Tell me, have you read a good story lately?
I mean, a REALLY good story? The kind that leaves you thanking God for the ability TO read? The kind that has you all but convinced that you have met the characters that the story is woven around before? Have you ever read a story so good that it invaded your senses, bringing you into the realms of the unknown? Have you ever been held hostage by a book, a novel, or even a magazine article?
See, that’s the kind of story I’m talking about. The kind that, as you read the first few words, you can almost feel the rest fade out of the page, wrapping you up inside of itself. It re-creates your reality for a bit, taking you to a world you never would have known. Suddenly, you find yourself in a place where dragons can talk, where a transporter beam can take you anywhere you’d like at the speed of thought; where a young boy or girl is the key to the salvation of a world or universe, and yes, even pigs can fly. It doesn’t even have to be fantasy. It could just as easily be a place where the unredeemed seek the Light or an element of the extraordinary seeps into the daily life of some unsuspecting person. Such is the way of imagination.
Have you ever fallen in love with a foe so entrancing, so magnetic and inspiring that you couldn’t help but be drawn to him or her? Have you ever wept with relief as some carefully laid trap sprang and the ‘good guys’ somehow managed to avoid the unavoidable? Have you ever wailed with anguish at some misfortune within the story? Or been so taken into the plot that your own surroundings seem less real than the story itself? Have you ever felt the burning need to find the next part of a story, desperate to know what happens next? Have you ever given yourself over totally to a story, resigned to staying up to all hours of the night and dedicating every spare moment of the day to the fulfillment that can only come from knowing the way it ends?
Have you given yourself over to the texture of a story so completely that you had to re-read the last sentence just to make sure that you WERE reading it instead of having the images conveyed beamed into your mind somehow? Did a double-take as you walked down the street after reading a story to make sure you didn’t just see one of the characters passing into a nearby store? Or maybe you were absorbed in that other world when someone asked you how the story was. You answered, referring to the characters as if you had known them all your life and felt that they should too. Have you ever suffered and triumphed with those people who you know and yet don’t know at all? Have you ever read a story that seemed to be just for you, containing messages and insights that you may or may not have learned had you not come across that particular story? Have you ever read a story so simple, yet so full of wisdom that you had to read it over just to feel that you’d at least grasped some of the lessons embodied therein?
I mean, honestly: have you ever read a good story? Have you read one lately?
You haven’t? Maybe it’s time you did.
December 27. 2001
The ‘Phoenix’ Complex
Her head was spinning. It wasn’t supposed to be this way! When she’d first come here, she’d been convinced that things would work out somehow. Somehow, a word she was coming to hate more and more each day. Somehow, the word for fools and dreamers. And while she’d never considered herself a fool… Wait, that wasn’t right. In her heart she’d considered herself a fool many times. After each failed friendship, each discouraging letter and word from those telling her she couldn’t - that she didn’t have what it took… She’d cursed herself for trying, inventing a hundred reasons why They were right and she had been a fool. It had gotten to be a bit of a game after a while: find every conceivable flaw in her attempts, pulling them apart with a deathly efficiency and accuracy that would have driven anyone else insane. Or maybe she was insane. Maybe that had been the problem all along.
There had always been something, some saving grace that realized her craziest schemes. She’d never questioned it. There was never a need to. She went about her daily life; blissfully unaware of how close she came to disaster with ever beat of her heart. And when things happened not to go her way, she silently counted herself a fool as she moved on. This was the life she knew. In retrospect, maybe it was inevitable that some thing, some reality too tangible to bend to her stubborn innocence bumped her awake and aware. Tears streamed down her face, there was no denying it: she would have to go back. There would be no incomprehensible miracle at the eleventh hour to save her from this fate. Deep down she’d known this, but she’d still struggled forward, groping blinding at any hands thrust in her path for an escape, however unlikely they seemed.
It was time to wake up. How long would she delude herself? Angrily she repeated the question to herself: it was in this mind that this latest idea had emerged, and it was within this mind that the lecture would come from. A lecture ten times harsher than anyone could ever concoct. Lectures from within herself left her broken and sobbing at her own wretchedness, for the voice in her head knew her as no other did. It knew her secret fears and pains, it knew her weaknesses and how to exploit them in a way that would have made even the most contemptuous of her critics shake their heads in sympathy had they known. It was a voice she’d never learned to block out or stand up against. To this voice, a voice created by her own self at the moment of consciousness she was convinced, she would never be anything but a babbling simpleton, hopelessly retarded by her own choosing. There were voices that echoed that one outside of her own body, voices with the power to cut through her will and leave her shaking with regret and self-loathing. But none would ever come close to the merciless hatred of her inner self.
It was all painfully obvious to even her simple mind - the miracles that comprised her entire life were never out of thin air. There was always something to work with. An internship earned was the result of filling out forms and turning them. The fact that the forms had been turned in late accounted for the ‘miraculous’ aspect of event. Getting into a good school had been the result of years of scholastic prowess and academic excellence. But because the tuition was made affordable by her background and financial situations similarly made this a miracle. Strangely, seeing these facts in the light that only complete defeat can lend the pitiful didn’t make her question her Faith. She felt that it should, but she wasn’t built that way. Instead, she suddenly realized what the phrase her seventh-grade teacher had used in class one otherwise unremarkable day.
‘Remember, the Lord gives every bird his meat; but He doesn’t drop it in his nest.’
Makes sense, right? I mean, how long would the bird last if all it did was eat the food that magically appears in his nest all day? The thing would grow fat and lazy, never leaving his home. It would never learn to hunt up its own food or any of the social activities that go along with it. Why? Because to its little bird mind it has everything it needs right where it is. Now, imagine an entire species like this…
Her tiny object lesson is interrupted by the Voice. After all, reminiscing on some retarded birds hadn’t gotten her into this mess. She’d been lazy. She’d been stupid. She’d foolishly trusted herself to have the knowledge and strength of will to carry out her dreams. And now, here she was; drowning amidst the single most devastating defeat in her entire young life. She’d never be able to pick up the pieces and she’d never be anything but a great big failure to everyone. She sighed heavily at that, more tears of humiliation and regret streaming down her face. How would she face all those too-forgiving faces clucking in sympathy at the love-struck stupidity she’d just displayed? How would she ever hold her head up again, knowing that this ‘incident’ would forever be counted against her in the eyes of all those that mattered to her? And it wasn’t like she could just NOT go home. She was broke from this venture and had no other options to her. And once she was back it would begin. The suffocating blanket of understanding and tolerance. She shuddered violently. Screaming lectures about her total lack of common sense was preferable to that.
