You don’t need another Indian blanket.

In December 1991, I left California. After twenty-three months of trying out first marriage, and then living alone, I decided, having not done well at either, to head back to the Midwest.  I sold everything I couldn’t fit in my 1988 Honda Civic, picked up a friend at the airport in San Jose, and headed first south, then east, then back north. We sang “Streets of Bakersfield,” as if we were Dwight Yoakam and Buck Owens in drag, drank Mexican hot chocolate and bought blanket vests in Santa Fe, and spit into the Grand Canyon. We marveled at the beauty of Oklahoma’s skyline at three in the morning. Because we’d spent all our money by the time we hit Saint Louis, there was no stopping at the Arch. We did a drive-by and kept going.

What brings this trip to mind is a conversation I had with a different friend almost a month ago. She’s been a friend since those days in California. She was the best thing to come out of that time there, and I love her dearly. When she called me just after Christmas, she was upset. While it was not the first time I’d ever heard her cry, it was the first time she’d ever called me crying.

My friend is having a difficult time extracting herself from a marriage that is not working. She’s been ready to leave for years; she and her legal spouse live in separate houses. Nevertheless, there are lingering issues that they cannot seem to get past. The frustration over one particular lingering issue wore her down that night, and she called.

In the course of our conversation, we tried to figure out why it was so difficult to work out the issues. We talked about how whenever they try to settle an issue, they get sidetracked, and she finds herself defending her position to someone who just doesn’t want to give her a break.

“So, why bother defending yourself?” I asked.

“Because he participated in the marriage too, it’s not all my fault,” she replied. That’s when I saw this sign:

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/575686764838806446

In my head, I remembered this big yellow sign, one of many I’d seen on the interstate on my trip through the desert Southwest. Along the highway, near the Native American reservations, there are, or least there used to be, these signs designed to entice you to pull off the interstate and buy blankets, or eat fry bread. The signs are relentless encouragement to leave the road and take a detour for a while. I like to call them “come touch the Indians signs.”

Disclaimer: This post is not about Native Americans, or the shitty things white settlers and the US government did throughout history. I acknowledge all of that. But for the purposes of this post, the Indian blanket metaphor is not only accurate – it’s exactly what I saw in my head.

I knew my friend had seen these signs, too, so I reminded her of them. Then I said:

“You don’t need another Indian blanket; you don’t need him to acknowledge that it’s not your fault. Stay on the highway, keep driving forward.”

She got it. We had a moment of understanding. Then I realized that I have my own excess of Indian blankets – too many side issues and sub-agendas that distract me from my goals and detour my success.

Blanket issues are the ones that don’t really come out say, “Hey! This side thingy here, this emotional need, this undealt with issue from my past…this is going to govern my behavior even though it’s not really going to help me reach any of my goals.” For my friend, her blanket issue with her husband is her need for him to acknowledge that she is right or that a particular problem between them is not her fault. He’s not going to give her that, and, in the meantime, they are not any closer to living happy, separate lives than they were five years ago. She’s smothered herself with a blanket issue.

My writing career is probably my prime blanket issue-smothered goal.

Writing is the only talent that I believe is natural for me. Writing is the only thing I do well and easily, and at which, I do not feel awkward, incompetent, or fake. I have other skills, but writing is the only talent I have. Yet…I have only recently pursued writing as a career. The shame and disappointment I feel in myself for not having pursued this earlier and with greater effort is my worst punishment. Rationally, I acknowledge my weakness over the blanket issues that kept me from writing, however, that doesn’t mean I can or should give myself a pass.

Lack of encouragement and support has been the heaviest blanket over my writing. I’ve had to learn to encourage myself, and seek out the encouragement of those who can be supportive. Distancing myself from those who are not willing to respect my choice, some passively unsupportive, some aggressively so, is a relentless and heartbreaking task (I’ll be writing more on this throughout 2016). Thanks to my pleaser aspect, I have participated in the suppression of my own goals to gain the approval of others. No surprise here, I never got that.

For years, I circled around writing as a profession, working at jobs that used my talent for some other end, and feeling like a fraud. Well, no more. No more dabbling in my free time that is not free; no more stored drafts waiting for revision; no more smothering my talent with a blanket. It’s time for me to come out from under the covers and just write. There will be a price for this, because there is always is a price for being unreservedly for yourself. I’m sure the words selfish, self-centered, foolish, and mistake will be tossed my way. Nevertheless, I’m folding the blankets up and storing them in a closet. I can’t give them away because my needs and issues will always be mine. However, now that I acknowledge their existence, I can take the goals out of the closet and store the blankets there instead. 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/210121138834363299/