Kate has given me another card, one with cute stickers all over the front. Inside she has her own epigraph, words of encouragement to me. She says "You can't let life get in the way of living". It is hard sometimes to get ALS out of the way, to not let this turn of life get in the way of living. Overall, though, I think I do a pretty good job.
A friend and I were trying to set up a dinner appointment yesterday. We compared calendars and both of us realized we had very busy schedules. Each of us has days with little in them, yet those days seem well offset by the activity filled days. Today, for example, is a very quiet day for me, with no homecare workers coming in, no appointments, no shopping plans. Yet tomorrow is filled from 9:00 AM until well into the evening. It just works out that way.
I like my busy life. I like living it. I like getting out and being social, enjoying the pleasure of friends both here at home and my favourite haunts around the city. I like their company; I come alive in the company of others. As my world closes in around me and ALS confines me more and more, my hope is that, when I cannot go to the party, the party will come to me. Regardless, I am going to keep heading for the party as long as I can.
Both Johnny Cash and Kris Kristoffersen made a hit out of a song called "Why Me". You might think that this would be a plaintive country song asking God why so many bad things were happening. It is not. In fact it is an uplifting song, thanking God for all the good in life. The opening lyric is "Why me Lord what have I ever done; To deserve even one of the pleasures I've known."
While I get sad at times, down at times about the way my life has turned out, I need to be reminded now and then that at least I've had a life, and a pretty good one at that. As I said to another friend the other night, "I'm pretty happy with my life except for this one small health problem." It's important for me to remember that struggle and suffering are an inevitable part of living, and so is death. The struggle that I am going through as I head towards my final end is really only one small part of my life. I've had a lot of pleasures along the way.
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Monday, 29 September 2014
Am I Negative?
I've been told that my blog entries have been a bit depressing of late. One of my buddies told me I had to stop writing all that "dark shit"; another suggested that I had been awfully negative. When my daughter came over yesterday we talked about it as well, the tone and content of my thoughts and words.
Then we talked about the book "Tuesdays with Morrie". We've both read it, and interestingly enough both remember different key passages from it. For me, the strongest thought was when Morrie commented that "some day, someones gonna have to wipe my ass." It was a statement about loss of independence, the ever progressing nature of ALS. Kate remembered the line where Morrie saying he allowed himself 30 minutes of self-pity each morning and no more.
I occurred to me that perhaps this blog was my 30 minutes of self-pity, although many days I don't see a lot of self pity in it. This is, however, the space where I get to talk about living with ALS, and life in general, in pretty unflinching terms. In this space I try very hard to hold no punches, to leave little on the table. I want, in this journal of my journey, to share with as much reality as possible.
Self-pity is something I used to do. It's interesting that I do so little of it now, when I have a lot that I could use as a rationale for self-pity. Misery could easily be a part of my daily life as well. Yet I am far too pragmatic to spend large amounts of time in either of these places. They do so little for me, and even less for those around me.
When I am in public, I know this for sure. After about 30 seconds of hearing about ALS and my life challenges, people are pretty much ready to talk about something else, anything else. It is a depressing and boring subject, rife with all the emotions that drag us into our own misery. People don't want to hear about sad things, so I talk about other things, happy things, funny things.
On the other hand, I truly treasure those moments when I can talk about it, especially with those who care about me. I find those time, those minutes when I can say what it feels like to live with this, even more revealing and uplifting than the process of writing. So if my blog seems a bit negative to you, understand that this is where I get to tell the real story; it's not a very positive one. I get it out early; that way I don't have to carry it around all day.
Then we talked about the book "Tuesdays with Morrie". We've both read it, and interestingly enough both remember different key passages from it. For me, the strongest thought was when Morrie commented that "some day, someones gonna have to wipe my ass." It was a statement about loss of independence, the ever progressing nature of ALS. Kate remembered the line where Morrie saying he allowed himself 30 minutes of self-pity each morning and no more.
I occurred to me that perhaps this blog was my 30 minutes of self-pity, although many days I don't see a lot of self pity in it. This is, however, the space where I get to talk about living with ALS, and life in general, in pretty unflinching terms. In this space I try very hard to hold no punches, to leave little on the table. I want, in this journal of my journey, to share with as much reality as possible.