If only she’d given her Faith a bit more to work with this time. Her miracles were nothing more than cosmic pushes in the right direction. Little pushes along the correct end. Not one of the extraordinary things that had ever happened to her had ever come about without some honest effort on her part, effort that had been missing since the start of this little adventure. She’d been so scared. Quite literally this was the biggest thing she’d ever attempted with or without help. It hurt to admit it, but she’d never thought it would work. And even knowing this, she’d gone out into the wild, desperate to break free from the chains of her old life. She’d known she’d fail, but she’d hoped against irrational hope that the Guider and Provider in her life would let her have this little happiness, free of charge. But rules were rules, and apparently the One that had always watched over her wasn’t able or willing to make an exception for her. It wasn’t fair to her childlike sense of justice, but at the same time, it was. She hadn’t done anything with the opportunity afforded her, and therefore, there was nothing He could do on His end to help. And facing her was the wide expanse of unknown that made up her future. The thought of piercing that darkness was terrifying to her, one who’d never had to worry about those things. All the old securities were falling away from her and she was so deathly afraid…
Then a second voice found its way to her conscious mind. This Voice was as welcome a perception as the other wasn’t. It was a voice seldom heard because the other was so loud and powerful. It was a hard voice to listen to sometimes because of its abject refusal to soften the blows it delivered to the listener, but it spoke truth and it offered hope when heeded. God, she needed hope right now. Sobbing and feeling isolated from everyone who had tried to help her, she was as lost as she’d ever been in her life. There were no answers in the stillness, only the berating from the part of herself that hated her. The part that constantly reminded her of the futility of her very existence, the part that would revel in her death, preferably by her own hand. She felt dead inside, hollow despair convinced her that she still lived, though it constricted her chest and forced moisture out of her body as it greedily sought to fill this void. She was suddenly convinced that she would never be warm again.
Then came the request she always dreaded. ‘Tell me where you see yourself in five years.’ It was a stupid question to her mind, mainly because she had never been able to answer it. Even as a child, she’d never been able to ’see’ herself anywhere or doing anything. It was endlessly frustrating to be the one mortal around her lacking this latent psychic ability. Truthfully she’d never even ’seen’ herself finishing her elementary education. And as her world had opened up around her, she’d felt the permanent handicap she suffered without this basic ability. The Voice seemed to frown in that way that only the Voices in her head could, and she could hear the stirrings of the other Voice returning to torment her. This made her panic; while it was true that she had no answer for the gentler of the two voices making their presence known in her head, she desperately sought refuge from the other. If left with that voice and the hollow emptiness she felt right now, she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d do to herself just to make it stop.
Abruptly the harsh tones of her nemesis ceased, leaving blessed silence in its wake. She sagged in relief, cherishing that quiet within - it was a rare occurrence to be certain, and she knew it wouldn’t last long. After an eternity of peace, the kinder voice repeated its question. She’d long ago named this infrequent visitor in her head as the ‘Me I Want to Be’. This voice was soft-spoken and sure. It harbored no fear of the truth or mistakes. It faced the future, if not fearlessly, with a calm that the girl-woman envied. As the embodiment of everything she wanted to be someday, its words were highly respected and craved when life lapsed into obscurity. If ever she’d needed the insight of this quasi-mentor, it was now. She filled her lungs to speak; no one was around to care at this point. Then, finding that there was barely enough air in her to breathe much less answer, she settled on a mental dialogue. She explained her hesitation to answer to herself, feeling her melancholy threatening to return to her. The voice seemed to contemplate this.
‘You’re thinking too literally. Where would you like to be in five years?’
Five years. There was so much time in that frame. But, thinking of her ever-present ‘plans’, it suddenly seemed too short a span to possibly answer. What could she possibly fill it with? It had always been almost a given what she would be doing with her life. Self-dictated but unchangeable nonetheless. The thought of deviation scared her witless, but the voice had asked what she’d like to be doing, and, coming from within her it would know if she was lying.
She smiled, realizing once and for all that she didn’t want that other life and future. The work she’d been doing made her content beyond all measure. She wanted that life. In five years she wanted to have the requirements for that field so she could do work that made her happy. She wanted her own place. Not just to be away from home, but to have a rent of her own in a place that she could call hers. The idea was devastatingly attractive to her. She wanted to be back here. This was where she wanted that place to be. Even in the seemingly short time she’d been here she’d come to love this place. It held wonders for her that she could never fully explain to anyone. But that didn’t matter. No one had to understand the reasons but her, and she knew exactly why she wanted the things she wanted. These and other goals that felt obtainable within the pre-set time frame rose to the surface of her brain, feeling real and obtainable for the first time ever.
The kinder voice seemed to smile as well, proud of its hurting pupil. Indeed, the girl had more than enough mental wounds to make up for her lack of physical ones. They were slowly beginning to heal after countless years of neglect and abuse, but the scars would always be ready to re-open. And they would haunt her, along with the phantom Voice she feared so, until she was able to stand up to herself. Once she could do that, she would stop bleeding to death on the inside where no one could see it. Now was the time to begin that process in the girl. There would have to be changes to her way of thinking for the changes to remain. She wanted so badly to change, but it was a daunting task, and, much like her physical journey of the last few months, she didn’t truly believe that she could do this. ‘This is important. How much of what you want can be accomplished in one year?’
The question was met with a resurgence of self-doubt. It was one thing to work in a five-year frame, but what could possibly do in one year that would get her closer to these goals? Well… maybe the training. Depending on how long the program was, she could probably be finished in a year. She could at least have started the process to get back to where she wanted to be. It wouldn’t take long, but she wanted to be through with her training first. And after that she’d need to find a means to live at her final destination. Her mind began to clutter with the millions of little things she’d have to do to meet her goals and she began to fear. Then a single word sliced through her rambling.
‘Stop.’ The babbling ended abruptly and she focused once more. ‘Don’t do that. One step.’
It was true. Fear wouldn’t get her anywhere. It was time to stop fearing and start acting. If she focused her attention on one thing at a time and worked on that one thing until it was done, there would come a time when there was no more to do except go. And when the time came to go, she planned to be ready.
“One step at a time. One step and then the next gets you where you’re going,” she quoted softly to herself. She could only do this if she stayed centered and focused. It was time to forget the rest of it and start working for those miracles she was so used to. There was still darkness around the edges of her future. But, for the first time in a lifetime, there was a clear picture of what could be. And finally, finally, she could see herself in the picture.
July 25, 2006
When Do I Get to Stop Feeling Like a Child?
When exactly does maturity kick in anyway? And I’m asking in a serious, ‘I want a real answer’ type of capacity here. It’s a question that’s only been bothering me for the last couple of days or so, but I figured maybe if I write some of this stuff in my head out I can somehow approach a satisfying answer. After all, the human mind is capable of great things, but works best when the ideas flow instead of getting all tangled up in thought processes.
Anyone who understood that last bit should probably put in for a psych evaluation. I know I am.
But meanwhile back at the topic, I was exercising the other day - something I’ve become quite good at as of late to my utter surprise - when it suddenly hit me that I’m actually approaching 30 years of age. Which freaks millions out everyday, but here’s the thing; I don’t feel it. I have lived this extraordinarily blessed life - showered with blessings and pains other people will never know - and yet, it still feels like I’m a kid. It’s ridiculous that I can still feel so ill-prepared for a life that I’m already living. The most amazing things have happened and when I tell others about it, it never feels real. And I can’t seem to get over that one fact at all lately. I’m a 27-year-old and I kind of feel like I’m 18 and waiting for something to happen. It’s anyone’s guess what that ‘what’ is, by the way.
It just feels like somewhere along the way, I missed the ‘how to be a successful adult’ course. Hell, I still act like a child, am still treated like a child half the time. And I’m not sure if it should bother me or if it’s just the way my life’s supposed to be. And should I rejoice over that? As the female version of Peter Pan should it thrill me that I still don’t feel like an adult after almost three decades of living on the planet? Does anyone out there have an answer for me, or am I just crazy and alone in this thing?
