Glor: Thursday, June 29th, 2006
Hey, busy bee, I can’t explain prison, what it’s like, the way people think in here, what it does to you, or even who I am now. It’s why I’m trying to distance myself as I get closer to getting out. I’ll never be able to leave it behind, make it go away, or change how people think of me.
Take care, -- Love Gary
Dear Brother: July 6th, 2006
I agree . . . that you will not be able to make your prison years go away. And, yes, you [can’t] alter how people think of you through sheer force of will . . . But you can make those years work FOR you. You can affect the people around you through action and reaction, give and take. Often, our flexibility and strength, our resolve in the face of extreme duress, is what rubs against those around us and sands them down to a smoother, more desirable finish . . .
If you experience resentment towards me, some dormant seed within, sowed the moment I had to alert the police to your whereabouts, I’ll deal with that. You can find my suburban spoiled life totally disgusting and . . . still be my brother. Tell me stories when you want; tell me to back-off when you want. I realize I [can’t] ever know what these past years have been for you. I’d probably be afraid of most of it if I did know. . .
Love ya and toodles, --Sister G.
Glor: Wednesday, July 2nd, 2006
Hey. It’s hard. Hard to relate, to think of someday having to try to relate on a more intimate, everyday level. I know how hard you try, how bad you want to be helpful & all. But you don’t know me anymore. No one does . . . You’ve done a lot of changing in the last couple of years. Me too, I imagine. I wish things were easier, that we could be more comfortable . . . Maybe someday we will be again.
I watched . . . ‘The View’ this morning . . . the blonde one went on a rampage, & no matter how any of the other women tried, they could not get their views in edgewise. What she thought was the end, right for everyone. Period.
If your children . . . required protection, you’d break the law in a heartbeat . . . if you were helpless and hopeless and on the mental edge, there’s no tellin’. Stay away from [saying] never. Felt like you were droppin’ bugs left & right in that last letter [about Cousin B’s situation]. I got your opinion/feelings about the pill/drug selling, law-breaking, etc. We all do what we feel we gotta do.
I always felt like you were in my corner. A sister, friend, & second mom. You hurt my feelings & pissed me off. If you don’t trust me, if you’re gonna judge me because of my past, or my habits/choices/lifestyle, whatever, then we’ll have the same relationship as I do with the rest of my siblings, which is not to have one.
I love you. I have many, many fond memories of you. I’ve always felt close & comfortable, when it comes to our relationship. I don’t think you comprehend what year after year after year of prison life does to someone, & I’m not gonna try to explain it. I’m not gonna apologize for who I am, and if the only person who will stand by me is me, then so be it.
You are a great sis . . . a genuinely good person . . . I’m grateful for your daily notes, attention, etc . . . you don’t have to. You have plenty to do.
I’m worn out . . . not a day goes by that I don’t have some cop givin’ me a hard time . . . for no other reason than they can say & do whatever they want . . . so you can see where I get upset when I have a chance to come up a bit, with the help of someone in my family, & I get the same mistrust & hesitation, judgment, or whatever.
I would do anything for you, mom, your kids, if it meant breakin’ the law, coming back to prison, so what? . . .
I don’t resent you . . . it just reminds me of how far the gap between us is . . . so maybe I’ll drop out for awhile. Too much emotions & inability to communicate, & it’s not pleasant . . . give my love to the kids. I love you Glor.
Glor: Sunday, August 20th, 2006
Hey, I don’t know. That’s my whole trip now. I don’t know. I should be a better brother & son. A better person . . . My mind is so messed up. My feelings & reactions, thoughts and worries about everything are all screwed up. I probably hurt your feelings. I apologize. Confusion & fear aren’t an excuse to hurt the people you love.
I have a pet praying mantis. She (I think it’s a she) is green, still really small, about two inches long. She’s on my finger, now my hand, while I’m writing . . . now on the end of my pen. I love playing with her, letting her crawl all over me. At night, her big eyes turn from green to dark. When she looks at me, I can see her tiny pupils following me. [She’s] actually a very beautiful creature.
[I wish] to be not so messed up. To even remember what it’s like to have a normal conversation with someone who doesn’t already have a label on me. To be unknown and unjudged. My edges are rough, my manner anymore abrupt & sometimes harsh . . . I don’t mean to be a negative space in your head or heart. You deserve better.
I’m gonna lie back and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn . . . send me pics from your party & the Tracy Byrd concert, huh?
L8R, Love Gary
Dear Gary: August 25, 2006
Even if you did hurt my feelings, you are allowed. [It’s] a part of any relationship. Maybe we were overdue for such an incident as your venting letter. Lord knows, I have plenty of vents with and from Jimmy and the kids. . . we work through and past the episode, learn, forgive, apologize, and continue on . . . [you and I] can do that, too . . .
The content of your letter did sear a considerable hole into my tender heart. We’ll call it a burning arrow of pain and confusion. I walked down to the end of the cul-de-sac and sat on the curb to cry. I tried to wait for the big rain storm, hoping the waters would come and wash me into the sewer and carry me off to the ocean . . . far away from anyone I could possibly screw up with my words and good intentions. Sarah actually walked over to me to see how I was . . . Or maybe she asked in the kitchen and Zachary walked over to me in the cul-de-sac.
Regardless, all I could think was that I might say something that would screw them up in my efforts to love them . . . so earnestly. I felt like I had done that to you. If I could cause you to think I had withdrawn my support for you . . . what was I capable of making them think? And if I had indeed changed so drastically, demeaning myself by becoming some shallow, shadow version of who I once was, or who I was intended to be, how could I be good enough to be their mother, since I had so obviously failed as your sister? I reexamined my reasons for calling the police on you back in Colorado . . . I went all out, mentally and emotionally, allowing myself to spin way-y out there, feel a few things I had either . . . tucked away or thought I had prayed . . . through.
Eventually, however, I had to come back down into the reality of the situation. Separate myself from the emotion and look at it from the perspective of two people trying to stay connected within the framework of two drastically differing lives. It took me several days of intense examination to come out of my grief for what I felt I had lost. Probably more than a week to really feel my head was screwed on straight.
I decided that you needed to be able to do what you felt you had to do if it would help you to survive and leave that prison alive: even if that meant disconnecting from me. Your wholeness could be dealt with later, I reasoned. As for me, I would continue to write and allow you to decide if you wanted to read or not. For me, the writing is necessary. Right next to God, you are the most conversed with in my brain . . . I don’t write you out of guilt . . . I love my brother. I LIKE my brother. He’s worthy of knowing . . . and of the work it takes to maintain a close relationship . . .