Self-pity is something I used to do. It's interesting that I do so little of it now, when I have a lot that I could use as a rationale for self-pity. Misery could easily be a part of my daily life as well. Yet I am far too pragmatic to spend large amounts of time in either of these places. They do so little for me, and even less for those around me.
When I am in public, I know this for sure. After about 30 seconds of hearing about ALS and my life challenges, people are pretty much ready to talk about something else, anything else. It is a depressing and boring subject, rife with all the emotions that drag us into our own misery. People don't want to hear about sad things, so I talk about other things, happy things, funny things.
On the other hand, I truly treasure those moments when I can talk about it, especially with those who care about me. I find those time, those minutes when I can say what it feels like to live with this, even more revealing and uplifting than the process of writing. So if my blog seems a bit negative to you, understand that this is where I get to tell the real story; it's not a very positive one. I get it out early; that way I don't have to carry it around all day.
Sunday, 28 September 2014
Another Thing To Manage
I went to another football game last night, another game between my two favourite CFL teams, the Calgary Stampeders and the BC Lions. I like to say that when these two teams play, my team wins either way. The truth is that I have been a BC Lions fan since I was 9 years old, the year my Uncle Peter took me and my brother Bobby, now known as Adam, to a BC Lions game in the old Empire Stadium in Vancouver.
It must have been quite the challenge for my Uncle Peter, a young, single man only in his late twenties at that time, to haul two rambunctious little boys to an open stadium football game, expecting them to sit and watch, cheer at the right time and only stand up when there was a touchdown. It was quite the ritual for Peter. I remember him more than once telling me to sit down.
Of course I was just a little boy. When I sat down I couldn't see that much of the action, especially down field. When the BC Lions scored a touchdown, I stood up like everyone else, only to discover that the people standing all blocked my view anyway. It didn't really matter, though. I remember that day, I remember my Uncle Peter and his love for football. I remember his laugh, much like my Grandpa's laugh, and his love of humour, still a family trait.
Unfortunately for me, outdoor games in cold weather are becoming more and more problematic. With my leg muscles no longer pumping blood properly and no longer generating heat, my legs and feet become very cold, even in the mildest of conditions. I can take the cold; it's no big deal. The problem is that it takes many hours at home for my feet and legs to get warm afterwards.
This means I go to bed with cold feet. When my feet are cold, I cannot get to sleep. Last night I was able to move my upper legs about and generate some warmth. I even tried rubbing my lower legs and feet, but to no avail. The circulation is so poor and the muscle activity is essentially non-existent. My feet stayed cold and I stayed awake.
It was about 3:00 AM before I finally got past the cold feet and into the warmth of sleep. Fortunately I have no plans for today, so I slept until well past noon. It's just frustrating. In times past when this happened, I could just get up and put on a pair of socks. That's a major deal now, with the wheelchair and my legs not working. And anyway, I doubt that would have worked all that well. Even with socks on, there is no circulation down there. So I would be putting all the effort in for socks, only to find my feet remained cold beneath them. It's just that way these days; things that used to work don't, and working hard to make up for it doesn't usually work either. It's just another thing to manage.
It must have been quite the challenge for my Uncle Peter, a young, single man only in his late twenties at that time, to haul two rambunctious little boys to an open stadium football game, expecting them to sit and watch, cheer at the right time and only stand up when there was a touchdown. It was quite the ritual for Peter. I remember him more than once telling me to sit down.
Of course I was just a little boy. When I sat down I couldn't see that much of the action, especially down field. When the BC Lions scored a touchdown, I stood up like everyone else, only to discover that the people standing all blocked my view anyway. It didn't really matter, though. I remember that day, I remember my Uncle Peter and his love for football. I remember his laugh, much like my Grandpa's laugh, and his love of humour, still a family trait.