Is there a special date when the power of being in control suddenly kicks in? Maybe I skipped that part of Numbers. But in my defence, it is one of the dullest books in the Bible (Literally, it’s a head count of every tribe in Israel - men 50 and up, men 3 months to 50 years, how many animals each tribe had, etc, etc…). Maybe there was a passage that said: ‘And lo, on thou __ year, the Lord shalt empart the secret of maturity onto all of His children.’ Will I feel it when I hold my first child in my arms? When I finally face the things I left behind that still plague and/or haunt me? When I watch this imaginary child of mine graduate?
Maybe I’ll never feel like a proper adult. I just don’t know how to feel about that at all.
July 22, 2004
Miracles and Paperwork
Lady Senie here with another random brain fart. To those of you that care I apologize that I haven’t been around to chat and/or offer random comment on the boards over the past… two months? Wow, has it really been that long? Well anyway, I’ve been extraordinarily busy doing things that I’ll be explaining in a bit. Besides, I suck at keeping in touch. With everyone. Including my fiance - so please don’t take offence.
Alright, now that the intro’s out of the way (I never quite know how to start these things anyway), I can dive right into the story. And dear God, what a story it is. Honestly, I think I’m gonna write a book about my many misadventures with Canadian Immigration - some of which I don’t even frickin believe - and sell it to Quentin Tarrantino. Any ideas for casting? And please don’t suggest gone of those ‘you-can-count-my-ribs-I’m-allergic-to-food’ actresses for my role. I’m a curvy, voluptuous woman and it would force me to perform an un-anesthetized vivisection on anyone that would suggest that’s a bad thing by calling on one of the ‘bulemic five’ to play me. And to those that think they would die halfway through an un-anesthetized vivisection anyway, I say this: ‘I was a pre-med student, am going into nursing, and have been in the research field for I. You’d be surprised what you can live through.’
Here’s some background info, and I promise I’m not writing that aforementioned book here. Well, maybe just a rough draft… Just kidding. Back in 2001 I wrote a manifesto *gasp* God, the years are just rolling on by, aren’t they? Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that at the end of that rant I said that I would be Canada-bound on August 30th. You know, I really struggled with whether or not to include that little announcement in there. See, there are two sides to making such bold statements. On the plus side, once you’ve actually said it, you’ve gotta go through with it. But then again, once you’ve actually said it, you’ve gotta go through with it - otherwise you’re a liar and a coward. I did a bit of a compromise - I left October 5th, and yes, I still kick myself sometimes for waiting considering how insane the border got after September 11th, 2001. My first encounter with Canadian Immigration was October 7th, at the Saskatchewan portal. That was the first time I was half-accused of being a terrorist and fully-accused of trying to illegally immigrate to Canada. Considering that I’ve never even cheated on a test, that last bit sorta put me into a tail-spin. Poor Chris. I’m in a state of shock, politely thanking the border guard for his time while signing away my right to enter the country, and he’s doing his level best to convince him that I’ll leave when my time in the country is up.
The next day we ended up in Sweetgrass, Montana. The woman there was about to have me sign another rejection slip, my brain finally kicked into gear. (Incidentally, do I look like a terrorist? I mean, most of you reading this have seen pictures of me before, and I’m sure I can bribe our beloved Czar to put one up if anyone’s curious. But it seems that there’s a hidden profile somewhere in the immigration annals I’m not aware of). Together we convinced the border guard to let me in. I spent the next four months in Calgary as a visitor, looking up immigration forms and trying to find some way to stay where I was. But in the end it just wasn’t meant to be.
There’s another hard statement to write: ‘it wasn’t meant to be’. After three years of going over those four wonderful/terrible months, I can finally say it without cringing, bursting into angry tears, or beating myself up mentally for all the things I did/didn’t do during that time. And anyone that’s ever attempted something big and watched it fall apart or blow up in their face knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda” has killed more dreams, more spirits, and more people than I’m comfortable admitting. It’s a dangerous trap to fall into as you can’t change your reality when your focus is on your regrets. It’s paralyzing, the self-doubt begins to gnaw at your ability to make choices and stand by them. ‘What if I’m wrong?’ ‘What if I mess up again?’ If you’re living in that kind of hell, please find a way to stop. We need you - I need you to help change this world for the better. God gives each of us a brand new opportunity everyday to redefine ourselves. As long as we are alive, there’s no excuse not to take it.
Damn, when did I go all ‘Public Service Announcement’?? Sorry, it kinda creeps up on me sometimes. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the return trip.
I used the last of our combined savings to get on a Greyhound bus that left Calgary January 3, 2002 and arrived in Philly eighty lonely hours later. Instead of having my tail set firmly between my legs as most people expected, however, I was more determined than ever to make Calgary my permanent residence. I’ve taken a very Peter-like attitude towards my first attempt. Everyone knows about poor Peter, the guy who almost drowned while walking on the water. People who don’t even believe in Christ can tell you all about Peter and his lack of faith. People never seem interested in remembering that no matter the outcome: 1) he was the only one of the twelve with enough faith to try it, and 2) the man defied the laws of the universe and, for however many minutes or even seconds, he walked on the frickin water. How many others can say that?
These types of thoughts in mind, I took a job in a research lab with a two-year minimum contract. I’d read that to apply to Canada as a skilled worker, I needed two full-time years’ worth of steady employment in a needed field. This seemed a perfect way to get that experience, given that full-time school never left much time for full-time work. More importantly, I had time figure out what I was gonna do with my life. I think a lot of people forget how difficult it is to decide on a long-term career when you’re in your teens, twenties, or sometimes even thirties.
At the time I had two major options in mind - career research tech or registered nurse. I chose RN which is a whole other story I’m sure no one cares about, and immediately started looking into schooling. Well, America was out of the running. Getting my degree here would have meant at least three more years in Philly. Fast forward about a year. It’s now May 2003 and I’m on a trip to - you guessed it - Canada. My then boyfriend took me to the University of Calgary to see if enrolling for the Fall 2004 semester was even possible. You know, I just realized that even though we’d talked about it many times, we didn’t stop by until the day after he asked me to be his wife.
That bastard.
Anyway, the answer was ‘yes’ and back to Philly I went; ring on finger, list in hand, prayers and plans on lips and heart. I couldn’t apply for another six months, but I had plenty to occupy my time and attention while I waited.
For example - and believe me, this was one of the smaller things on the list (which should tell you just how peachy things were going) - there was the possibility of loosing my job. See, my boss was arrested about a month before Chris proposed. Much wackiness has ensued since. Oy vay…
In the midst of all that though, I was taking my application as a test from God. No, that’s not right. The truth is, I decided that after all the crap that’s assaulted itself against me, if God was really trying to tell me not to venture forth to the land of polar bears and igloos (don’t ask), He wouldn’t allow my application to go through. So here was my task. Gather all the necessary documents, scrape together the funds, ignore all distractions from all manner of interesting places, do what needed to be done, and DON’T SCREW UP THIS TIME!! You would’ve thought I was prepping for the academic triad or something the way I kept going over facts and getting ready. By October 15th - the day online application began - everyone around me knew not to get between me and my computer. Forms sent, transcripts out… Yeah, I was on a roll.