I think the reality is that we can’t get everything across in our complex lives within the context of a few letters and scattered, SHORT, interrupted phone calls. You express some very intense and sharp views on a variety of topics. I don’t look at them and think how very wrong or judgmental of you. I just read, glad you thought to share something, hoping for a chance in your free future to truly hear the full version of that particular thought or opinion.
I wait for the days when we can have real discourse and truly hear each other out. For now, I think of our meager communication as a tether that keeps us from floating away, until such time as the earth can be brought to meet our feet in unison with actual gravity. Make sense?
Gary, I would not want you to do anything illegal for me or the kids or mom. I never want to see you in prison again. It would wreck me to think of you stuck there for a lifetime. . . I’ve developed enough in my personal faith . . . to believe the Lord will help to take care of things if I do my part. I don’t lie for my kids to get them out of jams or misrepresent myself to other people to make my family look better than it is. I try to help the kids face what they must for what they did; I try to figure out who I really am and represent that person. Make amends when I don’t represent who I really am . . .
I have no interest in doing anything that might be construed as illegal in order to help you. My greatest fear . . . that it would come back on you and get you more time in prison. My second[ary] fear (maybe not the best word here) is that of doing something I don’t believe in. Can you really penalize me for desiring to be a law-abiding citizen? Can you really be ticked off at me for hating drugs and the cycle of dealing/selling that keeps it in society? What goes on in prison in order for you to survive the experience is NOT the same yardstick you, or I, would use outside of prison.
I . . . hope that you would not decide to engage in illegal activities upon your release in order to make a living . . . I KNOW there will be a way provided for you . . . But you will have to be patient. Let conditions and situations be created and put into place.
Last time, you bolted before I could do anything concrete to help you . . . I was so desperate to help you then . . . I am determined to help you, now.
September 6, 2006 8:26PM (still Gloria*)
Well, that was written . . . over a week ago . . . I read my letter, again, and decided to let it stand. I’m more than just those thoughts . . . definitely NOT LESS . . . but I can’t expect to make myself totally understood by you. I think there are times when I try so hard to be understood – for the sake of the other person and for the situation – that I overshoot the target. Too earnest. Too zealous.
I was slicing garden tomatoes and putting the crumb coat on my cake before coming up here. (An aside: The crumb coat is a thin layer of frosting that goes on the cake first and sets up. Then, the decorative and thicker second layer goes on without any crumbs to mar the look of the surface. My neighbor is having a “Friendship Dessert Party” tonight. I broke out all of my fancy dessert recipes and settled on a labor intensive 3-layer cake: orange chiffon with a buttercream frosting and an orange filling between all layers and on top. I’ll be bringing home 8 samples of desserts for the family. And they best hurry and eat them! Save me!)
Okay, I could ramble forever. But I have to get other things done today. And I’m sure you do, too. This letter ain’t that riveting!
Oh, I’m enclosing a page on praying mantis’. I asked mom to look up a few sites so I could give you some info. How is your pet? Still around? If not, how long did it last, or stay with you? We have a multitude of stick bugs in my garden. I see the mantis every now and again. Bugs are pretty cool . . . Though all of my children would say otherwise . . .
[Well] Over and out. I love you, mucho. Millions and billions and cotillions! – Sister G.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Letters Are Never Enough Part 1
*The following writing -- rough draft -- is a part of a chapter in progress per the book my brother and I are putting together. It correlates with the next entry, which is what I read for my public reading selection in my writers workshop. Sharing with those of you not able to be at the reading, so as to include you in the process.
_____________________
I have my own box of letters from my brother. Unlike him, they’re not kept beneath my bed. Opened and read. Kept together for company. I’ve never bothered to count them but it wouldn’t matter. It’s like counting sorrows or numbering the sadnesses of a life. Because though my hope has pushed me onward and my faith has forced me upward, my very frail and human heart has often dragged along the lowest points of emotion where Gary is concerned.
They were never enough. The letters, I mean. Much like the sporadic fifteen minute calls which dotted our means of communication, they seemed to just get started in the job of bringing us to that spot where conversation hits its stride, when he would sign off. Didn’t matter it was one page or six. When I had time, which became less and less a commodity as the years fell away from his sentence and his life, as the years heaped people and activity into mine, I hunted for the unsaid between the lines. Wishing for more. Wanting to see him in the words, a face emerging from the familiar pages provided him via the courtesy of the State of California. Though his writing was often refreshing and good company, I knew these few sentences strung into paltry paragraphs, which often encompassed entire days or weeks of incidents and emotions, were not adequately expressing what his life was for him in there. And without that full expression, I could not empathize and understand in the circumspect way that I wished. That meant my help would be lacking. Not without merit but simply and sorely lacking.
It took energy for him to write on a regular basis. I realize now that his mind must have often raced far ahead of his hand as he fought to capture his thoughts between bouts of mania and depression, sometimes violent drug-enhanced mood swings within a twenty-four hour period, and secure them in ink for the long ride out of California and into my awaiting mailbox. But I didn’t have that awareness before October of 2008. Though I could decipher changes in his temperament by the tilt and sway of his penmanship – one week neat, concise, straight across, another week messy, wandering, sharply angled – the way one understands a child or spouse is of sunny or somber disposition by the timbre and sound of their voice, I did not detect the circular path of his constantly cycling mind. I put it off to the stress of prison life; to the on and off abuse of illicit drugs; or even on the physical discomfort resulting from his liver issues or propensity for gathering random infections to his body. Never did mental illness present itself before me in my hunts to better know my brother through his own hand.
My letters to him were usually lengthy affairs. If they weren’t at least five pages, I didn’t consider them good enough though I knew he’d eagerly accept one paragraph per envelope as long as they just kept coming. He had a lot time to kill, to put it mildly; I figured time spent with me and the stories of my kids, husband, friends, and the hundreds of other everyday topics I peppered him with, could go a small distance to fill a portion of those hours and minutes. When I wrote, especially when my stream-of-consciousness sent me meandering here, there, and everywhere, it was as if we were together, chatting in person in a manner which has yet to happen in our very real physical lives.
Not even as kids was I able to step into an intimate sisterly discourse with him the way I could in my writing. The very act transported us both to the double rocking chairs on the back porch of my hopeful mind. Ice cold beers or lemonade in hand. Nowhere to be but with one another. Taking in the occasional child who might run in to the scene. Perhaps Gary jammin’ with my husband on the guitar they picked out together when he was released from Pleasant Valley State Prison. Or admiring the dancing clouds in the wide open sky overhead in companionable silence; his eyes tracking the birds in flight, drawing parallels between their freedom and his. This was my safe place of connection.
