An Old Song and Empathy

I am a lineman for the county

And I drive the main road

Searchin' in the sun for another overload

I hear you singin' in the wire,

I can hear you through the whine

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Wichita Lineman: Written by Jimmy Webb 

Preformed by Glen Campbell

A friend recently posted a YouTube link to Glenn Campbell preforming Wichita Lineman. I hadn't heard his rendition of this beautiful tune in ages, so I clicked on the attachment from her social media page.

As a child, I just knew I loved the song. Though I had never given the lyrics much thought, I could feel the sadness in the melody. As with many songs during that time, I sang with Glen whenever he came on the radio. Hearing Wichita Lineman again brought me back to the old neighborhood, and the people there when the song was popular. 

Just down the street from my childhood home were a pair of larger, duplex-style houses that had been converted to apartments. The houses had broad, open front porches that were made for sitting and watching the world of small town, neighborhood living. Some friends of mine lived in one of the apartments, closer to Beaver Pond at the corner of East Valentine and Brackett. I remember enjoying time alone, playing under their porch when my friends weren't home. As a child, I loved finding little crawlspaces where I could feel safe.

The next house up from theirs had a group of men who lived in one of the apartments for a brief time. I can barely remember them, except that they were old greasers from the 50's. They smoked on the front porch and drank quarts of Budweiser and Miller beer. One man in particular had the signature slicked, though thinning, hair with the DA in the back. He was a frail man that seemed to be in ill health. All of the men wore old, grayish-white t-shirts with their cigarette packs rolled up in one of the sleeves, setting the package of smokes on their shoulder. I assume these men were in their early to mid forties. But somehow, they seemed older, even to the child that I was at the time. I want to say that the other two men were mechanics. I seem to remember their hands were always greasy, and I think there were coveralls worn from time to time. 

The men were quiet and friendly to the neighborhood kids. They also had good boundaries. They were happy to talk with us, but would not let us come up on the porch because they smoked. At least, that's how I remember it. They listened to a transistor radio and spent their summer days off drinking quarts of beer and chain smoking. I remember the occasional muted tones when the men spoke of things they did not want us to hear, but I do not recall them ever cussing in front of us. If we lingered, they would politely send us on our way. 

We were curious kids who had the run of the neighborhood. This was a time when Brackett Street was a dead-end road that opened up on two sand pits and a path into the woods. We could also pick up this path from behind my house, and we'd hike on summer days; playing cowboys and Indians, or pretending to win World War II single handedly. For context, this was in the late sixties-early seventies, and we were all between seven and ten years old. 

What jumped out at me when listening to Wichita Lineman yesterday was a time when the smaller, frail man with the greased back hair and signature DA was sitting on the porch. Glen Campbell was our only other companion, and the song was wafting over the railings to the sidewalk where I played below. 

I distinctly remember the frail man sitting quietly and listening to the song as he smoked and nursed a quart. I can see his eyes welled with tears, and his chest slowly heaving from deep, slow sighs. As the tears began to flow, I felt his sadness in a way that was previously unbeknownst to me in my still young life (which says a lot, given my history). I wanted to hug him. I really felt for this man and his sadness.

The memory was so detailed, I was sure my life lived since was coloring this singular experience, referenced from my childhood. While faces and names elude my recollection, the strength of the feeling nestled on the notes of the song is what came roaring back to me. In my minds eye, I can see that older gentleman quietly sobbing in a chair on that porch.

I was venturing up the steps to see the man when one of his companions came out and abruptly shooed me away. I have no other memory of these folks, and I'm not sure why or how this came up as a result of hearing the song again. 

What I do know is that the already abused child that I was could still feel empathy for another human being. Discovering I had this quality is one of those little, but important victories for a trauma survivor. Thanks to a wonderful friend in recovery for mining this nugget with me earlier today as we processed together. To loo back and see only pain and anguish feeds the fears of trauma survivors. Here was additional proof that I had the ability to sympathize with another human being. How glorious! 

One thing I'm sure of is that there was a connection for me with this man's immense sadness. The adult writing this post realizes that the song must have resonated with the man in a way that tapped into a deep loss and longing so beautifully illustrated in the lyrics and melody of the lineman's predicament.

The lonely job of maintaining a connection, long since gone. And hoping against all hope that the past commonalities will create a future opportunity to plug back in. 

Reviewing my own life, I know there are times that connections have happened as a result of shared trauma experiences. Sometimes, these connections manifest themselves in unrequited love. Other moments consist of shared experience or witnessing another's display of behaviors. These actions expose possible past trauma that can create a silent kinship between two people. 

There are the obvious, professional brushes with the knowledge of someone's trauma history. These moments are systemically loaded with professional and personal skills sets that allow for letting go. Over my work history, I have been blessed with an overwhelming amount of positive supervision experiences when these circumstances have surfaced.

But on occasion, I will come in contact with an individual's (adult or child) behavior that mirrors my own trauma history. Like an identical thumbprint, these moments encapsulate the awareness trajectory of my own history and the associated struggles. Sometimes, the singular instance I've witnessed has led to my setting specific boundaries. Other times, I'm so knocked off my feet, that I will fumble my response; however well intentioned.