Then things started going wrong.
U Calgary decided I was still enrolled in school down here for a semester I wasn’t taking. Some of the course descriptions I needed existed only in the minds of teachers that were on vacation for the summer. Others refused to be helpful. They held off their decision for that non-existent Spring semester grades, then put my application on hold, saying my GPA was too low. The people who run the nursing program met and came to a decision on my application on June 15th.
“We’re putting your application on the waiting list, Ms. McAllister.”
“Um… okay. What does that mean, Ms. Program Director?”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Keep in mind that this all happened within the space of three month, with a royal crap-load of other drama going on around me. Poor Chris. Poor Binky. Poor Draxel. Poor Mamala Sandra. I just about wore all their phones out crying about my problems and my life and ‘I’m lonely’ and all manner of crap. Oh well…
By now you’re no doubt wondering what the point of all this is. But in order to understand what happened next, you need a bit of history.
So, it’s the end of June. With my application on permanent hold/rejected, I figured it might be a good idea to move to plan B. Plan B involving job hunting in two countries. That’s right, not all of us ‘Yanks’ go to mommy and daddy or take up elicit occupations when hard up for cash. As for the ’second country’ thing, I found out that I finally had enough schooling, training, and experience to give that whole ’skilled worker’ angle a go. There was only one dominating thought in my head from April to June: I will not give up or wimp out this time. One way or another I resolved to make this happen. As Binky so eloquently put it: ‘it’s about time for you to come home’
You haven’t a clue what it’s like to be the only one around that truly believes it’s possible to achieve an unbelievably hard end. My phone bill was through the roof until Chris took pity on me and got me a dial-up roaming number. Love my baby… ^_^
*Ahem* I got an email on June 29th. Not so unusual in and of itself, but this one wasn’t offering a deal on Viagra, penis enlargement, or porn, so I opened it. (What part of ‘Lady Senie’ indicates that I’m a male?) In fact, it was from U Calgary offering me a position in their nursing program! SQUEE!!! AFTER ALL THIS TIME, AFTER ALL THE STUFF (and believe me, this is the extra condensed version of events) I’M FINALLY GOING TO CANADA!!!! ^_^
Um… Sorry. I’m still a little hype. ::grins::
So, what does any of this have to do with my mysterious disappearance from the world at large? I’ve been juggling two jobs, a mountain of confusing and circular paperwork, a slew of advisor-type people - some helpful most not, an irate boss, the usual… stuff, and a lot of other things I don’t care to mention here in the name of space conservation (which I’m sure you’re thinking is a moot point now). Basically, I’m out of my house at 7:30 in the morning and don’t come back until after midnight. Forty-eight hours a week wiping old peoples’ bottoms on top of sixteen hours a week counting brain cells and trying not to fall asleep at the computer… Yeah, I really am attempting to kill myself. On the up side, I’ve almost got all the funds I need for the journey home. Home to the arms of the man I love so completely. Home to my friends. Home to the city I love. And mostly importantly, back to the place I truly belong.
So here’s another one of those bold statements. On August 20th I’ll be catching a Greyhound back to Calgary, Study permit in hand. And I don’t intend to ever be denied entrance to the Great White North again.
I’ll let you know how it goes, eh? ^_~
P.S.
I left Philadelphia on August 20, 2004 by Greyhound and arrived in Calgary 80 hours later. Amazing what a little positive thinking can, eh? ^_^
April 6, 2004
‘Passion’ate Musings
So, I went and saw ‘The Passion of the Christ’ tonight. You know, that ‘horrible, violent movie’ that Mel Gibson put out awhile ago. You would have thought a religious zealot like myself would have been falling all over myself trying to force my way into the theatre, but no. It took a considerable amount of self-motivation and pep-talks to get myself into the theatre tonight. It’s weird, everyone in my church was telling me how I had to see this movie, and I was not interested in the least. I mean, I was raised in the church and we studied this stuff all the time. The nails in the hands, the long road to Calvary, the three falls, the condemnation by Pontius Pilate… I’ve heard about it so much that the idea of seeing it seemed redundant to me. I know what Jesus did for me. How could I not, right?
I feel so fricking arrogant when I think of my attitude even earlier today. I thought I knew. I thought it was enough. I was wrong.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not the violence that got to me, not in the way one would think it would. Honestly, there’s about as much bloodshed and gore in ‘Fist of the North Star’ or any similar anime. Heck, even ‘Kill Bill Vol 1′ had that level of violence in it, and I didn’t hear about people picketing those movies. Of course, I’m not always so aware of those kinds of things so…
It’s the fact that some poor person actually went through that ordeal… No, that’s not even it. My Savior, my lord, my Brother went through more violence than that movie could ever possibly portray without the actor dying. The Bible said that they scourged Him until the bones of His back showed. The thorns in that crown were a few INCHES thick - not those little cutesy ones on the roses today. I could go on, but the point is this, He went through much worse than that, and He did it all for me.
I can honestly say I have never cried through a movie before. I’ve seen tear-jerkers a plenty. And yeah, the waterworks are apt to fall when I do, but that’s not what I’m talking about. From the moment they started slapping Jesus around in front of the Sanhedrin I was lost. I couldn’t stop crying. Two main thoughts were battling in my head. The first ran along the lines of ‘why? why did You take all of that? You could have walked away from the pain and no one could have held it against You… You’re doing all of this, and for who? These miserable peons that are beating You and hurting You…’ That part of me just wanted it to stop. I wanted Him to make it stop. In fact, I wanted to just leave and call this whole night a failed experiment in endurance.
Then there was that other train of thought. ‘Do You really love me, silly little me, THAT much?’ The wonderful thing about my faith is that it’s so very personal to me. I’ve always been of the belief that even if I had been the only one in need of redemption, Jesus still would have endured suffering and death. He would have done all of that, not just because He loved the whole world so much, but because He cared for each individual soul on the planet, even me. The part of me that’s always been gun-ho about this aspect of my faith was sobbing with relief that His love was so great that He would die for me.
It’s one thing to read about the Passion. It’s one thing to attend services and ‘relive it’. It’s one thing to imagine it, even if your imagination is as graphic as mine. But… but to see it. To sit down and see how He bled and feared and fell and hurt and forgave, even in dying… To see Him think of so many, touch and change so many lives even in the midst of His own personal trials… To see Him thinking of His mother when He was minutes from His own death… It’s awesome to behold. It’s terrible. And it would be the easiest thing in the world to fall into the trap of guilt and despair because of it.
Emotion sucks like that sometimes. It took me to the very end of the credits to get myself up and out of the theatre to the bathroom to clean myself up. I went alone, walked to and from the theatre. And I must say, I wasn’t that much of a mess after I saw the African-American wax museum. Those that know me best understand what a statement that is. I could not get myself to stop crying. My whole brain felt like someone drop-kicked it a few times and then poured hydrochloric acid over it and let it sit in the sun for a few days before slow-roasting it. Depression and guilt over being grateful for such a sacrifice plagued me.
