Happy birthday, Sean!
This is a good piece from Sean Dietrich. Pretty much all of his writing is good, though some of his essays hit me more than others. Because some of it is more about me than it is about him. It's not the kind of thing a male talks about. Some of us are not as great as others. Some of us remember painful shyness and searingly self-conscious athletic awkwardness. Every Time Sean of the South talks about how unsatisfactory he was and how he felt about himself, I remember.
Over the years he's been writing, Sean has long admitted himself. I know too, but I'll never go public with it, over my years the personna has worked too well for me to mess it up. You can say too much, and once it's said it's too late to reconsider, because nothing can be unsaid. I was always smart enough for life, but, except for my crushing love for my children and constant anxiety about their wellbeing, I was never up to what I thought I should be. Sean has been writing about it for years, I never have, and he says it well enough for all of us who know just what he means. He's relatively young though, and it's all still there. I remember, but at this age it pretty much neither matters nor bothers me any more.
Three days left in 2025.
RSF&PTL
T90
Here's Sean of the South from this morning.
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My 13th birthday. Mama is driving. It is overcast outside. My kid sister is in the back seat, talking up a blue streak. I’m in the passenger seat, staring out the window.
We have just eaten pizza, I think. Or maybe it was Chinese we ate for my birthday. Either way, the birthday celebration is over—if you can call it “celebration”—and now we are heading back home.
Mama asks if I’m having a good birthday. I nod. But I don’t mean it.
I’m quiet. I’m always quiet. Ever since my father died several years ago, I just stay quiet. I don’t know why. Not much to say, I guess.
I think adults are sometimes concerned about me because I used to be so animated. I used to get up on stage at school, sing for plays, and act in silly musicals. I used to sing at church like I was auditioning for the Stamps Quartet. But now I’m mute.
“You sure you’re having a good birthday?” says Mama.
I nod again.
There are all these feelings inside me I can’t describe. I neither have the vocabulary, nor the life experience to accurately diagnose myself.
I’m kind of angry, that much I know. But not at anyone in particular. Also, I’m depressed. I know that, too. But I don’t really know why.
“Birthdays just suck,” I explain to my mother.
I’m not supposed to say “suck.” It’s bad language. But my mother lets it slide because (a) I’m a teenager now, and (b) on some level, she knows I’m right.
And so we just drive. I watch cattle pastures go by. I watch miles of wire fencing roll past. I wish the sun would come out because I am a sun-aholic; I’m sad whenever it’s cloudy.
But it’s always overcast on my birthdays because my birthday is always in December and the sun won’t shine in December. Plus, December birthdays mean nobody remembers your big day amidst the Christmas chaos. It’s difficult having a December birthday and also not being Jesus.
Being an adolescent is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Now that I’m 13, I look into the mirror and see my dad’s squarish face emerging from my own features. I hate his reflection, but I also love it.
Because I still love him even though he ended his own life. Even though he chose a shotgun instead of growing old with me.
But I’m not really allowed to work through these emotional issues because you’re not allowed to HAVE emotions issues back in those days. Especially if you’re a church person. And we are church people.
Church people are not using words like “mental health,” or “talk therapy” in those days. That’s secular stuff. Boys are supposed to be tough. Boys aren’t supposed to cry.
So I’m just confused. I don’t know what I’m feeling anymore. I don’t know why I feel it. And I don’t know how to unfeel it.
The night of my birthday, I take a long walk. My mother is worried about me, and asks if she can walk with me.
“No, thanks,” I say.
And I just go off walking by myself.
I walk far from home, and I just keep walking. Because I can’t go back home. I’m crying too hard. And besides, I don’t want to live there anymore. I don’t want to be me anymore.
I have this feeling that is swallowing me whole. It’s a great longing. It comes from somewhere in the pit of my eternal being. A hurt you can’t see. It’s loneliness. Deep, eternal loneliness.
I wish someone would love me. This is what I crave the most in life.
I wish someone would hold me. And love me so hard even though I tell them not to. I wish someone would kiss away every bit of pain I feel. Maybe then it wouldn’t be so hard on overcast days.
Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so bad about being a loser. Maybe I wouldn’t hate me. Because how can you hate anything when someone is holding you?
I close my eyes and sit on the gravel road. Hot tears fall down and sting my cheeks.
And something happens.
All of a sudden, I have this sort of vision. In my mind. It’s quick. Instantaneous.
I see myself as an older person. I am tall. I am grown. Not handsome, but kind of goofy. And this woman is holding me. She’s brunette. She is not goofy. And I’m holding her too.
And in this little glimpse of my future, I feel so secure. So warm. So loved. Mostly because of her.
Maybe it’s just my imagination, I’m thinking. But somehow I know better. Somehow I know she is real. She’s out there, walking the earth. Somehow I know that in years ahead, I will find her. Whoever she is.
In fact, that’s what we were both put on Earth to do. To find each other. That’s our only job. To love. To heal every hurt you can’t see.
Decades later…
I am riding in the passenger seat. It’s my birthday. And I am definitely not a kid anymore. I now have overpriced life insurance. AARP keeps sending us promotional junk mail. I own underwear that’s older than 13 years.
My wife is driving. I am quiet, looking out the window. It’s overcast, but it doesn’t bother me.
“Are you having a good birthday?” my wife asks.
I nod. But this time I mean it.