The computer greatly enhanced my ability to fill line after line with everything fit to print, and then some. Unlike Gary, my hands had the chance to keep up with my mind. I loved the fact that I could hunt down information for him with the click of the mouse and the flip of a browser all in one place. I was able to cut n’ paste to my heart’s content. If I purchased a package for him online, rest assured that the detailed invoice of every pair of slippers, summer sausage and Snicker’s bar ordered was going to print right behind my letter. Any bit of paper I could add to an outgoing envelope, any item of interest, any picture, any quote or Word-of-the-Day – I considered it tinder to feed the ever diminishing spark in his soul. I’d been known to heft the filled envelope in one hand, seconds away from sealing it shut, debating whether or not it contained enough. If it was found wanting, I’d hurriedly rummage through my e-mails or scan headlines in the paper or dig through the photo archives for that for the one extra thing which would make it complete. It had to be complete because my letters were all on a single-minded mission. They spoke of the life out here which was not forgetting him. My entire reason for being in those mailed missives was to keep him tightly knitted into the fabric of an existence beyond the dull gray and brown walls of incarceration.
I spent early mornings, up before the sun and family, hunched over the keyboard, getting in my hour or two with Gary. Still in my nightgown. If an afternoon presented an opening, I’d step in and hammer out an update on the garden – he recently admitted that doesn’t particularly interest him – or regale him with a tale of one, two, or three children. He was so much a part of my thoughts each day. On walks with our dog, I’d form paragraphs in my head, describing colors and textures on homes and in yards and within tree-lined meadows. On drives to the grocery store, I’d render an image of the sights and sounds of the mundane taken-for-granted taking place all around me. And outside of the pen and keyboard, not conveyed by Hallmark or Georgia font size 12, were the countless ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’ to him as I began and ended my days. The anchors holding him in the realm of the remembered. Me, sending out into the vast universe of the unspoken thoughts of billions, my personal reminders that he was not, and would never be, forgotten.
_____________________
I have my own box of letters from my brother. Unlike him, they’re not kept beneath my bed. Opened and read. Kept together for company. I’ve never bothered to count them but it wouldn’t matter. It’s like counting sorrows or numbering the sadnesses of a life. Because though my hope has pushed me onward and my faith has forced me upward, my very frail and human heart has often dragged along the lowest points of emotion where Gary is concerned.
They were never enough. The letters, I mean. Much like the sporadic fifteen minute calls which dotted our means of communication, they seemed to just get started in the job of bringing us to that spot where conversation hits its stride, when he would sign off. Didn’t matter it was one page or six. When I had time, which became less and less a commodity as the years fell away from his sentence and his life, as the years heaped people and activity into mine, I hunted for the unsaid between the lines. Wishing for more. Wanting to see him in the words, a face emerging from the familiar pages provided him via the courtesy of the State of California. Though his writing was often refreshing and good company, I knew these few sentences strung into paltry paragraphs, which often encompassed entire days or weeks of incidents and emotions, were not adequately expressing what his life was for him in there. And without that full expression, I could not empathize and understand in the circumspect way that I wished. That meant my help would be lacking. Not without merit but simply and sorely lacking.
It took energy for him to write on a regular basis. I realize now that his mind must have often raced far ahead of his hand as he fought to capture his thoughts between bouts of mania and depression, sometimes violent drug-enhanced mood swings within a twenty-four hour period, and secure them in ink for the long ride out of California and into my awaiting mailbox. But I didn’t have that awareness before October of 2008. Though I could decipher changes in his temperament by the tilt and sway of his penmanship – one week neat, concise, straight across, another week messy, wandering, sharply angled – the way one understands a child or spouse is of sunny or somber disposition by the timbre and sound of their voice, I did not detect the circular path of his constantly cycling mind. I put it off to the stress of prison life; to the on and off abuse of illicit drugs; or even on the physical discomfort resulting from his liver issues or propensity for gathering random infections to his body. Never did mental illness present itself before me in my hunts to better know my brother through his own hand.
My letters to him were usually lengthy affairs. If they weren’t at least five pages, I didn’t consider them good enough though I knew he’d eagerly accept one paragraph per envelope as long as they just kept coming. He had a lot time to kill, to put it mildly; I figured time spent with me and the stories of my kids, husband, friends, and the hundreds of other everyday topics I peppered him with, could go a small distance to fill a portion of those hours and minutes. When I wrote, especially when my stream-of-consciousness sent me meandering here, there, and everywhere, it was as if we were together, chatting in person in a manner which has yet to happen in our very real physical lives.
Not even as kids was I able to step into an intimate sisterly discourse with him the way I could in my writing. The very act transported us both to the double rocking chairs on the back porch of my hopeful mind. Ice cold beers or lemonade in hand. Nowhere to be but with one another. Taking in the occasional child who might run in to the scene. Perhaps Gary jammin’ with my husband on the guitar they picked out together when he was released from Pleasant Valley State Prison. Or admiring the dancing clouds in the wide open sky overhead in companionable silence; his eyes tracking the birds in flight, drawing parallels between their freedom and his. This was my safe place of connection.
The computer greatly enhanced my ability to fill line after line with everything fit to print, and then some. Unlike Gary, my hands had the chance to keep up with my mind. I loved the fact that I could hunt down information for him with the click of the mouse and the flip of a browser all in one place. I was able to cut n’ paste to my heart’s content. If I purchased a package for him online, rest assured that the detailed invoice of every pair of slippers, summer sausage and Snicker’s bar ordered was going to print right behind my letter. Any bit of paper I could add to an outgoing envelope, any item of interest, any picture, any quote or Word-of-the-Day – I considered it tinder to feed the ever diminishing spark in his soul. I’d been known to heft the filled envelope in one hand, seconds away from sealing it shut, debating whether or not it contained enough. If it was found wanting, I’d hurriedly rummage through my e-mails or scan headlines in the paper or dig through the photo archives for that for the one extra thing which would make it complete. It had to be complete because my letters were all on a single-minded mission. They spoke of the life out here which was not forgetting him. My entire reason for being in those mailed missives was to keep him tightly knitted into the fabric of an existence beyond the dull gray and brown walls of incarceration.
