
I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a boy
And got off a man more cynical, hardened, and mature and shit
But that's not true. The truth is I got on the bus a boy. And I never got off the bus
I still haven't
- Childish Gambino. "That Power", Camp, 2011.