Unfortunately for me, outdoor games in cold weather are becoming more and more problematic. With my leg muscles no longer pumping blood properly and no longer generating heat, my legs and feet become very cold, even in the mildest of conditions. I can take the cold; it's no big deal. The problem is that it takes many hours at home for my feet and legs to get warm afterwards.
This means I go to bed with cold feet. When my feet are cold, I cannot get to sleep. Last night I was able to move my upper legs about and generate some warmth. I even tried rubbing my lower legs and feet, but to no avail. The circulation is so poor and the muscle activity is essentially non-existent. My feet stayed cold and I stayed awake.
It was about 3:00 AM before I finally got past the cold feet and into the warmth of sleep. Fortunately I have no plans for today, so I slept until well past noon. It's just frustrating. In times past when this happened, I could just get up and put on a pair of socks. That's a major deal now, with the wheelchair and my legs not working. And anyway, I doubt that would have worked all that well. Even with socks on, there is no circulation down there. So I would be putting all the effort in for socks, only to find my feet remained cold beneath them. It's just that way these days; things that used to work don't, and working hard to make up for it doesn't usually work either. It's just another thing to manage.
Saturday, 27 September 2014
One Little Bit At A Time
I've learned lessons from the sea, the kind of lessons that cannot be learned by listening to the stories of others nor by reading them in some guide or magazine. I've learned lessons about weather and helm, distance and direction, lessons about the limitations of ship and crew, the power of waves and water. I've learned about attacking odds, moving against them steadily and defeating them not through force, but through persistence.
There is a stretch of water along the Sunshine Coast of BC which challenges all who come there in anything except the easiest of times. It runs from Welcome Pass, just up from Sechelt, down to Gower Point, the entry to the safety across Shoal Channel and into Gibsons Harbour. This stretch of water is exposed to the long fetch, the full fetch of the Salish Sea, running clear from the islands that protect the entry to Puget Sound all the way to Campbell River, an open stretch of water where southerly winds build a pounding triangular sea, bounced back and forth in a bathtub action by the shores of Vancouver Island on the one hand and the mainland coast on the other.
It is a dangerous stretch of water in bad weather, having claimed more than one vessel whose skipper was insufficiently experienced or arrogant enough to assume that the mere power of engines could surpass the strength of the sea. It is possible to navigate this stretch in all but the worst of weather, yet each year it claims someone, whether professional mariner or recreational boater. It is not dangerous if you know what to do; it just takes those who lack the experience to know when to turn back.
In one of our many sailing trips, my daughter Meaghan and I were traversing this stretch of water in late afternoon, an afternoon of foul weather and adverse conditions. The wind was pounding us with a near gale, driven up by a building southerly rising in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, turning the corner in Haro Straits, running fast, furious and free up the Strait of Georgia, finally blasting itself onto the open shores of Davis Bay.
Meaghan and I made this run carefully. The wind held us back, the tide pushed us back, the waves pounded us back, rising alongside and running green water from the open seas over the foredeck of our small sailboat. I knew this water and I knew this boat. The way to take it was steady, a hand on the tiller and an eye on the water. This stretch is an 11 mile run; with wind and wave against us we were making no more than 2 or 3 knots; it was going to be a long stretch.
As we passed Davis Bay we heard a Mayday on the radio; this was one time when I wished I was running with the radio off, something I would rarely do. We had passed Davis Bay but behind us was the call for urgent assistance. A boat had overturned and people were in the water. We knew what we had to do; we turned and suddenly were headed at 9 or 10 knots away from where we wanted to go.
As it turned out, the mayday was a false alarm, a roadside motorist seeing a windsurfer go over and assuming it was a boat, not just someone taking advantage of the full surf that this weather drove before itself. Once we cleared the mayday, we still had 9 miles to go while making at best 3 knots an hour. It was to be a long run.
I settled in, hand on the tiller, face against the rain, standing square in the cockpit, bracing myself with the railing and seat, prepared to work against it all, headed for home and safety. I had my GPS beside me so I could get a better sense of run and speed over ground. It showed each mile, each tenth of a mile. I came to realize that every 14 waves represented a 10th of a mile; every seventh or eighth was a bad one. I held the tiller, counted the 10th's of miles, and knew that with each passing minute our goal of safe harbour grew ever closer. We got there safely.