During the Eucharistic Liturgy of a Catholic mass, when the priest blesses the bread and wine and says what Jesus said the night He was betrayed, there’s always a pause. In that pause I would always whisper to myself ‘mea culpa, mea culpa, maxi mea culpa… (my fault, my fault, completely my fault) I accept my part in Your death, Jesus. I thank You for Your sacrifice’. Pretty empty words when you’re faced with the true horror of the crucifixion. Mean those words with all your heart and soul all you want, they still ring hollow when said in the face of something so terrible. He shouldn’t have cared that much. He shouldn’t have done it. And how do you respond to something like that anyway? More importantly, how do you face the One that went through so much just so that not a single person that ever lived or ever would live would miss out on the opportunity to spend eternity in the presence of the Lord?
The answer came from of my best friend. When I finally managed to get myself home, my brain had already considered and rejected several people that I could probably call to talk about this movie and my mixed reaction to it. In the end I decided that I was going to take some tylenol (crying always gives me the most frightful headaches), and go to bed. I just happened to have a message on my answering machine. I wasn’t going to call him, I really wasn’t. I dump on the poor guy enough as it is after all.
Funny how my fingers were already dialing his number even as I told myself these things.
We talked, I cried, I told him how I felt, he told me his reaction to the movie… That sort of thing. But when I asked the two ‘how’ questions I asked myself all the way home, he gave me an answer that made it all better. See, what my state of mind was blinding me to is the fact that I can’t ‘repay’ the Lord for all or even most of what He’s done for me. There’s nothing I could give Him that would balance the cosmic scales. I can only be grateful and never take it for granted. I can only offer Him my life and hope that He’ll use me in someone’s life. Maybe help them to see it, get it, and understand how much love there is in the Father…
The Passion made me love the Lord more. It gave me a deeper understanding of the lengths He went to for the simple - and seemingly laughable - reason that He wanted me in His family so very badly. I want to help others see that as well. I mean, I’ve been on both sides of the coin. No, I don’t have some druggie/prostitute story in my past that brought me to God. There was just an emptiness in my life. I couldn’t figure out what it was that was missing, why I was so damn lonely as a matter of course. Then I asked Christ into my heart and everything changed. I’m still trying to figure out the in’s and out’s of what I believe, but for the first time in my life, I know I’m on the right track. I think that’s why I’m writing this now. I want to be used. I want to help. But right now, I mostly just want God to know how much I appreciate what He did for me.
January 1, 2004
Resolutions are for the Timid
It’s me again. It’s two in the morning. You know, I’ve never been able to stay up this long? I’m a morning person, really. It’s funny because all my closest friends - and obviously my fiancé, - are all night owls. It’s crazy for me to be up right now, you know? I should be tucked away, reenergizing myself for the day ahead.
But I suddenly had a revelation and I feel I need to share it with you. I have to do it now if I’m gonna do it though. There’s something about the night, something about exhaustion that unleashes those hidden thoughts and feelings. You know, those hidden parts of the mind that you work so hard to shut up and out so that you can smile when some asshole says something horrible to you. It’s the part of you that really does want to smash a full bottle of vodka into their face, taking the time to rub the shards in so that as the glass rips and destroys the muscles that allow them to laugh at you, the alcohol will ensure a good, long burn. I’m going to stop there though, ’cause if I continue in that particular vein, my mind’s gonna take it to a REALLY scary place that you probably wouldn’t want to go with me.
So where was I? Ah yes, the revelation. I suddenly feel as if I have been sleeping the majority of my life away. To no avail mind you. There’s so much to be done after all. Why am I sleeping? Why am I waiting? What the heck am I so afraid of?? Is it the opinions of those around me? Nah… Someone once told me that opinions are like assholes. Everyone’s got one and nobody thinks theirs stinks. What is it then? Practicality has never been a strongpoint of mine. Oh sure, I work at it, have slaved at it from time to time. But I get the feeling I was never meant to be very good at it. Fear stops me, but what have I got to be afraid of? The worse that can happen is someone says ‘no’, the worst case scenario is that it turns out I was wrong. Is that really so bad?
See, I wanna be someone. I’m not talking in the ‘go army’ type of way, though I am by no means knocking it if that’s what you want. Someone stroked my ego a little today (I’d say that it burned, but then some butt-munch out there would say that it wasn’t done right and I’d say that’s entirely a matter of opinion and that would lead to a whole ‘nother discussion I really don’t wanna get into right now). I just got this crazy notion in my head that maybe I am capable of doing something wonderful. That maybe there’s more for me than to watch others and help them when I can. I am an act of God. Everyone is, believe it or not. Now the question is, what have I chosen to do about it? The act is meant to interact with other acts to create an action that can move the world.
Did that make any sense?
I want to be a force. I want to learn to be a formidable force. I want to move mountains and test the limits of my resolve. I want to scream and run and go farther than I have ever gone before in any aspect of my life. I want to make things better, not only for myself but for those around me - friend or foe. I want to start living my life in such a way that I can feel proud of myself every single day. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and think to myself ‘thank God I never showed this to anyone’, but let me say it first before I make that decision. I can’t keep standing around sucking snot.
I’m somebody, damnit! I’m a voice. One of many, yes it’s true, but my voice has one distinguishing characteristic: it is mine. It’s mine to use in any way I see fit, it can wail, scream, cry, teach. You have the same right, you know. You can use your voice your way as well, no one’s stopping you but you. And that’s the truth too. Beyond the faith organization, family, co-workers, mind-altering substances, and anything else you can think of that equals the reason(s) you can’t just say it - whatever ‘it’ may be - you are the owner of your voice. No one can take that away from you. Well God could, but in His infinite wisdom gave us the choice. I am much more than just some disembodied voice by the way (arms, legs, cartilage not withstanding). But part of what makes me me is the voice that is my own. I can do with it what I please.
I’m just tired of waiting for something to start me off. Some signal to say I’m ready or I can go now. I have been given the ability to do great things. God gave me the right to do it. I choose to do it today. It has to start somewhere right? Motivation supplied or no, at some point I have to stop resolving to do it and fucking DO it, right? And yes, there will be those that think I’m crazy or putting on a show. There’ll be those that tell me that I’ll grow out of this phase - hopefully before I lose myself in it or hurt my chances at a future. There will be those that try to talk me out of it. Those that present me with a million and one reasons why I’m wrong, why it’s futile to even try (Senie’s been playing with the thesaurus again…) But the worse of the ‘them’ I’m talking about will be the ones that say nothing. The ones that will sit back, watch, and wait. You know, to see if I’ve got the (insert body organs as you see fit) to do it or if I will fail. They will not laugh and jeer, but they will also offer no counsel or comfort to me. Impartial, judging bastards! What gives them the right- But that’s not important either.
They will wait, never taking a stand. And they are useless to me. I have to make myself get beyond all that ‘on the fence’ bs. I have a mission. No one in this world fully understands the importance of the task I have set before myself and I don’t think even I realize just how far-reaching my decision is. It will take more than one year to establish, all of my courage and determination and then some.
This isn’t about one thing or one set of things, by the way. I have a whole entire life that I’m living and this applies to a whole host of pieces of it. I’m more than my relationships. I’m more than my church. I’m more than my job or school or money. I’m more than my ambitions or drives or urges. I’m more than the triumphs and defeats that await me. I’m more than pain and joy.