I spent early mornings, up before the sun and family, hunched over the keyboard, getting in my hour or two with Gary. Still in my nightgown. If an afternoon presented an opening, I’d step in and hammer out an update on the garden – he recently admitted that doesn’t particularly interest him – or regale him with a tale of one, two, or three children. He was so much a part of my thoughts each day. On walks with our dog, I’d form paragraphs in my head, describing colors and textures on homes and in yards and within tree-lined meadows. On drives to the grocery store, I’d render an image of the sights and sounds of the mundane taken-for-granted taking place all around me. And outside of the pen and keyboard, not conveyed by Hallmark or Georgia font size 12, were the countless ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’ to him as I began and ended my days. The anchors holding him in the realm of the remembered. Me, sending out into the vast universe of the unspoken thoughts of billions, my personal reminders that he was not, and would never be, forgotten.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Tweaked over "Tweak"
I'm trekking through an audio book called "Tweak: Growing Up On Methamphetamines" by Nic Sheff. I dug it up on the READS online library program for literary listening. All through the day, starting the moment my husband walked out the door for work this morning until this evening after dark when the battery monitor on my iPhone registered in the 10% RED-alert mode, my ears have burned with the bleakly barren story that was this guy's life from the age of 17 up into his early 20's. Though the book is not over yet -- but I guarantee by tomorrow afternoon it will be -- I know he makes it because he a) wrote the book, and b) had a blogsite up and running until November of 2008. I've not had time enough to research to discover what has happened with him since.
When I checked at Amazon.com to see what the book would cost to send to my brother, Gary, I was surprised to realize that I knew of this young man, Nic, in a roundabout way because his father wrote the same story about Nic's addiction but from the perspective of the family member trapped on the other side of meth's vicious grip. Somewhere, whether it was "The Today Show" or some such television vehicle, I caught an interview with this David Sheff and thought I'd like to read his take on what his son went through. And I will . . . as soon as I'm finished hearing what his son has to say.
"Tweak" is not a light read. Nor is it for children. Though if the child is 15 or older, I'd say he or she should have a listen or turn the pages. Nic does not embellish, nor does he downplay. Just the raw unvarnished facts which show how brutally quick a life can be changed by the very first encounter with illicit drugs. Though as a teen I feared drugs enough to keep me from trying them, outside of alcohol and cigarettes -- nope, not even a toke -- a significant number of my peers were adventurous, or foolhardy, enough to 'experiment' as they liked to put it. But for Nic, experimentation was NOT an option; crystal meth was, and is, an equal-opportunity destroyer of mind and body.
I realize that my exposure to his descent has made me irritable today. (The unending sinus headache and twinging joints of my gardening/typing fingers played minor roles, undoubtedly.) Because try as I might, I couldn't keep him in his own skin. Every deal he made; every vein he hit; every mishap and misstep along the twisting wretched path of his increasing dependency on the cycles of heroine and crystal meth: it wasn't Nic Sheff that I saw but my own brother. It didn't matter that Nic's privileged life of comfort, travel, and fatherly attention contrasted so greatly with Gary's history of an unstable childhood and an absentee father -- an addict is an addict is an addict. The sway of these drugs takes a hold of the individual and transmogrifies him or her into a zombie held captive by base urges and primal needs.
It wasn't difficult to imagine my brother wandering unsafe streets at night, unable to sleep, penniless, just waiting until his body allowed him to crash after his fix. Whenever and wherever that might be. Inserting himself into ridiculous, sometimes downright dangerous, situations because he wasn't capable of rational thought. I could see him trying to put together a deal, saying too much, caring too little for himself, making the choices he would later regret with equal parts shame and disgust. Stealing from loved ones just to make the next score. Lying about the severity of his condition. Casting stones to divert attention from the truth of his actions. Hating himself for it. Understanding that blame and distrust and heartbreak was the wake he left behind. But powerless to bring it all to a halt.
I consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing research for the story my brother and I are putting together. I also consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing therapy. Though I knew in what I thought was large part about Gary's addiction issues, I've come to realize over the course of months from April 2010 to now -- when he entered the state hospital after leaving the prison system -- that a voluminous amount of information was not made privy to me. And I understand why. That ironclad hope that I'm known for may have surrendered to the seemingly hopeless nature of his life if I had been in possession of the certain knowledge concerning his daily ongoing activities that filled the days, weeks, months, and years of his youth and adult life up until now.
Within this past week, my brother has made a huge step in his therapeutic process by admitting that he has been lying to himself, and to me, about the severe nature of his drug addiction. Yes, he has a problem, and it has been living in him and feeding on him. He's tried to downplay it. He's accused the hospital ward hierarchy of spending too much time focused on addictions and not enough on mental illness. He's bucked the dual diagnosis of bi-polar AND drug dependent. He was protesting TOO much. When he copped to that and gave voice to what me and my family have always known is true for him, that he is, indeed, a drug addict, there was a huge internal shift for me, too. It was no longer just stories told and lived by a user of near-suicide and joy rides and botched parole. It was, and is, now a matter of a grown man struggling to accept the truth of his entire 34 years of pained and strained life. It was, and is, a matter of a compassionate and caring sister eager to stay as far away from the role of co-dependent as possible.
The irony is that despite the myriad insane adventures which seem to accompany the stuporous life of a user, they find real everyday life a fearful unsure bag of tricks. Yes, they can OD multiple times and narrowly escape death, but no, they can't hold down a job every day for the next few years. Yes, they'll risk personal safety handing over their money to perfect strangers who might mug them or run off with the cash instead of reciprocating with a baggie of instant nirvana, but they're not so very sure about regularly doling out a paycheck to gas, groceries, and toothpaste. None of it is logical. All of it is riddled with fear and paranoia and the obstinate belief that getting high is far better than any of us squares can possibly comprehend. It is a seduction -- slow, serious, scandalous. Though the addict tries to look away, his or her gaze is continually pulled back to lock eyes with the upper or downer, all the while hearing the siren call of instant serenity or escape, riding the high wave of 'everything is okay right now' or 'I can do anything,' and feeling the wash of opiates, or whatever else, as it flushes reality from veins, limbs, organs, and spirit.
********************
I fell asleep at the wheel writing this entry. This line denotes a new day. A fairly warm afternoon in Middle Tennessee. I've continued my journey through Nic's dereliction from responsibility and self awareness. And I realize I'm far from all right. I thought I understood what my brother has thus far endured. I don't. I didn't. That scares me. At this very moment, with fingers poised over my keyboard in the comfort of my pretty yellow kitchen, it frightens me into tears and threatens to halt my progress in this entry. But since the opening lines of this book ran through the earbuds of my iPhone and hit my mind, I knew I had to see this through. And, I'll have to see it through, with the abundant grace of Christ as my companion, to whatever ending there is. Because with Gary's huge declaration regarding his issues with heroin and meth specifically, any addictive substance in general, this is out of my hands. Not only does he have to deal with his mental illness and reprogram to operate safely and peacefully within its parameters, he must, must, must surrender, down to the last kernel and seed within him, his perceived need and deep-seated desire for the suffocating screaming cocoon he has allowed to form around him courtesy of the needle. All he has done is to trade in the pain of real life for the agony of an illusory existence.