Tonight I was at a social event. It was at one of my favourite hangouts and, as usual, I stayed late. When I arrived I could not park in the regular handicapped spot; it was already taken. So I parked in the laneway across the street. After my evening with friends I made my way out of the pub. I approached the curb and gutter, one that has given me grief in the past. I made my way slowly down the the edge and worked across it.
Once safely setup, what lay before me was the steep rise to the crest of the road, the hump in the middle. So I edged my way up slowly, adjusting my body to maintain a center of balance and moving the wheels on my chair a bit at a time. I inched forward to the top. Once there I rolled down the other side where I was again presented with the steep slope up the alley way. Again I move in careful, measured increments, balancing myself as I moved up the rise to my truck.
It was there I realized the similarity between my adventures in sailing and my adventures in my wheelchair. I am no longer strong enough to simply force my way up something. I am no longer able to push with the power I once had against the slope of the road. But like my sailing adventures, if I take each increment, each rise, each stage in small bits, I know I can get there; every push, every struggle, every part; none is monolith, all can be taken in smaller pieces. I may no longer be able to run, to stand, to walk, to stretch, yet I can still get there, one little bit at a time.
There is a stretch of water along the Sunshine Coast of BC which challenges all who come there in anything except the easiest of times. It runs from Welcome Pass, just up from Sechelt, down to Gower Point, the entry to the safety across Shoal Channel and into Gibsons Harbour. This stretch of water is exposed to the long fetch, the full fetch of the Salish Sea, running clear from the islands that protect the entry to Puget Sound all the way to Campbell River, an open stretch of water where southerly winds build a pounding triangular sea, bounced back and forth in a bathtub action by the shores of Vancouver Island on the one hand and the mainland coast on the other.
It is a dangerous stretch of water in bad weather, having claimed more than one vessel whose skipper was insufficiently experienced or arrogant enough to assume that the mere power of engines could surpass the strength of the sea. It is possible to navigate this stretch in all but the worst of weather, yet each year it claims someone, whether professional mariner or recreational boater. It is not dangerous if you know what to do; it just takes those who lack the experience to know when to turn back.
In one of our many sailing trips, my daughter Meaghan and I were traversing this stretch of water in late afternoon, an afternoon of foul weather and adverse conditions. The wind was pounding us with a near gale, driven up by a building southerly rising in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, turning the corner in Haro Straits, running fast, furious and free up the Strait of Georgia, finally blasting itself onto the open shores of Davis Bay.
Meaghan and I made this run carefully. The wind held us back, the tide pushed us back, the waves pounded us back, rising alongside and running green water from the open seas over the foredeck of our small sailboat. I knew this water and I knew this boat. The way to take it was steady, a hand on the tiller and an eye on the water. This stretch is an 11 mile run; with wind and wave against us we were making no more than 2 or 3 knots; it was going to be a long stretch.
As we passed Davis Bay we heard a Mayday on the radio; this was one time when I wished I was running with the radio off, something I would rarely do. We had passed Davis Bay but behind us was the call for urgent assistance. A boat had overturned and people were in the water. We knew what we had to do; we turned and suddenly were headed at 9 or 10 knots away from where we wanted to go.
As it turned out, the mayday was a false alarm, a roadside motorist seeing a windsurfer go over and assuming it was a boat, not just someone taking advantage of the full surf that this weather drove before itself. Once we cleared the mayday, we still had 9 miles to go while making at best 3 knots an hour. It was to be a long run.
I settled in, hand on the tiller, face against the rain, standing square in the cockpit, bracing myself with the railing and seat, prepared to work against it all, headed for home and safety. I had my GPS beside me so I could get a better sense of run and speed over ground. It showed each mile, each tenth of a mile. I came to realize that every 14 waves represented a 10th of a mile; every seventh or eighth was a bad one. I held the tiller, counted the 10th's of miles, and knew that with each passing minute our goal of safe harbour grew ever closer. We got there safely.