I’m me. I don’t know, maybe this is just ‘8 Mile’ or ‘Fight Club’ talk. You know, it’s funny. I’ve written something like this before. I was so pissed that everyone around thought they were so much better at determining my path when not a one of them would have had to walk that path but me… I believe my thoughts ran something like this.
I’ve had this mysterious ‘them’ tell me lots of things I was doing or planning on doing were stupid or crazy or would blow up in my face since my life decided to become ‘interesting’ on me. I can only say this on the matter: there hasn’t been a low I couldn’t recover from with prayer and hard work, and there hasn’t been a high I haven’t reached without prayer and daring.’
‘I don’t know, maybe this is all ‘8 Mile’ or ‘Fight Club’ talk. Maybe I’m full of shit. Maybe I’ll go to sleep tonight, wake up tomorrow, and thank God that no one knows about this document so that the full depth of my humiliation will never be known.’
Oops… I guess you know about it now.
Oh, and don’t worry. F34r. You’ll be hearing from me again.
Man I hate going back into my past. I hate pulling it apart layer by layer to get to the juicy center where motives and mentalities lay. Where I find the long dead logic of a long dead girl and pray to God she doesn’t quicken at my intrusion. Even knowing how it will all turn out for my younger self doesn’t make it any easier to see that girl so broken so often in the world of my yester-year. Let’s see if I can get through this without crying, shall we?
Let me tell you about Tom Carr.
Tom was a senior when I was a freshmen in high school. He was a brilliant actor. He was also smart and popular and so pretty. He was a beautiful man. Tom never wasted an opportunity to bring me down. He’d laugh at me, make jokes at my expense to all his friends, then smile at me at just the right time to make me drop something or forget my lines. I can’t count the number of times he humiliated me in front of the drama club. But I liked Tom Carr so much that I really didn’t mind. After all, he was so smart. And so very pretty.
Now, let me tell you about Reggie Brown.
I was in sixth grade and he was in seventh. And he was about as smart and pretty as they come. I liked him so much that I wrote him a letter telling him so. A letter that somehow found its way into the hands of the most popular seventh graders in school. It was a disaster. I was a laughingstock for the rest of the school year. Reggie first stopped talking to me, then decided to snub me continuously to stay ‘cool’ with his friends. There’s nothing like being called over to the ‘cool kids circle’ during recess and being pointed at and made fun of before leaving in tears. The worse part is that after the third or fourth time of having it happen, I still went over to them. Why? Because Reggie was there.
How low I stooped with those two is nothing to what I went through with friends or people I thought were friends, by the way. I can be pretty dense when it comes to friends, but that’s another manifesto for another time. Right now I’m stewing over something that is making me feel the need to analyze my past patterns publicly, so that maybe others will avoid the doormat trap.
Why did I let Tom and Reggie treat me like that? I didn’t think much about it at the time. Now? I think it was the idea that if I took enough shit, they would understand that I wasn’t just playing around. They would see that I was seriously interested, despite the taunts, jeers, and insults. Love conquers all, right? Not so much. But I was willing to settle for anything I could get. I felt like shit taking even that though. It actually better having them do these horrible things to me than to have them ignore me. Each of them and so many others that I remember now as I go though this block of unwanted memory. They brought me low, made me nothing and I LIKED it! God, I was such a loser. It wasn’t Reggie or Tom or Stephen or any of the others, it was me. And it wasn’t the things any of them did that made me a loser either. It was the fact that I let them embarrass me, torture me like that and did nothing about it. The most painful part of all is that a part of me wanted it - even felt I deserved it. Wanted more, knowing that things would never change with any of them. That’s the real definition of a loser right there. I knew what would happen whenever one of them deigned to speak to me, and I still let it happen. Same clueless smile, same tears, same script, different cast. It’s enough to make me sick.
I had no friends to smack some sense into me. And I couldn’t talk to my family about it. My family has such pride and strength and here I was with this weakness. This weakness that I didn’t want to get rid of, this weakness that I craved and held onto no matter what. If there was a god for me back in those days, he was surely rolling on the floor laughing his ass off at me. The repetitive pattern must have been the best part. I let the behaviors repeat and repeat, going through almost the same actions with each one. I’d cry myself to sleep, then wake up actually thinking that I might get my wish today. If it didn’t happen then I was just paying my dues. It took a long, long time to realize the truth.
I’d say ‘there is no spoon’ here, but that would be a little obvious.
I can’t even say with pride that I never made excuses for them. Who was there to justify my love to? I was alone and suffering and just as silent as any good girl. I carried on this secret pain that no one knew about or was willing to understand. Or maybe that’s me lying to myself. Maybe my classmates all knew and that’s what made them laugh the harder. It wouldn’t surprise me. I may have laughed myself if it wasn’t my own plight I’d be laughing at. There’s a part of me that still slips into that mentality from time to time. Thank God I have people around me that are more than willing and able to kick my ass when the need arises. It’s not so for a lot of us. The doormats of the world. It’s hard to think of myself as much else sometimes. The past has such a strong grip on my mind and actions. Then there are other times when I promise myself a full-on ass kicking if I ever let myself sink that low again. It’s a daily struggle: everyday I climb a little higher out of the hole until something forces me back in. I keep at it though. I have to. I would lose too much of myself if I fell back completely.
Very Superstitious
My hands itched last night on the way home from work. Or rather, they burned.
It was horrible; my fingers were all red and swollen and burning… And, as if fate were conspiring against me, the train stopped between stops for some reason or other, so I couldn’t get to water for the longest time. So I’m standing completely still, my hands wrapped around my only support - the metal pole in front of me that someone probably peed or vomited on the night before. I’m trying my best not to cry from the waves of hurt coursing through my system and praying silently that the train will start moving soon. Meanwhile everyone around me is yelling about how the conductor should have said something about the accident further up the tracks before we left the station and pushing eachother around, trying to find more comfortable places to stand considering that we were all packed in like sardines.
Although it would be the easiest thing in the world to get into a nice, long tirade about the unreliability of public transportation at this point, I think that people more talented and well-spoken have taken on that fight. Besides, strangely enough, my thoughts turned to that age-old saying: ‘itchy palms mean that money’s coming your way’ during the ordeal. The shouting and cursing everywhere around me and the jostling kinda faded into the background as that thought came to me.
After all, wasn’t that the superstition meant to comfort me while the pain seared through my hands? That I would receive a substantial amount of money in the near future. That some cosmic compensation was on the way, and immediately judging by the feel of the agony that was my hands for a good portion of the evening. Honestly, who came up with this stuff?? Did someone’s mother’s back break as she stood watching her son or daughter jumping on cracks in the sidewalk one day? Did some poor slob suffer from seven full, documentable years of continual bad luck beginning immediately after
breaking a mirror? I mean, some of these warnings, signs, and portents seem a bit random, at least to me. Yet it seems that the masses cling to these tidbits of ‘practical wisdom’ as if they were Holy Scripture. It never ceases to amaze me how many of your average citizens know at least three closely held superstitions and can readily provide several tales of woe of those poor souls that refused to put any stock in said superstitions.