My life has been nothing short of a testimony to the power of Christ: He has been the omniscient aid in powering through and overcoming the barrage of arrows and stones this earthly life has inflicted upon people whom I love more than the air I breathe. And, yes, a few have been hurled my way, but I consider their damage to me less penetrating than the wounds of others. What good is the air if there is no one around on the exhale? I was not put here to exist in solitude, therefore when one I love is in pain, I, too, experience that pain in some discomfiting measure. Having stated all of that, I put my faith in the basket labelled 'Gary's successful recovery and rehabilitation.' And I believe in the enormous possibility of that future. However, I also believe Gary must come willingly and do the work of his own accord so that his life may, indeed, be his own.
The God I have studied in scripture, heard about in church and from those who speak of such things, and who has been a presence in my life, does not force our hand. He does present consequences. He does not guarantee joy and peace in the physical realm -- just look at the state of our world and its nations throughout history -- but offers a very valid calm in the eye of the storm if we choose to partake. No one can make that choice for any other. And THAT is what I continue to accept at my core in regards to Gary. It all reads so well and easy but man! oh man! is it ever hard to put down.
For the here and now, I'll soldier on. Nic Sheff will continue to pull me along, back through time, so that I might walk with my brother through the life I did not fully comprehend he was leading while I was busy picking and choosing my own successes and failures in high school, and as a young mother and newlywed. Forge ahead with my research and writing. Dial up those two pay phones in Gary's ward at Napa State Hospital and await his familiar voice, vacillating between full-on clarity and prescriptively doped-down lethargy, and fill his ears with encouragement, truth, reality checks, and, yes, lots and lots of love. Regardless of what comes down the pike.
When I checked at Amazon.com to see what the book would cost to send to my brother, Gary, I was surprised to realize that I knew of this young man, Nic, in a roundabout way because his father wrote the same story about Nic's addiction but from the perspective of the family member trapped on the other side of meth's vicious grip. Somewhere, whether it was "The Today Show" or some such television vehicle, I caught an interview with this David Sheff and thought I'd like to read his take on what his son went through. And I will . . . as soon as I'm finished hearing what his son has to say.
"Tweak" is not a light read. Nor is it for children. Though if the child is 15 or older, I'd say he or she should have a listen or turn the pages. Nic does not embellish, nor does he downplay. Just the raw unvarnished facts which show how brutally quick a life can be changed by the very first encounter with illicit drugs. Though as a teen I feared drugs enough to keep me from trying them, outside of alcohol and cigarettes -- nope, not even a toke -- a significant number of my peers were adventurous, or foolhardy, enough to 'experiment' as they liked to put it. But for Nic, experimentation was NOT an option; crystal meth was, and is, an equal-opportunity destroyer of mind and body.
I realize that my exposure to his descent has made me irritable today. (The unending sinus headache and twinging joints of my gardening/typing fingers played minor roles, undoubtedly.) Because try as I might, I couldn't keep him in his own skin. Every deal he made; every vein he hit; every mishap and misstep along the twisting wretched path of his increasing dependency on the cycles of heroine and crystal meth: it wasn't Nic Sheff that I saw but my own brother. It didn't matter that Nic's privileged life of comfort, travel, and fatherly attention contrasted so greatly with Gary's history of an unstable childhood and an absentee father -- an addict is an addict is an addict. The sway of these drugs takes a hold of the individual and transmogrifies him or her into a zombie held captive by base urges and primal needs.
It wasn't difficult to imagine my brother wandering unsafe streets at night, unable to sleep, penniless, just waiting until his body allowed him to crash after his fix. Whenever and wherever that might be. Inserting himself into ridiculous, sometimes downright dangerous, situations because he wasn't capable of rational thought. I could see him trying to put together a deal, saying too much, caring too little for himself, making the choices he would later regret with equal parts shame and disgust. Stealing from loved ones just to make the next score. Lying about the severity of his condition. Casting stones to divert attention from the truth of his actions. Hating himself for it. Understanding that blame and distrust and heartbreak was the wake he left behind. But powerless to bring it all to a halt.
I consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing research for the story my brother and I are putting together. I also consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing therapy. Though I knew in what I thought was large part about Gary's addiction issues, I've come to realize over the course of months from April 2010 to now -- when he entered the state hospital after leaving the prison system -- that a voluminous amount of information was not made privy to me. And I understand why. That ironclad hope that I'm known for may have surrendered to the seemingly hopeless nature of his life if I had been in possession of the certain knowledge concerning his daily ongoing activities that filled the days, weeks, months, and years of his youth and adult life up until now.
Within this past week, my brother has made a huge step in his therapeutic process by admitting that he has been lying to himself, and to me, about the severe nature of his drug addiction. Yes, he has a problem, and it has been living in him and feeding on him. He's tried to downplay it. He's accused the hospital ward hierarchy of spending too much time focused on addictions and not enough on mental illness. He's bucked the dual diagnosis of bi-polar AND drug dependent. He was protesting TOO much. When he copped to that and gave voice to what me and my family have always known is true for him, that he is, indeed, a drug addict, there was a huge internal shift for me, too. It was no longer just stories told and lived by a user of near-suicide and joy rides and botched parole. It was, and is, now a matter of a grown man struggling to accept the truth of his entire 34 years of pained and strained life. It was, and is, a matter of a compassionate and caring sister eager to stay as far away from the role of co-dependent as possible.
The irony is that despite the myriad insane adventures which seem to accompany the stuporous life of a user, they find real everyday life a fearful unsure bag of tricks. Yes, they can OD multiple times and narrowly escape death, but no, they can't hold down a job every day for the next few years. Yes, they'll risk personal safety handing over their money to perfect strangers who might mug them or run off with the cash instead of reciprocating with a baggie of instant nirvana, but they're not so very sure about regularly doling out a paycheck to gas, groceries, and toothpaste. None of it is logical. All of it is riddled with fear and paranoia and the obstinate belief that getting high is far better than any of us squares can possibly comprehend. It is a seduction -- slow, serious, scandalous. Though the addict tries to look away, his or her gaze is continually pulled back to lock eyes with the upper or downer, all the while hearing the siren call of instant serenity or escape, riding the high wave of 'everything is okay right now' or 'I can do anything,' and feeling the wash of opiates, or whatever else, as it flushes reality from veins, limbs, organs, and spirit.