Tonight I was at a social event. It was at one of my favourite hangouts and, as usual, I stayed late. When I arrived I could not park in the regular handicapped spot; it was already taken. So I parked in the laneway across the street. After my evening with friends I made my way out of the pub. I approached the curb and gutter, one that has given me grief in the past. I made my way slowly down the the edge and worked across it.
Once safely setup, what lay before me was the steep rise to the crest of the road, the hump in the middle. So I edged my way up slowly, adjusting my body to maintain a center of balance and moving the wheels on my chair a bit at a time. I inched forward to the top. Once there I rolled down the other side where I was again presented with the steep slope up the alley way. Again I move in careful, measured increments, balancing myself as I moved up the rise to my truck.
It was there I realized the similarity between my adventures in sailing and my adventures in my wheelchair. I am no longer strong enough to simply force my way up something. I am no longer able to push with the power I once had against the slope of the road. But like my sailing adventures, if I take each increment, each rise, each stage in small bits, I know I can get there; every push, every struggle, every part; none is monolith, all can be taken in smaller pieces. I may no longer be able to run, to stand, to walk, to stretch, yet I can still get there, one little bit at a time.
Friday, 26 September 2014
I Can't Help
My daughter bought a car yesterday. This is something she has been struggling with for a while; what to buy, where to find it, when to buy it. She wanted her transportation issue settled before going away next week, a trip which will see her out of town for all of October. She didn't want to come back to Calgary having to purchase a car in the midst of a Calgary winter.
She is a smart girl. Her car purchase decision involved research and a clear analysis of her needs and wants. She took into account things like winter driving and maintenance issue, the need for both winter and summer tires, fuel consumption and all the other thoughts that one goes through when making this kind of purchase. And of course, she considered cost.
I knew about her needing a car; we had talked about this a few times. I haven't really been able to give her a lot of advice on this on. She seemed to be struggling with making the purchase commitment and I didn't want to encourage her into something she might regret. On the other hand I knew that she was ready to get this done, ready to have one more thing out of the way before her big trip.
She called me yesterday to ask if she could come over. She was with a friend of mine and she told me they were looking at a car. When she arrived she was very excited to tell me that she had bought her car, a small Korean model with manual transmission, manual windows, no air conditioning - a basic little car. She had asked my friend to come along so she could have a sounding board to help her check out things like the engine, transmission, tires, and general wear and tear.
I am happy that she bought a car, a car she wants and likes. I am sad that I could not help her. I could not help test the manual transmission. I could not help check under the hood. I could not get underneath to look for road damage or weather wear. I could not even get in and out of the car all that easily. In short, I couldn't help her make this decision. Instead she turned to one of my friends for this help; he took her and helped her decide.
This is another thing ALS is taking from me, my viability as a source of help for my children. Both financially and physically I am failing, no longer able to do the things a Dad should do, no longer to offer the kind of support a parent should offer. I am happy she bought a car. I am sad she didn't ask me for help in checking it out. I am even sadder that she new without asking that I couldn't help her.
She is a smart girl. Her car purchase decision involved research and a clear analysis of her needs and wants. She took into account things like winter driving and maintenance issue, the need for both winter and summer tires, fuel consumption and all the other thoughts that one goes through when making this kind of purchase. And of course, she considered cost.
I knew about her needing a car; we had talked about this a few times. I haven't really been able to give her a lot of advice on this on. She seemed to be struggling with making the purchase commitment and I didn't want to encourage her into something she might regret. On the other hand I knew that she was ready to get this done, ready to have one more thing out of the way before her big trip.
She called me yesterday to ask if she could come over. She was with a friend of mine and she told me they were looking at a car. When she arrived she was very excited to tell me that she had bought her car, a small Korean model with manual transmission, manual windows, no air conditioning - a basic little car. She had asked my friend to come along so she could have a sounding board to help her check out things like the engine, transmission, tires, and general wear and tear.
I am happy that she bought a car, a car she wants and likes. I am sad that I could not help her. I could not help test the manual transmission. I could not help check under the hood. I could not get underneath to look for road damage or weather wear. I could not even get in and out of the car all that easily. In short, I couldn't help her make this decision. Instead she turned to one of my friends for this help; he took her and helped her decide.