I couldn’t help but ask myself -somewhat sarcastically, I’m afraid - what would happen if I didn’t get any money within this rather vague timeframe of ’soon’. Where would I go to lodge a complaint about such a serious travesty of cosmic justice? Now,
notice there are two different trains of thought you could take here: 1) the true value of the word ’soon’, or 2) the hidden location of the cosmic police. The first didn’t get me very far based solely on the fact that ’soon’ can mean anything from ‘now’ to ‘within the next couple of decades’ depending on the subject. For example, when the kindly old gentleman sitting in the seat to my left noticed just how red my hands were when I started blowing on them, he told me - by way of comfort - that my hands should be fine ’soon’, at which point the man behind me snapped and said that yeah, they would be better about
as ’soon’ as the train was likely to start running again. It was with quite an effort that I resisted the urge to throw the older gentleman through the unbreakable window and use his now useless cane to beat the living snot out of the guy behind me. This is to tell you just how badly off I was given the fact that anyone that knows me would testify to how docile and quiet and passifistic I usually am (hehehehheee hi Binky and Byron). But that’s neither here nor there.
So, in a last ditch effort to not give in to my violent tendencies, I turned my full attention to the problem of locating the BSR - that is, the Bureau of Superstition Regulation - to voice a complaint about my ‘itchy palms/no money’ issue. I don’t remember much of the thought process that led me to the conclusion that either the operatives of this organization were either on permanent lunch break, sitting by the wayside so that none of them has to deal with the tons and tons of unsatisfied/furious customers, or they were cleverly disguised bank tellers that report to their superiors on a
quarterly basis and use Spencer’s Gifts as a front for their daily activities. But, trust me, it was really funny and pretty damn impressive for a Friday night private brainstorming session on a packed and noisy train. And, on the bright side, the resulting giggling fit was enough to scare a goodly portion of the passengers and consequently give me another good two inches of space all around.
Anyway… I got to wondering what would happen if I walked up to some poor, unsuspecting bank teller and said ‘excuse me, my palms itched and burned the other day but I’ve received no money thus far’. And although just picturing the look on the person’s face when I said that with a straight face and as if fully expecting an intelligent response was enough to make my sides hurt from laughing so hard, I have to admit that there’s a bigger issue here. Namely that if superstitions are so ridiculous, why do so many people put so much stock in them? See, although it is almost impossible logically or scientifically to blame a string of ‘bad luck’ on the black cat that crossed your path last week, people are somehow capable of making such amazing leaps effortlessly.
And God forbid you were to question something so outrageous. This is getting back to those that can tell you about their zealously held superstitions and then swear that their Cousin Tom or AuntLorraine or next door neighbor defied this rule (the BSR in essence), and came into a world of misfortune. See, it’s hard to break out of a superstition pattern, almost as hard as breaking out of a well- grounded tradition. People tend to treat you as if you’re carrying the plague. They warn you of the dangers; they back away from you, fearing the cosmic repercussions of being around a person who refuses to throw a pinch of salt over their shoulder when they spill some or spit on a broom if they sweep over someone’s feet. You’re labeled. Suddenly, you stand out from the sheparded masses. Being so obvious can be quite disorienting and possibly terrifying after so many days, months, years of being a part of the backdrop of humanity.
But, hey, maybe that’s the only way to break out of the cycle that inspires such a beautiful thing as the chain letter. Me, I prefer to leave superstitions for those who need such rigid, unbreakable rules to govern their daily lives. So my palms itched last night. Who know? Maybe that really does mean I’m destined to win the lottery tomorrow.
Or maybe I should have been wearing gloves, as cold as it was last night.
November 17, 2003
Worth Living For
What would you identify as ‘worth dying for’? I think everyone has that category set up in his or her mind. Even junkies would die for just one more fix. “I would die for you/it.” It’s the ultimate expression of love and devotion.
I was listening to one of my favorite songs by Rebecca St. James. There’s one line in it that always catches my attention. It goes: until you find something worth dying for, you’re not really living. It took me quite awhile to figure out why I couldn’t stop obsessing over that one line. Since my manifestoes come out of my brain’s habit of going round and round a thought until I get sick of holding it in my head, I decided to jot the line down and see where it takes me.
So… What qualifies as worth dying for? It’s a deeply personal question I realize, but let me offer a few generic examples that get to the heart of the matter.
How about your spouse/significant other? You know, the one you abuse mentally, emotionally, sexually, and/or verbally for whatever reason? Maybe money is the answer. You know, the stuff you either can’t keep track of because you spend it so fast or hoard so jealously that you refuse to help out those around you when they’re in need. Maybe you’ve decided that martyrdom in the name of God is a good enough reason. The God you grudgingly park yourself in a pew for x number of minutes every week when more… corporeal matter don’t happen to get in your way. Or how about your kids? The ones you barely ever see or know anymore ’cause you’re so busy ‘providing’ for them.
I think the reason that line has been on my mind so much lately is because it’s just not true. Millions of people have either consciously or unconsciously identified something worth dying for. Of that number, I feel very comfortable saying that the vast majority are not really living at all. Let it be known that I’m citing the difference between living and simply existing here. It pisses me off that so many are so anxious to throw away their lives who have hardly even bothered to use them. I guess it’s the old romantic notion cropping up again - the idea that you prize that thing or person more than your own life.
But it’s a crock.
The practical side of this is that once your life is over, it’s over and the person and/or thing that was so worth it now exposed and vulnerable to whatever is out there. It’s so easy to die and get it over with. But what happens to those you leave behind?
Now here’s the same question I started with, but with a twist: what would you identify as ‘worth living for’? A little trickier to pin down, right? Anyone can die for anything. In fact, hundreds of people die for absolutely nothing every single day (yes, I’m sure ‘hundreds’ is a gross understatement, but I feel like being conservative right now). But to live for it - to work at it, sweat and bleed for it, to cry and breathe for it… I much prefer that concept to the first, mostly because it’s so much harder to live up to.
Then again, maybe that’s the point.
November 6, 2003
On Guilt
I’m living quite a fairytale. I’m being completely honest here. My parents are completely devoted to one another if not always overly joyous at their marriage. My dad never took me into a closet as a child. I fought constantly with my brothers growing up, but if they needed me or I needed them, ‘it wasn’t no thing but a chicken wing’. I’ve never had to go through the garbage for food and I always had a roof over my head and school supplies when I needed them. Heck, my mom was my closest friend growing up. When I needed a place to go, I could go home - which is good since I couldn’t go anywhere else. And even with the tremendous fights and arguments I’ve had with my parents in recent years, if I ever need something, I can always go to them for help.
My grades were enough to get me into the college of my choice with a partial scholarship and I student loaned it the rest of the way. In fact, I’ve never wanted for money when I needed it, not to say that it’s falling out of my pockets or anything like that. Never had to deal with true heartbreak, never had to ’settle’ for what I could get when it came to love. I mean, come on! I did an Internet search and found my first boyfriend/husband-to-be. Until recent years, friendships were always lacking. But it gave me plenty of time to figure myself out, something that gives me an advantage or disadvantage over the general populace - depending on the situation.
