Imported Poems
Suffering
by , 07-27-2007 at 02:04 PM (1838 Views)
Don't have much time today to go into details (will do that over the next several days), so I'll cover main points.
Last night I was invited out by some friends and in the course of the evening (which involved leaving first group of friends and joining another group of friends - actually, "friend". The others are merely acquaintances) I heard three separate tales, all tragic, of childhood and sexual/physical abuse. I must have a Mother Teresa stamp on my forehead which is invisible to me, because I garner these stories - it's not unusual for people, after knowing me a short bit, to reveal their suffering, always with comments like "I don't know why I'm telling you this" or "no one knows" or "I haven't told anyone else."
I'm aware, as these bits unfold - usually in a matter-of-fact voice that seems grimly and disturbingly ironic compared to the content and substance of the narrative - that I am being honored, for I consider it a privilage to be trusted so explicitly with something so delicate. Simultaneously, a great dread overwhelms me because I am mindful of my strong empathic skills, which leads me to absorb their pain and carry it around as my own burden (hours and days afterward I am weary and morose - as if a dark cloud has descended upon my soul. I dreamed terrible dreams last night as a result.)
Because I am engaged in sharing their burden, it's my natural inclination to try and help - to search for some strategy for them to heal, because by their healing I am also healed. Last night it was disconcerting and painful to discover (after reducing the entire malaise down to childhood and issues with the mother figure) a spirit unwilling to change. I told her "if you want to save your relationship and deal with the anger, you have to allow yourself to feel the anger. You have to permit yourself to experience the rage towards your mother" (though she had always told me her mother is "cool" I had long suspected this was merely a ruse. Subtle inconsistencies gave it away).
She told me "No. I know one day I might lose my partner for it and won't progress but I'm not going to be angry at my mother". I told her she was making a choice - that she was chosing not to get past it, and she concurred.
What does one do, then? Nothing. Idealizing the matriarch is the most important thing to her in the entire world. All else will be sacrificed at this altar of parental preservation.
Though the other claims to have forgiven his dad, he's still living in a fugue of prescription drug haze. He feels because he's beaten a horse/methodone addiction, he's not a junkie, but doesn't see his pharmaceutical collection has left him in narcotic/benzie vacua that is the brother to Opium. Denial is strong - no matter how carefully and tactfully I approach the subject, he plays heavy defense. He's a musical savant and a lit major (I suspect when I finally get to read his writing I am going to be impressed) so I'm not surprised and yet, I want to help redeem him from it. I want to see him realize his potential, rather than living a fringe existence.
He says he's forgiven his dad, but I don't know if this is true; the truth can only be known once he emerges from the ether. I know he's still living in the shadows of the past - the mental tapes his dad made for him are still playing in his head; the graphic images of such abominable, horrific, depraved acts are still present in his consciousness.
He goes to church with his grandparents on Sun and I'm going with him (this makes me happy). He has a book by Billy Graham beside the fridge. I feel like there is a light in this utter darkness - a dim fire that can be fanned into flame, or extinguished completely, all dependent upon the influence. From what I can observe, other than his grandparents, I am the single fuel cell for the flame.
The most horrible part of my dream last night involved him.
Finally, the dread I feel - the empathic part - dictates I flee as far and as fast from these stories, this suffering, and re-isolate myself. I may be miserable and suicidal, but I am peacefully miserable and serenely suicidal. In my solitude there is a sense of safety - of being "untouchable" by the rest of the world. I don't know if withdrawal is the right course, only that it is my self-preservational instinct. And lastly, though it is a small wee voice inside my head, the element of selfishness has pitched it's argument:
"These parties, these friends were supposed to help you have fun. Instead of enjoying yourself, you have become a pain conductor, a burden bearer."
Whether in a Sunday School class with tiara wearing women twittering about silly, meaningless reality or at night with the "fun-loving crew", I am alienated in pleasure. The most happiness/joy I experience is alone, whether with God in the garden or on the anonymous dance floor, alone in a corner of my own.
I will write more on the lit major later, what I will say now is he reminds me of Anthony in so many ways - the romantic idealist disgusted by animalistic sexuality, a man who (like moi) is repulsed by the baseness of modern relationships. He wants to get to know a woman first, spend time conversing with her, and sees sex as the culimation of a beautiful friendship rather than the first thing one does with a member of the opposite sex. He has a beautiful soul in so many ways - if I can assist God in elevating him out of the drugs, cigarettes, alcohol - if he can move away from that and become artistically productive (he wants to collaborate with me on a project; he says he can get us a stage for a play) I think he could really - I don't know - more than self-actualize; make a really big difference.
I'm going to be late for work. Thanks for listening.
Hugs and Socratic, Aristotilian love, Tanya
PS: Thought for the day (occured last night): the true self (the true nature of a person) can be determined by evaluating their relationship to their suffering. It's not just experience which makes us what we are; it's how we relate to that experience.
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