through my grey matter
not yet complete
trying to join together to form something more
they beg to be written
released to the ether
perhaps to touch some other life
to bring meaning
push away the darkness for a moment or two
they fight to control a thing that cannot be controlled
they keep me awake
wreak havoc in the night
I need only write them
give them what they crave
every turn a dead end
that they just won’t be good enough
they just won’t be seen
I just won’t be good enough
an agonizing death
from which I cannot escape.
A few days ago, I wrote a piece for my business blog entitled “Get Rich Quick!”
As I was formulating the idea for the piece, I thought that it would be cool to write a companion piece that spoke more on a personal level than business.
But to be fair, I need to discuss two sides to “richness.”
First off, the most widely accepted definition of rich pertains to finances.
I don’t know how many times a day I see people posting links about making money, and making money fast, with seemingly little work. All you have to do is join this program, or buy this training, etc.
The negative responses are just as numerous. I really could use this training, but I can’t afford it. I don’t have enough money to put gas in my car. I’ve lost my job and the economy sucks.
To all this, and I’ve had my fair share of spouting off the same sentiments, I say this…
If your “why” is strong enough, you will find the money to do what you need to do.
Look around your house. Grab a box, and go through each room, and put everything you don’t touch, use, or even recall being there in the box.
You’ll probably need more boxes.
Then, depending on what you’ve gathered up, jump on eBay, or CraigsList, if that’s your thing. Maybe have a yard sale. With some friends…make it FUN!
You’ll be surprised how much money is sitting in your house, untouched.
And how many training products you’ll be able to afford. Or vacations, or new shoes!
If you have “stuff” laying around the house, taking up space, then you have no business whining about being in the poor house. (Perhaps a harsh reality check, but I’m not apologetic.)
Now, maybe you are one of the rare breed of people who still finds that riches aren’t about money or possessions at all. I have my moments still where I’m amazed at how truly rich I am, despite the sometimes sorry state of my finances.
So, once again, take a walk around your house. Maybe you’re married, with children and pets. Feel the love that emanates from them. Just let it flow through you, over you, around you.
Maybe you live alone.
Look out your window. Seek out the peacefulness of nature in your own backyard. Hear the trees, take in the sky, the stars, the clouds, the contrails of the jets. Feel your smallness, in this seemingly endless universe. Then revel in your uniqueness. Focus on something that only YOU can offer to the world.
Think of the smiles you bring to people’s faces, without even trying.
Think of the tears and sorrow that you’ve soothed away, just by listening, or offering a hug, or a kind word.
If you do these things, or even just take a moment to quiet your mind and listen to your own heart beating, you can’t tell me that, for even one second, you don’t feel like the richest person alive.
If you don’t….if you can’t find that breath of a moment, then you may have bigger problems than where your next dollar is coming from.
I make my way to the tide line on the beach, that line of crushed shells, rocks and sea grass left behind by the rhythmic pounding of the waves. I am looking for sea glass, my first time out to the island since last summer. I had originally planned to walk with Bear, but the wind is too much for him, and I don’t think he likes the sound of the waves. Maybe it’s too much for his tiny ears to take in.
A Kelly Clarkson song has been playing in my head since I woke up. The same line playing over and over – “My life would suck without you” – and I can’t focus, or get rid of it. So I gaze at the sand and wait for bits of glass, once whole bottles tossed out, broken, formed, polished by the ocean to catch my eye. I’m looking for special pieces, red or blue, which are particularly difficult to find. I see only brown, white and a few green. I pick them up and pocket them, thanking the ocean for these treasures.
She calls to me. In the crashing of the waves I can hear her words.
“Do you have time for a story?”
I do. I have time for anything today. It’s my day-cation.
“Listen for a while. But first, you need to stop that song from playing, so you can really hear my words.”
I concentrate on the surf, and the wind, and the sea glass already in my pocket. And the song recedes.
“It’s a story about a girl.”
Is it a story about me? Because I already know my own story, all too well.
“Are you going to ask questions? Or are you going to listen?”
“It’s a story about a girl. I heard the story from different travelers. It happened in the Pacific Ocean, not here.”
And I want to interrupt, because I already know this story. I know what happened in the Pacific Ocean. But I wait, listening to the waves, and the wind, and try to keep my hair out of my face.
“She was sad. Or maybe lost is a better word.”
Lost is a good word, but without hope or help is probably a better way to put it. She had given up.