I have a writing talent that’s given me an outlet for rage and frustration that doesn’t involve mind-altering substances or anything else along those lines. I’m starting to think that it might actually be worth publishing - if I ever stop being so lazy and finish what I’ve started. My career path is all picked out and settled (finally), a path that prayerfully will lead me back to the city I love and the man I love even more. Yeah, I live a pretty charmed life.
That’s the amazing thing about guilt, you know? It makes the good seem bad/evil/dirty. Sometimes I listen to those around me complain and feel the most extraordinary sense of shame that I cannot sympathize. I’m sorry, I’ve never been beaten to within an inch of my life. I’ve never been emotionally abused by a lover. I’ve never had a good-for-nothing uncle with a gambling problem that begs for shelter and then steals from those relatives that take him in. I don’t have a drinking problem and I’m not addicted to sex. And the problems I have in my life seem so trivial when compared to any of these things. So what if self-esteem is sometimes a real issue for me. At least I’ve never been gang raped. And so what if my paycheck doesn’t stretch enough to allow for x, y, or z. At least I’m not some abusive boyfriend’s punching bag. So what if I have stubborn, ridiculously overzealous parents. At least I’ve got a job. ‘At least’ has to be one of my least favorite expressions in the English language. Funny how it never makes me feel better to hear that someone else is doing worse. Somehow complaining about the problems with my apartment never seems right when I remember that a lot of people have no place to go at night. I work at a job that allows me to take free classes, and anyone who’s been through the educational system (or plans to) KNOWS what a blessing that is.
So, why do I feel so guilty? Why do I feel like I never have a right to say anything to anyone? Why do I always feel the need to scream ‘it’s not my fault’ at the top of my lungs when co-workers half accuse me of having it easy. I’m so lucky. Things always go my way. I’ve never had to work for anything. I’m always so happy. Always so damn happy. Why don’t I ever complain? Why can’t anyone reach me? What makes me so Goddamn special? Don’t I ever have any problems?? Don’t I ever feel lost or scared or angry? Why me? Hand-picked by God Himself to float on a sea of fuckin serenity, untouched by the concerns of this world, as I wait for eternal salvation.
You’ve got to be kidding.
The guilt comes from knowing that my life will never be as horrible as everyone else’s. And, ironically enough, the anger comes from being judged by others as undeserving of any measure of understanding because my life will never be as horrible as everyone else’s. You ever sat around and made up shit to say just because you wanted a little taste of that compassion? That milk of human kindness that curdles because so few are deemed worthy to drink it? It’s enough to drive you mad - no, it’s enough to drive you to do something drastic to make yourself worthy of a listening ear that won’t try and compare your problems to theirs. But that’s the easy way out of the crushing guilt and shame. And I’ve always been too… whatever… to take the easy way out.
Despite what you may be thinking, this is not just a bitching manifesto. It seems pointless to me to identify problems and not trying to fix them. Life’s never so simple that things will always work out, but the trying is what makes us human, right? So, I’m going through another typical day of listening to those around me and I received a bit of insight on this matter. It came in the form of some jerk who used to work in my lab. I guess that’s proof positive that even assholes have their moments. The guy loves to talk and he loves to hear himself talk. But yesterday he was having a real problem with his girlfriend and wanted my input, to which I informed him that I don’t do well with these types of conversations. When he pressed the issue, I got mad and told him exactly why I couldn’t help him. I figured that would shut him up, but of course it didn’t. He said a lot of stuff after that, most of which I kinda tuned out. But one thing that struck me - what is all boiled down to, I think - was ‘you can’t feel guilty for having what everybody wants’.
It was like something out of a movie, I swear. So simple, but it made so much sense. I couldn’t even reply; I was literally that floored. No, I don’t have a dark, twisted past. But I don’t have to. I don’t need to have the actual experiences to understand hurt, pain, betrayal, misery. Every encounter with each presents a microcosm from which I draw the strength to answer to each of them. It’s really about stepping outside of my own little world for a moment and seeing into someone else’s own little world. Oh and that means without the ‘at least’, without the comparison. How dare you, how dare anyone deny what I’ve felt in the past or the present! The pain is real, no matter where it came from. And there are no ‘at leasts’ to make it better anymore than there are ‘just becauses’ to excuse it.
He also spoke to my greatest fear without even realizing it. I was always too scared that I’d appear to be flaunting my blessings in front of someone. It sort of feels like I’m counting money in front of a homeless person when I talk about the good things in my life. At the very least I’d call a behavior like that rude, and I can’t stand rudeness, in myself or in others. But the purest form of understanding negates boasting. It has to, because you are stepping out of your sphere to allow compassion to take effect. It’s not like I dance down the street everyday, singing ‘la-dee-da! My life is so great, sucks to be you’ or anything crazy like that. Sympathy flows between people that have had the same experience. But the next best thing to it, and just as powerful, is empathy - the ability to understand it WITHOUT having gone through it. Empathy is a hard trait to master because it requires a vulnerability that most find impossible because of the hurts of the past, but when it’s achieved, it is a force to be reckoned with.
I think appreciation is the key to gaining empathy. Another thing my coworker told me yesterday is that he never minds hearing about the good things in others’ lives, even though he’s been through hell, as long as that good is never taken for granted. That seems fair. After all, it’s when I forget just how fortunate I am that I run the risk of become flippant and insensitive to the pain of those around me. I really had to think on that one too. How do I keep things like this from getting me down? I’m generally a very happy person. I get upset, but I can never stay angry for long. It takes too much energy to hate in my opinion, and it never gets you anywhere anyway. But that’s another rant for another time.
As most find with the really challenging questions in life, the answer was staring me right in the face once I stopped trying so hard to find it. Appreciation comes from memory, and since it’s remembering how fortunate I am that usually triggers the guilt in the face of other’s misfortunes, then memory’s got to be the answer I’m searching for, right?
So I can remember the loneliness of high school and the depression that went with it when I start to complain about my friends. I can remember what it was like to have to accept hand-outs from family and friends because I had a need that I couldn’t meet when I start to get pissy about my job. I can remember any multitude of times that my mother or father held me and comforted me when I was going through something when they argue with my life decisions like they do (loudly and incessantly I might add). I can remember what it felt like to be so lost and helpless when I begin to question my faith. I can remember kind words from unexpected sources when I start to doubt my talents and abilities. I can remember an eighty-hour bus ride back to a place I didn’t want to be from a place I can’t stand to be without whenever I get the urge to put on my traveling shoes before the time is right.
Maybe your list is different than mine, who knows? I certainly don’t ’cause I’m not you. It’s not about having the same things, or the same number of things to be grateful for. This is just a small sample of things I look to so I don’t lose the gift of empathy anyway. Sometimes I struggle and I have to REALLY get back to basics. Like, ‘I woke up this morning’ or ‘I said good morning to someone as I was passing them on the way to work and they said hi back’. But really, it’s the attitude that counts. See, just the way that one bad thing can displace a whole heap of good stuff that has happened to me, I’ve always believed that one good thing has the power to push away worlds of hurt if I let it. Love, in the form of compassion, has the ability to do that.
I shouldn’t feel guilty for having what everyone wants. That doesn’t mean I should be flip about it either. Like in all things in this grand universe we live in, there is balance. I think I just got one step closer to finding mine.