********************
I fell asleep at the wheel writing this entry. This line denotes a new day. A fairly warm afternoon in Middle Tennessee. I've continued my journey through Nic's dereliction from responsibility and self awareness. And I realize I'm far from all right. I thought I understood what my brother has thus far endured. I don't. I didn't. That scares me. At this very moment, with fingers poised over my keyboard in the comfort of my pretty yellow kitchen, it frightens me into tears and threatens to halt my progress in this entry. But since the opening lines of this book ran through the earbuds of my iPhone and hit my mind, I knew I had to see this through. And, I'll have to see it through, with the abundant grace of Christ as my companion, to whatever ending there is. Because with Gary's huge declaration regarding his issues with heroin and meth specifically, any addictive substance in general, this is out of my hands. Not only does he have to deal with his mental illness and reprogram to operate safely and peacefully within its parameters, he must, must, must surrender, down to the last kernel and seed within him, his perceived need and deep-seated desire for the suffocating screaming cocoon he has allowed to form around him courtesy of the needle. All he has done is to trade in the pain of real life for the agony of an illusory existence.
My life has been nothing short of a testimony to the power of Christ: He has been the omniscient aid in powering through and overcoming the barrage of arrows and stones this earthly life has inflicted upon people whom I love more than the air I breathe. And, yes, a few have been hurled my way, but I consider their damage to me less penetrating than the wounds of others. What good is the air if there is no one around on the exhale? I was not put here to exist in solitude, therefore when one I love is in pain, I, too, experience that pain in some discomfiting measure. Having stated all of that, I put my faith in the basket labelled 'Gary's successful recovery and rehabilitation.' And I believe in the enormous possibility of that future. However, I also believe Gary must come willingly and do the work of his own accord so that his life may, indeed, be his own.
The God I have studied in scripture, heard about in church and from those who speak of such things, and who has been a presence in my life, does not force our hand. He does present consequences. He does not guarantee joy and peace in the physical realm -- just look at the state of our world and its nations throughout history -- but offers a very valid calm in the eye of the storm if we choose to partake. No one can make that choice for any other. And THAT is what I continue to accept at my core in regards to Gary. It all reads so well and easy but man! oh man! is it ever hard to put down.
For the here and now, I'll soldier on. Nic Sheff will continue to pull me along, back through time, so that I might walk with my brother through the life I did not fully comprehend he was leading while I was busy picking and choosing my own successes and failures in high school, and as a young mother and newlywed. Forge ahead with my research and writing. Dial up those two pay phones in Gary's ward at Napa State Hospital and await his familiar voice, vacillating between full-on clarity and prescriptively doped-down lethargy, and fill his ears with encouragement, truth, reality checks, and, yes, lots and lots of love. Regardless of what comes down the pike.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
If Mohammed Won't Come To The Mountain . . .
It seems that the modern Holy War hatred is coming to a nasty head in our country. Continued rumours that our president is a practicing follower of Mohammed cannot be dispelled even by his own lips. Citizens refuse to allow him to say otherwise; or, though he says he is a Christian, what he says is not recognized and recorded in the public record with any real belief. At least not the e-mail forwarding public record -- which is taken for the God's-honest truth by many folk unwilling to do any research or more than willing to believe conspiracy theories and end-of-days preaching.
Let me just state for my own written record that my intent here is not to throw my hat in, or out, of the ring concerning President Obama. Nor is it to opine on my beliefs concerning Christianity and those of the Islam faith. It is the atmosphere of hate, which stems from fear, which bothers me.
9/11 only brought to the general public forefront of America an awareness of a culture and religious clash which has spanned hundreds of years after the birth of Christ, with several eras of Crusade wars as historical proof. I'm not an expert, so I'll refrain from venturing too far into that time period. Most of us aren't experts, and our memory of history classes is vague in light of all that we fight to keep in minds during the course of everyday life. So, much of what mainstream society relies upon is what we see, hear, and read from the media, our religious publications, and people around us willing to speak whether or not they postulate from a foundation of knowledge or ignorance.
Recently, three separate news items have incited a national discourse which has moved out of the arena of circumspect debate and into the fighting field of irrational thought and enmity.
1) The proposed Islamic center near Ground Zero -- which I do find to be a very bad idea in light of the location and the general propriety of honoring the feelings of the people involved who are left to bear the loss caused by the tragedy. Though I've not read every article and blog written on the subject, I get the sense there is a stubbornness behind all of this which lacks true hindsight OR foresight. A religion of peace will not gain the understanding of suspicious outsiders when certain members create distrust by maintaining a pitbull-like hold on an iffy-from-the-start proposition.
2) The planned bonfire of Qurans, the holy book of Islam, by the 50-member strong Dove Outreach Center in Florida led by the Reverend Terry Jones -- again, I have to disagree, because based on what Christianity states, though we may hate the spirit of a thing, we are not called to foster an atmosphere of hate to make a point. Not to mention the possible danger this could cause for our troops and private sector citizens in the Middle East. In a press statement today, the reverend stated, "As of right now, we are not convinced that backing down is the right thing." From WHAT can he not back down, exactly? Why did he feel the need to 'stand up' to begin with? How does this honor the memory of, or bring useful attention to, the world event that is 9/11? Again, it seems to me that there is a need for attention at the root of this 58 year-old man's agenda. I wonder how far an Iman would get if he led his mosque of followers to set fire to a pile of Bibles?
3) The ongoing conflict over the mosque attempting to go up in my town of Murfreesboro, Tennessee -- which started with contentious city commission meetings and culminated in arson at the dig site this past week. For over 25 years there has existed a community of Muslims here, small in comparison to the widespread presence of Baptist and Church of Christ and multiple other Christian worshippers liberally (no pun intended) peppered throughout this overall peaceable spot on the Tennessee map. Until recently, we've not had this outward expression of anti-Islamic feeling in such numbers, garnering such a high level of attention, engendering both perceived and very real violence. The ATF and FBI are now involved. Have we stepped back into the Dark Ages? Or worse, for this region of the country, have we rekindled the malevolent spirit of racism which held so many in bondage during our nation's time of early growing pains?
The radical and extremist groups which exist to stamp out any and all non-Islamic believers must rejoice when they view the images of discord and hostility being fostered and fed on American soil as of late. Perhaps they are patting themselves on the back in congratulations of a job well done; the seeds they planted on September 11, 2001 are bearing heavy fruit. The angry Americans launching this three-pronged attack on the Muslims in our midst will play well on the television sets and computer screens of training centers and back rooms in places where military and religious leaders work diligently and with great intelligence to fill the minds of young men and women with the rhetoric which will launch thousands into suicide bombings and the like.