This is another thing ALS is taking from me, my viability as a source of help for my children. Both financially and physically I am failing, no longer able to do the things a Dad should do, no longer to offer the kind of support a parent should offer. I am happy she bought a car. I am sad she didn't ask me for help in checking it out. I am even sadder that she new without asking that I couldn't help her.
Thursday, 25 September 2014
A Semblance Of Dignity
It was another sleepless night last night. I am finally getting to the place where I plan to talk to the doctors on my next clinic visit. I am not sure what causes this inability to get to sleep. Perhaps it is because I simply slept too much a couple of days ago and I just don't need the sleep. Perhaps it is because I am anxious and worry too much as I head to bed. I just don't know. All I know for sure is that I finally got to sleep at about 3:30 AM last night.
When Rosa came in this morning, she was a few minutes early while I was late getting up; she managed to catch me about half-way through putting on my pants. I asked her to wait for a minute at the door so I could cover up. Once reasonably covered, she came in and closed my bedroom door; I finished putting on my pants. This kind of interruption, this kind of privacy issue, is nothing new to me. I have a disease where modesty and privacy go out the window fairly early.
When I was in the hospital way back when, getting diagnosed, there were all kinds of people who wanted to see my legs sans pants. There were doctors and nurses and orderlies, even volunteers, who got to see what I looked like in my underwear, and less. Friends have had to endure watching me dress and seeing me deal with bathroom issues. Those who have traveled with me have had to put up with me using my jug in the middle of the night.
My dignity is long gone around physical matters. I know this will get worse. I will need help getting dressed soon, putting on clothes, fighting with compression socks, fighting my feet into shoes. Those people will want me to wear loose clothing, pants that slide on easily and shirts that are loose for simplicity. My wardrobe will be defined by others, those seeking to make their work easier. I will soon be dressed like a slob on a permanent basis; sweatshirts, sweatpants, oversized shoes, and probably, in the end, one giant bib so I don't mess up my clothing. I saw that guy in the mall last year and didn't like what I saw.
I hope that those who help me understand that this is important to me. I don't have to look like a fashion plate. Nobody could ever accuse me of having high end clothing. My jeans come from Costco, my shirts mostly from Walmart or Mark's. I dress simply, but in clothing that fits. I want it to stay that way. I want to retain at least some semblance of dignity.
When Rosa came in this morning, she was a few minutes early while I was late getting up; she managed to catch me about half-way through putting on my pants. I asked her to wait for a minute at the door so I could cover up. Once reasonably covered, she came in and closed my bedroom door; I finished putting on my pants. This kind of interruption, this kind of privacy issue, is nothing new to me. I have a disease where modesty and privacy go out the window fairly early.
When I was in the hospital way back when, getting diagnosed, there were all kinds of people who wanted to see my legs sans pants. There were doctors and nurses and orderlies, even volunteers, who got to see what I looked like in my underwear, and less. Friends have had to endure watching me dress and seeing me deal with bathroom issues. Those who have traveled with me have had to put up with me using my jug in the middle of the night.
My dignity is long gone around physical matters. I know this will get worse. I will need help getting dressed soon, putting on clothes, fighting with compression socks, fighting my feet into shoes. Those people will want me to wear loose clothing, pants that slide on easily and shirts that are loose for simplicity. My wardrobe will be defined by others, those seeking to make their work easier. I will soon be dressed like a slob on a permanent basis; sweatshirts, sweatpants, oversized shoes, and probably, in the end, one giant bib so I don't mess up my clothing. I saw that guy in the mall last year and didn't like what I saw.
I hope that those who help me understand that this is important to me. I don't have to look like a fashion plate. Nobody could ever accuse me of having high end clothing. My jeans come from Costco, my shirts mostly from Walmart or Mark's. I dress simply, but in clothing that fits. I want it to stay that way. I want to retain at least some semblance of dignity.
