people-sketch: wedding (3 of 3)

We go to the church where the wedding will be held. It's the church my grandparents attended for almost 60 years. My grandfather and uncles helped build it. I was last here for my grandmothers funeral just a few years ago. I tell Sarah, "When I was growing up, I used to attend vacation bible school here in the summers...we'd memorize bible verses, do arts and crafts; at the end of the week, we'd put on a little bible-themed play for the parents."

We show up early so that Sarah can familiarize herself a little more with the sound system. She volunteered to do the music for the ceremony...so she spends some time looking at the system...at all of the lights and knobs and buttons. She says, "Looks easy enough." One small red light keeps flashing...I ask her what that is. Sarah winces and says, "Yeah...I don't know. I'm pretending that it doesn't exist."

Then family begin to arrive for the wedding. My dad has more than ten siblings...all of whom had multiple children, so the gathering is large. I roam around the church lobby, mingle. I see uncles, aunts, cousins...my cousin's children.

These are people I've avoided for many years now. People I last saw just prior to an emotional collapse...one that kept me isolated for more than a decade.

The sense of lost time...of frayed connections: it hurts in a way that I can't find words for. There's just a hollowness to the day; the handshakes and hugs and greetings all feel like ephemeral, faded things.

And it's strange...despite the unexplained absence, everyone is exceptionally nice. Everyone is warm and affectionate. It makes me feel guilty. I have to acknowledge, as I'm interacting with everyone, that the time I spent away was entirely my fault. I can't blame a collapse or depression or my family...I chose it, the isolation.

I look around and know that every person in the room represents a relationship that I damaged. It's particularly painful when I see my cousin's children...kids I've never met until now. I see them and feel simultaneously curious and hurt. I want to know what their little minds are like...what toys or cartoons they obsess over...what personality traits they've absorbed from their parents...and which traits are uniquely their own. I feel curious...and knowing that I could have spent time with them, could have spent the previous years getting to know them...it hurts. They're just tiny little strangers. I don't know them. The curiosity I feel just emphasizes what I've lost.

I'm unsettled, sick with who I am. But I mingle...try to navigate the conversations. Then I go hang out with Sarah for a bit, at the sound system. She asks, "How's it going out there?" I just pull my hair and say, "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

A few minutes later my mom walks by. Sarah asks her, "Why is everyone sitting at the back of the church? All of the front and center pews are empty." Mom laughs and replies, "It's a Baptist thing, like an unwritten rule: we fill up our churches back to front." Mom walks on. Sarah asks me if that's true. I say, "Yes. I don't know why, but it's a thing."

The wedding begins. Sarah plays through the various songs...each song signals a different portion of the ceremony. It's all orderly and scripted and brief. A preacher preaches, rings happen, a bride is kissed. Then we go to a different area of the church for the reception.

It's crowded, my heart is tense, anxious. Sarah, freed from her sound duties, is now available to meet people. Humans pass by and I'm obligated to make introductions. With family, I can manage this task fairly well. It's more of a problem with friends of the family because, growing up, I was so fucking introverted that I never really got to know any of these people. I look around and realize, with much of the crowd, I've forgotten their names. The introductions will be a problem.

This happens repeatedly: a vaguely familiar faces walks up...says, "M! Good to see you! And who is this?" And then I have to introduce Sarah to someone whose name eludes me. It's awful. Mostly I try to skim past it. I just say, "This is Sarah!" and leave it at that. A few times? It actually works...the person shakes her hand, offers their own name. A few other times? It fails miserably. I say, "This is Sarah!" And the person waits...and waits...for me to introduce them as well. So I stand there like an idiot, stewing in the awkward silence...until the person says their own name. Stiffly, a bit offended. They walk away and I pull my hair and say, "Shit."

One woman walks up, introduces herself to Sarah. She says, "I'm friends with his mom going way back. We all grew up together around here. Now...I have to tell you this story. M may not remember it. When he was, oh, around 5 or so, his parents came over to our place for dinner. M was with them. They walk in...and, I tell you what, they practically had to drag M inside. He just did not want to be around us. Eventually they got him in the house. He was on the couch for a bit, just sitting there looking absolutely miserable. Finally, he got up, ran to the door and started pounding on it. With both fists. And he yelled, 'Let! Me! Out! Of! Here!' And I liked of died, I just thought that was the funniest thing. I mean, I felt bad, but the sight of him pounding on that door...it was something else. I remember that clear as day."

The woman walks away. Sarah says, "I didn't know how to tell her: you still do that."

Later, I tell that story to my mom, ask her if she remembers it. She says, "Oh no. That happened so often, I just stopped noticing after awhile."

People mingle, make plates, sit around tables, talk and talk. I just pace around the periphery of the reception. I'm too stressed to eat. Sarah makes me a plate anyway, but I don't have an appetite. I just push a strawberry in circles around the plate.

Eventually, I sit. I listen to the sound of nearby conversations. I watch kids dart around the room. I watch my dad tell a story to some of his brothers...he pantomimes shooting a gun, holds his fingers above his head, makes funny faces.

Sarah and I leave for a bit to drive around the old neighborhood. We look at the house I grew up in. My grandmothers former house, where a lot of my family were born and raised. We look at my old elementary school...and see the playground, where I got my ass kicked pretty regularly. There's a convenience store down the road from the school...starting in 6th grade I used to sneak away from class, walk to the store, shoplift candy bars.

We drive and drive.

Briefly, we go back to the church, say goodbyes.

We head back to the hotel. I practically run to the bar in the lobby. I drink for a bit...try to mentally decompress. But conversations from the day replay in a loop. Over and over.

I think mostly about my family and how nice they were...both to me and to Sarah. I think about how uncomfortable I am around them. And it's a common occurrence: when I really examine the discomfort I feel around people, I find...not traits in others I dislike or any rational position upon which to stand...I just find resentment, self-doubt and my own bad choices.

I drink, replay conversations. My head wears me out. At the end of it all, I go to bed guilty and confused and tired.