First, you ought to
know that this isn’t going to be a tidy, pleasant, or cheerful post. I mean, there are swear words and
everything. So if you were looking for nice,
you should read something else today. I
recommend a food blog. Or maybe you
could just look at pictures of puppies and kitties. They don’t usually have swear words.
I’ve mentioned before that my growing up years were kind of
rough. And they were. I am descended from a long line of mental
illness on both sides of my family tree, which means I had the good fortune of
both a bungled up nurture and tangled up nature. I’ve attempted to keep those two devourers in
check using a myriad of treatments, the most effective of which has been
hard-core aerobic activity (1-2 hours 4-5 days a week). The “treatment” has been so effective that I
actually began to allow the hopeful word “cure” enter my vocabulary. Damn, I was even willing to let the word “hope”
enter my vocabulary! Two weeks ago I
banged up my knee pretty badly while playing soccer with some friends, which
means I haven’t had ANY aerobic activity for two weeks. TWO WEEKS.
Do you know what happens to people who go off their meds
cold-turkey? Well, that’s pretty much
what I’m living. And it blows.
But wait. There’s
more.
Recently I have been attending church with a new congregation. I felt spiritually prompted to make the
change, and when I first met these guys I was so excited—I thought that maybe,
just maybe, I had found a place to belong.
They were welcoming and inclusive, and I thought maybe I had found a
little bit of Zion, you know? I could
see some places where I could contribute, some people who seemed like they
could use a friend (Hell, I needed a
friend!), some interactions where I could be a force for good. (Like the Primary song, “Give, said the
little stream, as it hurried down the hill.
I’m small I know, but wherever I go, the grass grows greener still.”) So I jumped with both feet. I was going to be brave! And then I creamed it. Hard.
I misjudged the distance, misunderstood the trajectory. And in my foolishness I hurt people. I didn’t mean to. But I did.
Even so, as I have increased my acquaintance with these good people I
see the evidences in them of their own bungled up nurtures and tangled up
natures. Half are working to “take up
Arms against a Sea of troubles,/ And by opposing, end them…” and the other half
are merely taking the hits, suffering, as it were, “the Slings and Arrows of
outrageous Fortune,” becoming disenfranchised and apathetic. “Stand up and fight!!” I want to cry
out. But here’s the rub: I don’t actually care anymore. I cannot make a difference. I am too little. My efforts too small.
We went to the beach a while back with a few other
families. The tide was coming in while
we were there, and we either had to make a significant retreat, or all our
stuff was going to get soaked. We had
shovels with us, so we decided we would attempt to redirect the water, and
build a breaker. We worked for over two
hours, everyone working with buckets and shovels. Twenty minutes before the turning of the tide
it looked like we were going to make it!
And then one wave breached the wall.
There was another in close succession, and within about 5 minutes our
hours of work were entirely removed, like we hadn’t even been there. I thought I heard the ocean laughing at
us. Who do we think we are that we could
hold back the tide?
A young man I know has been working hard to overcome some
addictive behaviors. He said that
sometimes he thinks he can keep the unwanted desires at bay, he’s carefully
built berms, tide breakers, motes, everything he can yet think of, and
sometimes he thinks he just might make it.
He might win! He might be able to
hold out until the tide turns. And then
there’s that wave. That one that takes
down the hours and hours of work. Or
days and days. Or months and years and
decades. All gone in five minutes.
And so that’s what happened.
Two weeks without one knee and all the depression is right back in
place, laughing at me for having thought I could hold back the tide. A small handful of difficult and complex social
interactions has me doubting entirely that I am of any good to anyone. One stupid wave breached the wall, and all the
new tender hope I had cultivated has been snatched away on the retreating tide,
as if it had never been there at all.
I bought strawberries at the farmer’s market yesterday. They’re already coated in fuzzy gray mold. They look like a basket of dead mice.