It would appear that they know us better than we know ourselves. Where we react emotionally, they sit back and study. We would do well to learn from that particular model. We can learn from the enemy without surrendering to the misinformation and poisoned mindsets. I don't hold all of the answers. I'm not fully certain just exactly what the questions should be. But what my mind AND my heart tell me is that this goes beyond a simple exercise in First Amendment rights. Though there is most certainly a compelling need for action that should be taken here, I don't believe these particular actions reflect the need.
Christians would do well to allow the Holy Spirit to have a pow-wow at their spiritual core and examine the line between human frailty and Godly strength. Americans in general would benefit from taking an emotional step back and injecting a bit of intellectual contemplation into the mix -- wisdom is a useful by-product of such reflection. Fear is never a sound game plan nor a sole basis for solid strategy. Enough said.
Let me just state for my own written record that my intent here is not to throw my hat in, or out, of the ring concerning President Obama. Nor is it to opine on my beliefs concerning Christianity and those of the Islam faith. It is the atmosphere of hate, which stems from fear, which bothers me.
9/11 only brought to the general public forefront of America an awareness of a culture and religious clash which has spanned hundreds of years after the birth of Christ, with several eras of Crusade wars as historical proof. I'm not an expert, so I'll refrain from venturing too far into that time period. Most of us aren't experts, and our memory of history classes is vague in light of all that we fight to keep in minds during the course of everyday life. So, much of what mainstream society relies upon is what we see, hear, and read from the media, our religious publications, and people around us willing to speak whether or not they postulate from a foundation of knowledge or ignorance.
Recently, three separate news items have incited a national discourse which has moved out of the arena of circumspect debate and into the fighting field of irrational thought and enmity.
1) The proposed Islamic center near Ground Zero -- which I do find to be a very bad idea in light of the location and the general propriety of honoring the feelings of the people involved who are left to bear the loss caused by the tragedy. Though I've not read every article and blog written on the subject, I get the sense there is a stubbornness behind all of this which lacks true hindsight OR foresight. A religion of peace will not gain the understanding of suspicious outsiders when certain members create distrust by maintaining a pitbull-like hold on an iffy-from-the-start proposition.
2) The planned bonfire of Qurans, the holy book of Islam, by the 50-member strong Dove Outreach Center in Florida led by the Reverend Terry Jones -- again, I have to disagree, because based on what Christianity states, though we may hate the spirit of a thing, we are not called to foster an atmosphere of hate to make a point. Not to mention the possible danger this could cause for our troops and private sector citizens in the Middle East. In a press statement today, the reverend stated, "As of right now, we are not convinced that backing down is the right thing." From WHAT can he not back down, exactly? Why did he feel the need to 'stand up' to begin with? How does this honor the memory of, or bring useful attention to, the world event that is 9/11? Again, it seems to me that there is a need for attention at the root of this 58 year-old man's agenda. I wonder how far an Iman would get if he led his mosque of followers to set fire to a pile of Bibles?
3) The ongoing conflict over the mosque attempting to go up in my town of Murfreesboro, Tennessee -- which started with contentious city commission meetings and culminated in arson at the dig site this past week. For over 25 years there has existed a community of Muslims here, small in comparison to the widespread presence of Baptist and Church of Christ and multiple other Christian worshippers liberally (no pun intended) peppered throughout this overall peaceable spot on the Tennessee map. Until recently, we've not had this outward expression of anti-Islamic feeling in such numbers, garnering such a high level of attention, engendering both perceived and very real violence. The ATF and FBI are now involved. Have we stepped back into the Dark Ages? Or worse, for this region of the country, have we rekindled the malevolent spirit of racism which held so many in bondage during our nation's time of early growing pains?
The radical and extremist groups which exist to stamp out any and all non-Islamic believers must rejoice when they view the images of discord and hostility being fostered and fed on American soil as of late. Perhaps they are patting themselves on the back in congratulations of a job well done; the seeds they planted on September 11, 2001 are bearing heavy fruit. The angry Americans launching this three-pronged attack on the Muslims in our midst will play well on the television sets and computer screens of training centers and back rooms in places where military and religious leaders work diligently and with great intelligence to fill the minds of young men and women with the rhetoric which will launch thousands into suicide bombings and the like.
It would appear that they know us better than we know ourselves. Where we react emotionally, they sit back and study. We would do well to learn from that particular model. We can learn from the enemy without surrendering to the misinformation and poisoned mindsets. I don't hold all of the answers. I'm not fully certain just exactly what the questions should be. But what my mind AND my heart tell me is that this goes beyond a simple exercise in First Amendment rights. Though there is most certainly a compelling need for action that should be taken here, I don't believe these particular actions reflect the need.
Christians would do well to allow the Holy Spirit to have a pow-wow at their spiritual core and examine the line between human frailty and Godly strength. Americans in general would benefit from taking an emotional step back and injecting a bit of intellectual contemplation into the mix -- wisdom is a useful by-product of such reflection. Fear is never a sound game plan nor a sole basis for solid strategy. Enough said.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Bad Mornings Require Goodness
"I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years." -- the final paragraph in Mockingjay, the third in The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins
The heroine in the story, Katniss Everdeen, shares these thoughts in the closing moments of the book I just finished earlier tonight. They struck a chord, stirring a hum which resonated to the very core of me, the way lines of truth tend to do when I come across them in my literary outings. I highlighted them in orange. Tucked them away for later contemplation for this blog. There's something there which needs saying.
Only I'm not sure just what. But if I wait, it may not be allowed the chance to flesh out the skeleton of an idea, my days being what they are in this chaotic unnatural suburban landscape, so I'll attempt to describe what is barely there.
Katniss' childhood was a bleak existence. She found ways to move within that bleakness and still retain a measure of who she was. At some point, she became a pawn in a game not within her control though she exerted great effort to regain a portion of control. People, those close to her, many who were not, were lost along the way. Her guilt over surviving, misplaced feelings that her ability to keep her head above water while often better folks around her succumbed to great pain and death, made life an impossible bit of business for her internally. Externally, she kept about the actions of living and rolling with the bruising punches. This is a gross simplification without benefit of the complicated plot line.
I identify with Katniss in those words of hers. A great many unknown to me likely do, too. A difficult childhood. The isolation which can come with that. The supreme effort to rise above and even appreciate the lessons of that childhood. Working through experience and faith to build an understanding of past events in order to translate them into an operational vehicle for future events. Coming to a place at some point where the two collide with a thunderous clap which leaves the ears ringing. Looking around with the realization that though you now stand, several in the collision did not emerge as whole as you. Or at least as whole as you appear. The scene of the accident must be cleared, bodies dragged to the side, glass and debris swept away, and witnesses debriefed. When the emergency crew finally leaves with the unfortunate victims, you are able to walk away with only the collective dust about your person. And the memories for everlasting company.
