Features
Bet that word just gets you going? Most people want to go on and on about how much they have suffered in life… like there will be some fabulous prize in it if they can prove their suffering is worse than others (in fact I believe there’s a radio station out there that does offer prizes for just that). I think it’s quite ridiculous. There’s even a disease to explain away a Mother offing her child because of a desire to have people feel sorry for her. What a joke. How come there’s no diseases out there that are a direct result of Hope or Faith or Courage? Why doesn’t anyone want to reflect on how wonderful they have it compared to others? Why do people seek so hard to outdo others in their plight for the most pitiful story they can think of? Is our society that devoid of compassion that people can’t suffer… get help from the friends, family and support networks that are there and then take that help to move on? Why do people lose such perspective? I’ve never really understood the pathetic nature in complaining about things that can’t be changed and dwelling on things that have already happened.
I have kept in touch with a child sponsor of mine from The Republic of Chad for the last 3 plus years now and whenever I feel even the slightest bit of sorrow for myself I think of him and how happy he seems in his letters and life even though he lives in one of the poorest countries in the world and has so little to hope for. I am in awe at his hope and his passion for what he does have and how the littlest things I send him (like pictures, stickers and cardboard cut out action figures) seem to bring his spirits up. I know he has no idea how much he brings my spirits up sometimes. It’s not something I would ever write to him…”Hi there sweet one. My life is going pretty crappy right now but Thank God I’m not you and Thank God for the perspective you give me and the courage and the humanity I need to carry on.” Somehow I think those words could never mean as much to him as a friendly update on the events of my life and my new son’s life and this beautiful country we live in. His name is Dieudonne (which means gift from God in English) and we communicate in French, as it is my second language. I don’t think he could ever understand fully the extent of how his life is a gift from God to me. I wish he could… maybe when he’s a little older… or when I win the lottery and go visit him and build a school or a well or something to benefit his little community (ahhh dreams and wishes, who hasn’t wished to win big?).
I go on about how wonderful my life is… which at times seems a farce to me. It is wonderful now and I Thank God for that (and the meds… no joke there either… my life didn’t begin to make sense to me until the meds came and stayed for good). It wasn’t always wonderful and the number of challenges and tragedies I have overcome could far outweigh most people I know. I have had surgeries, was born with a liver disease that is gradually scarring it permanently so that I will most likely need a transplant by the time I am 50, oh and did I mention that I have had 2 of the closest people in my life die (one right before my eyes as I watched her deteriorate) and oooh last but not least… endured a childhood that lacked physical and emotional security. I can actually think of more hurt and anguish and despair but I prefer not to. I think of suffering this way… Those who have never truly suffered have never truly lived and could never truly appreciate the beauty that life and our world offers. Those who have suffered are those who make a choice to be a victim or a student of life. Victims make me sick… they have a tendency to have a contagious affect on other victims even when they truly aren’t victims. Students of life are like all students… they attend class no matter how much they want to skip out on it… they follow through with the necessary curriculum and if they have learned anything at all, they graduate from being a lowly freshman victim to a somewhat wiser graduate student ready to attend more classes even as they simultaneously hope that school’s out for good.
There is a proverb (some say Chinese some say Arabic… the origin really matters not since the message is the same no matter what language you speak) that goes somewhat as follows:
“If something goes wrong and you can change it then there is no need to worry… If something goes wrong and you can do nothing to change it then there is no need to worry.”
I’ve been writing since I was 14 years old. Never published… never had the courage to try really since my words seem so personal that sharing them is a dangerous expedition. I began writing to survive the unmedicated state of confusion in which I was living every day. I wrote to live because if I hadn’t found the outlet to get the orgy of random and vicious thoughts out of my head they would have overcome me. There is such a fine line between what makes someone a successful graduate of suffering or a complete failure doomed to pass it on in the vilest ways. I was so lucky to have found inside me the ability to let out the stream of painful consciousness that stalked me every day. If I hadn’t found it, I most certainly wouldn’t be here today blabbering on about this and that in perhaps complete incomprehension. I would have done more than just walk the plank with no one there to push me or watch. I would have run straight on to it and performed an Olympic dive into the depths worthy of a perfect 10 score. I’m sure glad that didn’t happen because I’m not a fan of sharks or salt water and I don’t know anyone who’s got a boat with a plank on it anyhow.