Wednesday, 24 September 2014
The Darkness
There are two people living within me, two spirits with two different sets of emotions and feelings. There are two parts to me, constantly battling for the forefront, constantly seeking dominance one over the other. No, I don't have a split personality. No, I don't hear voices, nor do I talk to myself, at least not out loud. Yet I know these two sides live within, side by side.
The first is the me that most people see, the me that is social and positive, the me that is upbeat about living and life. This person wants to have fun, wants to smile, wants to do things and go places. This person is compassionate, caring about those around him, yet at the same time mischievous, continually finding reasons and causes for laughter. This is the person who comes out in public.
.
The second is the darker, broodier person, the one who prefers to hide in a silent, darkened room, seeking solitary spaces, gloomy places. This is the one who is filled with pain and anger, frustrated at what life has done and given, saddened by the daily losses and struggle, frustrated with the past, present and future. This is the person who comes out when I am alone.
Sometimes these two get mixed up. Sometimes these two people cross paths, the dark side coming when the is light all round, the light side finding its way accidentally into the gloom. It can happen; you can see it happen. Mostly, however, the darkness only comes when I sit quietly alone, contemplating just where I am these days, what brought me here, what is in front of me.
There is a reason I am social; it locks out the darkness. In the company of others I find it easier to live within the light, the battle with sorrow ever diminishing as those around me give me strength just by their presence. Yet that person, that sad and depressed soul, is always present just below the surface, the melancholy seeking a crack through which to seep, a way to darken the brightest of days.
The tears are always nearby. I suspect it will be that way right up until I breathe my last. I don't live with them forever there; I rarely see them myself let alone allow others to see them. I try hard, really hard, to keep this darkness packaged away where it cannot hurt those around me. It is work, real work, to keep the balance, recognizing the reality of my sorrow at the same time as not letting it constantly burden others.
My mind is a dangerous place. Sometimes, usually at night, when I am alone, that darkness, the anger, the pain and frustration bubbles out, blackening everything about me, stealing everything that looks like joy and happiness. I go through this darkness, this valley of the shadow of death, eventually emerging to see once again the light of day. I hate this darkness, this sadness. It serves no purpose, offers nothing of value. It's just there, stealing what it finds, destroying what it can. Yet no matter what I do, it is there.
The first is the me that most people see, the me that is social and positive, the me that is upbeat about living and life. This person wants to have fun, wants to smile, wants to do things and go places. This person is compassionate, caring about those around him, yet at the same time mischievous, continually finding reasons and causes for laughter. This is the person who comes out in public.
.
The second is the darker, broodier person, the one who prefers to hide in a silent, darkened room, seeking solitary spaces, gloomy places. This is the one who is filled with pain and anger, frustrated at what life has done and given, saddened by the daily losses and struggle, frustrated with the past, present and future. This is the person who comes out when I am alone.
Sometimes these two get mixed up. Sometimes these two people cross paths, the dark side coming when the is light all round, the light side finding its way accidentally into the gloom. It can happen; you can see it happen. Mostly, however, the darkness only comes when I sit quietly alone, contemplating just where I am these days, what brought me here, what is in front of me.
There is a reason I am social; it locks out the darkness. In the company of others I find it easier to live within the light, the battle with sorrow ever diminishing as those around me give me strength just by their presence. Yet that person, that sad and depressed soul, is always present just below the surface, the melancholy seeking a crack through which to seep, a way to darken the brightest of days.
The tears are always nearby. I suspect it will be that way right up until I breathe my last. I don't live with them forever there; I rarely see them myself let alone allow others to see them. I try hard, really hard, to keep this darkness packaged away where it cannot hurt those around me. It is work, real work, to keep the balance, recognizing the reality of my sorrow at the same time as not letting it constantly burden others.
My mind is a dangerous place. Sometimes, usually at night, when I am alone, that darkness, the anger, the pain and frustration bubbles out, blackening everything about me, stealing everything that looks like joy and happiness. I go through this darkness, this valley of the shadow of death, eventually emerging to see once again the light of day. I hate this darkness, this sadness. It serves no purpose, offers nothing of value. It's just there, stealing what it finds, destroying what it can. Yet no matter what I do, it is there.
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