When you know that while you narrowly escaped an existence of desperation and strife that has succeeded in trapping others, large numbers of others on a world scale, a significant gallery of others in your close circle, it is difficult to enjoy the the life on the other side of that escape. No matter if you tried to save the others. No matter if you were willing to sacrifice yourself. No matter if you, too, bear scars of a lesser degree but painful all the same. No matter if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps to make the most of your blessed lot. But unlike Katniss' words, it's more than the fear that you might lose it all. It's even more than fear, really. It's the expectation that anyone's carpet can be pulled from under them at any given moment, and with so many suffering so much so regularly, why get too comfortable.
But even more than that, it's unfair. To have wonderful friends, a spacious home, food whenever the belly desires, safety to be a woman and a Christian and an individual, while over 90% of the world's population struggles just to find adequate water or shelter or food for a day. To sit securely at a laptop and discuss with an invisible audience a reflective moment while a brother and sister wrestle the demons which followed them up through the years of their youth into their troubled adult lives. And even this is a gross simplification of an infinitely complex timeline which is yet projecting into the years ahead. All of it unfair. Not fair. Which I tell my kids constantly is how it is. I want them to be prepared when it hits. Over and over and over again.
So there are mornings when I rise, mornings when people in other myriad walks of life rise, and we begin the difficult chore of accepting the next 24 hour stretch as a gift of which we are worthy to partake. We remind ourselves of the goodness out there being enacted by others, even trying to believe that we might have done a few good things along the way, to balance the paralyzing awareness that incredible amounts of suffering go on way beyond our power to control or change. Without my faith in the Lord, I would be paralyzed; with it, I yet struggle with holding on to hope. It is a bit repetitive. It can be a tedious exercise as the decades stack up.
And it is survival, if not of the fittest, at least of the 'attempting to be fit.'
The heroine in the story, Katniss Everdeen, shares these thoughts in the closing moments of the book I just finished earlier tonight. They struck a chord, stirring a hum which resonated to the very core of me, the way lines of truth tend to do when I come across them in my literary outings. I highlighted them in orange. Tucked them away for later contemplation for this blog. There's something there which needs saying.
Only I'm not sure just what. But if I wait, it may not be allowed the chance to flesh out the skeleton of an idea, my days being what they are in this chaotic unnatural suburban landscape, so I'll attempt to describe what is barely there.
Katniss' childhood was a bleak existence. She found ways to move within that bleakness and still retain a measure of who she was. At some point, she became a pawn in a game not within her control though she exerted great effort to regain a portion of control. People, those close to her, many who were not, were lost along the way. Her guilt over surviving, misplaced feelings that her ability to keep her head above water while often better folks around her succumbed to great pain and death, made life an impossible bit of business for her internally. Externally, she kept about the actions of living and rolling with the bruising punches. This is a gross simplification without benefit of the complicated plot line.
I identify with Katniss in those words of hers. A great many unknown to me likely do, too. A difficult childhood. The isolation which can come with that. The supreme effort to rise above and even appreciate the lessons of that childhood. Working through experience and faith to build an understanding of past events in order to translate them into an operational vehicle for future events. Coming to a place at some point where the two collide with a thunderous clap which leaves the ears ringing. Looking around with the realization that though you now stand, several in the collision did not emerge as whole as you. Or at least as whole as you appear. The scene of the accident must be cleared, bodies dragged to the side, glass and debris swept away, and witnesses debriefed. When the emergency crew finally leaves with the unfortunate victims, you are able to walk away with only the collective dust about your person. And the memories for everlasting company.
When you know that while you narrowly escaped an existence of desperation and strife that has succeeded in trapping others, large numbers of others on a world scale, a significant gallery of others in your close circle, it is difficult to enjoy the the life on the other side of that escape. No matter if you tried to save the others. No matter if you were willing to sacrifice yourself. No matter if you, too, bear scars of a lesser degree but painful all the same. No matter if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps to make the most of your blessed lot. But unlike Katniss' words, it's more than the fear that you might lose it all. It's even more than fear, really. It's the expectation that anyone's carpet can be pulled from under them at any given moment, and with so many suffering so much so regularly, why get too comfortable.
But even more than that, it's unfair. To have wonderful friends, a spacious home, food whenever the belly desires, safety to be a woman and a Christian and an individual, while over 90% of the world's population struggles just to find adequate water or shelter or food for a day. To sit securely at a laptop and discuss with an invisible audience a reflective moment while a brother and sister wrestle the demons which followed them up through the years of their youth into their troubled adult lives. And even this is a gross simplification of an infinitely complex timeline which is yet projecting into the years ahead. All of it unfair. Not fair. Which I tell my kids constantly is how it is. I want them to be prepared when it hits. Over and over and over again.
So there are mornings when I rise, mornings when people in other myriad walks of life rise, and we begin the difficult chore of accepting the next 24 hour stretch as a gift of which we are worthy to partake. We remind ourselves of the goodness out there being enacted by others, even trying to believe that we might have done a few good things along the way, to balance the paralyzing awareness that incredible amounts of suffering go on way beyond our power to control or change. Without my faith in the Lord, I would be paralyzed; with it, I yet struggle with holding on to hope. It is a bit repetitive. It can be a tedious exercise as the decades stack up.
And it is survival, if not of the fittest, at least of the 'attempting to be fit.'
Thursday, September 2, 2010
REMINDER of ALTERNATIVE
Dear Readers of THE RELUCTANT SUBURBANITE,
I wanted to bring to your attention my second blog, Push-Ups, also here on blogger.com under my name. Where this blog tends to be lengthy and deal with more weighty subject matter, the Push-Ups blog is usually brief -- comparatively speaking -- and lighter in tone and subject. The entries also tend toward a daily habit as I consider it an exercise in writing; entries here make appearances every week or two.
Take a peek. Less time. Smaller bites. Easier to digest. Think of it as a snack in between meals.
Thank You for Reading . . . and Still Returning!
-gsv, Our Lady of Reluctance in all Things Suburban
I wanted to bring to your attention my second blog, Push-Ups, also here on blogger.com under my name. Where this blog tends to be lengthy and deal with more weighty subject matter, the Push-Ups blog is usually brief -- comparatively speaking -- and lighter in tone and subject. The entries also tend toward a daily habit as I consider it an exercise in writing; entries here make appearances every week or two.
Take a peek. Less time. Smaller bites. Easier to digest. Think of it as a snack in between meals.
Thank You for Reading . . . and Still Returning!
-gsv, Our Lady of Reluctance in all Things Suburban
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