I guess what I aim to get across here to myself and to anyone who reads this is that outlets are all over the place (unless of course they’re filled with child proofing devices like in my home). As worried as BP people get about losing their passion for life because of the meds, there is so much more at stake than such selfish ignorance.
It’s not easy… nothing in life that is worth anything at all should be easy because it would be worthless. I admit it… amid my sorrow and self-indulgence of pain I wrote some of the best things I have ever written. My compulsion to the creative and crazy wordplay was unparalleled. It was an animalistic instinct that surged within me (I guess that’s why generations thousands of years ago wrote so many things on caves and rocks… how else could they deal with the idea that they can’t even brighten the night because fire hadn’t been invented yet). I wonder if that’s why most of the prolific and astounding inventions and artistic relics are from so long ago? Can anyone really compare an I pod or Crackberry to the wheel or a Salvador Dali painting? Is the crap that we listen to (and I confess I too indulge in on occasion) anywhere near the Cadillac of all music… classical?
I imagine that instead of finding one of these outlets that can give back to the world people who think their suffering is astounding have instead taken the easy way out. The path more traveled. And while I don’t mean to diminish the trials and tribulations that one person can go through, I most certainly question the methods that they use to deal with them. True, I can’t write anywhere near as well as I used to. A good chunk of the creative descriptive juices have been squeezed out to make room for the meds but I also can’t complain because those meds brought something far more valuable to me. Next to the meds I take every day is a coffee maker that I ritualistically make my morning cup of coffee in as I prepare my son’s cereal meal. Above them is a cupboard full of glasses that I use to drink clean fresh water from (even if the taste on occasion has a chlorine tinge to it). Under the meds is a dishwasher I use to wash the dishes in… a luxury I could most definitely do without but am grateful is there (especially since my son was born). The meds are a fixture in my kitchen and my life and they have given me more than any reckless excess of words ever has. I read back some of those words and almost feel pity for the woman I once was. Then I realise that my son sleeps in the room across from the bright solarium that I sit in as I write here and I know that the meds are my lifeline to my life. There may be more rationale in what I put onto the page these days but there is less disenchantment and hopelessness and more Faith. There is a certainty that no matter what is thrown in my way, I will be a graduate once again and maybe soon I will earn a Doctorate… geez who knew that in my world suffering was a gift of education that doesn’t have to be subsidized by the government?
Like the senses I had last time I wrote, I know that my son is soon to awaken. My husband is off to work and I shall go now to walk him to the elevator. A kiss goodbye and a conviction that if he or I were to be taken unwillingly into that sea at the end of the plank, we would be okay (at least I would, sometimes he can be somewhat of a dork… but men really are almost always a wee bit behind us women in the art of revelation and metamorphosis). He would know I Love him even when every little thing he does on occasion drives me even crazier that I sometimes feel inside. I pick my battles quite well and I can say with complete honesty that I never hang on to the anger and resentment that suffering projects. It’s just not worth it and no matter what happens I know that like my meds, he and my son are permanent fixtures in my life that give me Hope. Golly, I sure do hope I win that 30 million tomorrow J !! Once again I sign off with a poem written during one of my creative survival modes… class was tough that day:
Just Passing Through
Just a very short while,
Just a sliver in time,
But a moment to smile,
But a brief sight divine.
One small view of the truth,
One glimpse of hot passion,
Our faint dreams of fresh youth,
Our quick shows of compassion.
That sweet breath of new laughs,
That hint of devotion,
A kind touch on our pasts,
A simple emotion.
The chance from a meeting,
The basic surge of desire,
My quiet hopes fleeting,
My strong heart up for hire.
This taste of craved Love,
This slight hope held at bay,
As stars fall from above,
As swift hands seek out play.
It’s not much to work with,
It’s little thoughts of Bliss,
To reach for my zenith,
To lost embraces I miss.
When the sun takes its rest,
When my soul at last feels,
I shall stand alone Blessed,
I shall know that God heals.
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