Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote “The years teach much which the days never know,” and as time goes on I feel that much deeper.
I carry a weighty sadness for not being able to get out of my own way through the years, and I don’t know whether I was just lazy, or didn’t really want what I said I wanted, or what I said mattered, or if it truly was that most of the time getting through my day was a laudable accomplishment.
I have so many questions if this is not a random universe and my being is not an astounding stroke of luck in such a universe.
I don’t know what the difference is between someone who attains their goals and lives a fulfilled life and someone who doesn’t – even when they sincerely try – or believe they sincerely try.
It’s not like nothing happened. A whole life was lived and managed – for better or worse.
I grew up, procreated, and am coming into my declining years – kicking and screaming.
I am a writer. I am writing. I have been an actor, and I have been a singer – in a band even!
Those were the goals I had. The famous part eluded me. Maybe that’s a good thing.
I was a hurt, vulnerable person in a sick and suffering world, and likely would have been prey as I had been anyway – but maybe not. There is no control me to know for sure.
Maybe I would have had protection from the predators – or lots of dumb luck.
Or I could have died in a back alley somewhere, or become what was done to me.
I did none of that.
I did want to end me – sometimes still do – but it’s far less than it was (most of the time.)
Worries about facing consequences in a spiritual realm kept me from offing myself – that and my son.
I rose as much as I fell though. I battled my way back after every down turn. The problem is the cycle never ended. It was exhausting. It is exhausting.
I couldn’t find a medication that worked, or that I could tolerate. I know several people who have said that they would likely not be alive if they had not found the right medication. Why am I such an anomaly?
That’s rhetorical. I just am, is the answer. It’s not personal. It just sucks.
If I did choose this, why can’t I un-choose it? If karma is real, what the hell did I do (or what hell did I do)? Why don’t we remember how we screwed up before so we can avoid repeating it?
I look around at the world and it seems to be on a perpetual rinse and repeat doom cycle everywhere.
If there is a harmonious, functioning, peaceful society who won’t tolerate predators, they have hidden themselves well away from the rest of us. If there’s a secret handshake, or phrase, or code – I want to find it out and join them.
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh), Making A Way Blog, 2010 – current