Like the lineman in the song, I search the sun for additional overloads. A marked improvement over the nooks and crannys of darkness where I acted out my personal trauma script, years ago. But to lay in wait for an opportunity to assist with another's wellness plays out the dynamic of the rescuer in a way that can lead to harm for both self and others. Stepped over boundaries, regardless of how loving my motives are, can lead to anger and resentment for those afflicted as I have been. 

It can be anywhere from difficult, to impossible, to incredibly risky to approach an individual who I've seen with previous behaviors that tip their hand about the potential of their history. In these delicate cases, to risk connection is to expose one's own history. The vulnerability involved requires an optimal measure of courage and self-care. The decision to come forward has to be well thought out, and involves safety measures both for the self, and offered to the person in question. 

And still, the answer may be, "No thanks." 

As a result of living my own recovery, I know there are people who have waited years (even decades) with an open heart for a time when I was ready to disclose aspects of my own history that were extremely sensitive and difficult to process. These beautiful souls balanced letting go with keeping a loving space available for me to enter, when ready. 

One of these individuals is a co-facilitator of the men's group I attend. He is an amazing man, but I kept our association adversarial for over two decades. I believe the energy I spent trying to maintain conflict with him was a defense to what I know all too well now.

This man could see my trauma. Aspects of my behavior were identical thumbprints with his story. Faces, names, dynamics and institutions may have differed, but he knew me when he looked at me, and I was frightened by that. I also see him individually from time to time for therapy. Aside from doing his own work, he is a masterful professional.

There have been moments in my life where I have been the one blessed with waiting with an open heart for another person to approach me with their pain. The gifts of wisdom and love are contained within the waiting, and letting go. Though I often do not see these skill development intervals as gifts during the process. 

I know I need a small vacation

But it don't look like rain

And if it snows that stretch down south won't ever stand the strain

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

But on occasion, I struggle with the letting go part. I can be frustrated, and cling to the notion that I alone am the one best suited to offer help. I start to believe that my healing is contingent on connecting with another's pain. Or I believe that (like the song says) I am obligated to stay around, should a sudden snowfall threaten to break the lines of another. What if I stop being available? What happens if the behavior is emblematic of future self-harm for the individual in question? Or danger for them? Do I stand by and do/say nothing? What if something happens to them? 

In these rare but difficult cases, I lose focus and start to tell myself that processing another's pain is the key to my well being. It's not really a conscious decision. In fact, it can happen as a result of keeping the focus on myself.

Many times in my recovery, these thumbprints have been cornerstones of awareness and opportunities to work on myself and my own story. I believe it is impossible to look within as the result of a brush with another's history, without finding empathy and compassion for that individual. There are people who have been all too briefly in my life that I feel an immense amount of love and gratitude for, as a result of the introspection their thumbprint moments welcomed in my world.

But doing the introspective? Why bother? When I can groove on all the potential pitfalls that await an individual who in effect, has triggered me? Subconsciously, these thought processes are an effort to cover over my own pain. They are overtly dressed in anger and resentment for revealing my truth via messengers and mirrors.

Taking the opportunity for soul-searching is an important gift a trauma survivor can give to themselves. And sometimes, that initial gift is given to us by bearing witness to another's thumbprint behavior. What I've learned to recognize and acknowledge is this: Just because someone exhibits a given behavior, does not guarantee that they will follow the exact path I have. Their pain belongs to them. So does their recovery. It is never my place to attempt to write their story for them.

Instead of plugging in to the fringes of their world, letting go can be the most productive thing that I can do for another's struggles. This does not mean I cannot ever offer help. Nor does it require me to ignore social and community experiences I enjoy, but I must listen when parameters or boundaries are set. If my insights and experience are rebuffed, then I owe it to myself and the other person or thumbprint, if you will, to let it go.

There is another power that I can plug into. Countless deities and philosophies have suggested trusting in something larger than my ego. As Max Ehrmann says in Desiderata , the Universe really is unfolding as it should. I can make peace with a power greater than myself and my tired and weary soul. And these parts of myself that have been awakened by another's behavior can be healed, or they would not have been revealed to me in the first place. My universe too is unfolding as it is supposed to.

Letting go, and healing is the only path to an open heart. A heart that can be available, should the time come where a thumbprint from the past avails themselves, I can be ready with love, compassion, and understanding. For I have truly freed myself from the need for their healing.

And as the Universe unfolds, room for others to bring their thumbprints are opened. My original need and want has been to heal that frightened and abused child that grew up as best as he could. He continued leaving thumbprints everywhere he went, and he did his absolute best to become a better person than what was delivered to him. Sometimes the leaving of those thumbprints meant further exploitation, which held me in a paralysis of fear as an adult, accessing recovery. The release happened on a grander schedule based in small, but meaningful, personal footwork. I should be as loving and patient with others as the Universe has been with me.

And I need you more than want you,

And I want you for all time

And the Wichita lineman is still on the line

Little Mikey is who I wanted and needed all along. And if you're one of the thumbprints in my life, you've helped lead me back to him. And I shall be forever grateful. 

It is my hope that the power lines I and others hang onto today are connected to the greater Universe, and all the power that sustains us. May we shed the old lines that have drained our spirit for so long. May the bitter snowfall cease to threaten the strength of connections we have in our lives. And may we all be able to stand together one day. 

Until that day comes, I release you, with love. 

M