“True. Not alone, but so lonely. Drinking wasn’t doing her any good, either, but she kept at it.”
Don’t forget the promiscuity. That wasn’t doing her any good, either. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
“Purpose. She was looking for her purpose. She was just confusing it with a search for love, happiness, or maybe she just wanted to fit in too badly.”
“She wasn’t meant to fit in. She never was.”
I walked along slowly, the shells and rocks crunching under my feet, crouching down every few minutes to pick up another piece of glass. I ran my fingers along the edges, to make sure it was smooth all around. If not, it wasn’t ready yet, and I tossed it back to the ocean to finish it.
“I heard there was a full moon that night. No clouds, a little wind. And she walked right into the Pacific Ocean, fully clothed.”
It was so quiet that night. Much like this morning. Only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing on the beach. Had she taken her shoes off, or walked right in with them on?
“She cried. Her tears fell, adding to the ocean, and she prayed, out loud. She called out to God, saying that she didn’t care anymore, that she was done, and she begged the ocean to take her.”
She didn’t, though. And neither did God.
“What made her turn around? That part of the story was never clear to me.”
She hadn’t turned around. The waves had literally pushed her back to the beach. She had sat down in the sand, and listened to the waves crashing, and looked up to the stars and the moon, and she had heard God.
She had asked why. Not for anything in particular, but for everything in general. Why?
And His answer was simply, “I’m not ready for you yet. It’s not your time, and you haven’t finished what you are here to do.”
And she had turned around and walked back to the barracks.
“What was she there to do?”
She hadn’t asked. Do you think He would have answered if she had?
“What did she do when she left the Pacific Ocean?
Nothing much really changed, if I recall. She kept making the same mistakes. Or maybe she made new ones. I’m not really sure.
“Why did you go there that night?”
“But you’re still here…”
And that’s the million dollar question – why?
“Why did you come to see me today?”
Because you have always been able to calm me. Because I don’t need answers when I hear you and feel you. The questions fade to silence, and I can hear my own heartbeat again. I can hear the whispers of my faith come back to me, and I don’t care about fitting in. Because this is where I feel at home.
The gray skies weigh heavy on my shoulders. It’s days like this I feel an overwhelming tiredness that consumes my whole being. It saps the strength to hold my head up, leaves my limbs leaden, my very being muddled.
I feel I could just close my eyes and sleep forever, but not a restful sleep, the kind of sleep you just don’t wake from.
There is a cancer ravaging me from the inside out. A cancer of the spirit. A cancer of the mind. Fed by frustration, self-doubt, irritation with bureaucracy, policy, rules meant to benefit the few, but suppress the many.
I’ve been here so many times. A cycle of sorts, predictable in its unpredictability. The highs, the lows, the struggle between the two, always just hoping for some sort of peaceful in-between.
It never comes. Oh, sure, there are lulls, spans of time, short or long, that seem convincing to onlookers, almost convincing to me. But it’s always there, the shadow lurking in my peripheral vision, just far enough out of reach for me to squelch for good. It’s always planning, scheming, waiting for the precise moment to attack.
Chameleon, it blends in with the daily trials of life. A celebration? Strike now, and push her over the top! And people say she’s having a really good time. She’s sad? Strike now, and push her over the edge! And people say she’s overreacting, she’s emotional, she’s irrational.
There are treatments. Chemical treatments that suck the life out of you, leaving you a shell of who you might have been. I tried them. Over and over again. I stopped feeling, I stopped thinking. I stopped being me.
There are other treatments. Drugs, alcohol. Self-medication. Trouble waiting to happen. I tried them. Over and over again. I found trouble, over and over again. I stopped feeling, I stopped thinking. I became a version of me I couldn’t live with.
There are more treatments. Clean eating, fitness. Get your body back to basics with the fuel and exercise it craves. I tried them. Over and over again. They work, sometimes a little too well. I started feeling, in bright swatches of color. I started thinking, grandiose visions that I was determined to achieve. I became a version of me that other people have a hard time living with.
There is no cure for mental illness. There are only band-aids. Temporary fixes.
I have PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). I may, or may not, have bi-polar disorder. My psychiatrists have said yes, my sister has said no, and most good days I’m on the fence about it.
I have these disorders. But they are not who I am. They do not define me, but perhaps they explain me in some ways.
And I’m out of cigarettes.