Waiting For That Rocket

So. Turns out my last post was March 18th. Almost a full two months ago.

This was not planned. Especially given current events – internationally, nationally, locally and even in my own life.

In the interim I have been doing an obscene amount of reading – averaging around a book a week. I’ve even been able to keep up with my book purchases which many would tell you is quite the impressive feat.

I’m a smart person. I know that reading many different kinds of text is crucial to the writing process. And I have been skipping back and forth from young adult literature to non-fiction to romance to classic literature to contemporary fiction. Reading this much is only going to help me improve as a writer. An end goal I very much desire.

Here’s the caveat:

It only helps you improve as a writer if you write.

I can’t help but wonder if my lack of writing is some kind of avoidance.

My life has been kind of topsy turvy of late. Not necessarily in a bad way, just in a chaotic kind of way. I accepted a new job at a company not L.L.Bean (something I never expected to happen). And it’s going to be awesome, and I’m excited, and it’s a big step up in my career. It’s just not L.L.Bean. Yes, I’m pouting a little bit about this. But only a little. Because of this unexpected development in my professional life, I’ve found myself doing a lot of thinking.

They tell me thinking is a good thing. Most days I would agree. Maybe even today I agree.

Where do I want to go. What do I want to do. Who do I want to do it for, with.

Ultimately I guess I’ve just fallen victim to that disorder called “the Twenties”.

Everything is going to work out. Somehow it always has and always does.

Alas, being a product of my generation, I want it all to settle down now.

:)

With all the unrest going on in the Middle East today (see this post for some info – albeit not a lot) and news coming out of Bahrain that the Royal Family (and their minions) have destroyed Pearl Roundabout my heart is breaking into little pieces.

I want there to be something I can do. I want my help to be welcome. I understand why there isn’t and why it’s not.

My thoughts, yes, even my prayers, are with the protestors abroad. I can’t send money, I can’t be there to help fight, neither my presence nor my money would be welcome if it was possible. But maybe one more pair of lips to god’s ear will convince him/her to ease up. To help grant these protestors what they want and what they deserve.

Of late I’ve found myself having a crisis of conscience.

I mean, maybe that’s a bit strong for what’s been going through my mind and heart. You can be the judge if I ever get around to finishing this post.

I went to church the other night. It was Ash Wednesday, I was invited, and I had some moral support to attend with me. Plus, I happen to really like the pastor. But all that is secondary to the message that I walked away with.

Without the church bulletin in front of me I can’t remember the passages that were read, the words that were said or the songs that were sung. The overarching message stuck with me though (at least the message that I walked out with). The start of the Lenten season is tough. It’s kicked off talking of the Apocalypse, you go into it knowing that Jesus is going to be betrayed by a friend and murdered. It’s March so it’s that miserable gray, cold, muddy, BLAHest of the Blah months. What the heck is there to look forward to? How do we maintain hope and faith when there doesn’t seem to be anything worth hoping for or having faith in?

This has seemed especially true this week.

With the Middle East in a political meltdown and Japan in close to a nuclear one. Politicians making ignorant statements (but it’s okay because they’re old and have earned the right). DOMESTIC communities alleging it’s the fault of an 11-year old for being gang raped. I would be lying if I said I didn’t spend much of Friday morning crying. When your own life doesn’t seem to let up, and then the world throws these major world events in your face, it seems impossible to wear a smile.

I found myself flabbergasted by the words I was reading. Friday was a textbook example of the dark days that were talked about at the service Wednesday. When there are children being hurt, countries being physically moved, and countries imploding, where is the light at the end of the tunnel?

Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer to that question. But I suppose the point of faith is that you don’t have to have the answer. You just have to trust that the answer is going to come eventually. And maybe it’s not the answer you were looking for at the beginning, but it’s the answer that is necessary and the answer that fits. Hopefully that answer comes soon.

Even if the music is all in my head, it’s rare for there to not be music floating through my consciousness.

You may have picked up on music being a constant in my life. From songs representing the passing of friends, the passing of eras, or the dawn of new ones, it’s unlikely that a song – even a crappy one – would not evoke some emotional response.

Of late, I’ve had Amos Lee on repeat. Based on a conversation with a Twitter friend – @MoJoCaster – I decided it was time to pull the trigger. I had a couple of Lee’s albums, but I wanted to round out his discography. Two albums, one live EP and about $30 later, I have three hours worth of Amos Lee that I struggle to turn off when I have to go to work.

As I gear up to write another significant piece of fiction – I am unsure whether it will reach the level of #nanowrimo – I keep listening. I can’t stop.

I guess that’s the mark of good music. Music that makes you think, makes you feel, and makes you long to create.

Predictably, as I get older, I’ve begun to see things less in black and white and much more in shades of gray. There’s no way I, as a mere mortal – even one of above average intelligence – can ever hope to understand the intricacies of politics, especially global politics.

That being said.

I am a human being.

I know killing is wrong.

I know hurting and killing people solely because they disagree with my views is abhorrent.

I can’t guarantee that the United States has “the best” form of government. In fact, I can almost guarantee that we don’t. ((Caveat: at this point we may not have the best, but we do have one of the least bad forms)) But regardless of constitutional monarchy, democracy, or republic, what’s happening in Bahrain, Libya and an ever lengthening list of Arab states is WRONG.

Admittedly, I am looking at things from not only a Western view, but a privileged, white, non-Islamic view. The ideas of a theocracy, of a dictatorship, are as foreign to me as the countries where these forms of government are present.

The murder of civilians doesn’t seem to be an ambiguous issue. More, hindering assistance for the injured is disgusting.

My heart is breaking for the unrest, the pain, deaths and disappearances that are plaguing North Africa and the Middle East. As human beings we should be able to look to our government for leadership, for protection. With so many ills in the world, we shouldn’t have to fear the government, too.

If you are the praying type, please say one. If not, positive thoughts, letters, tweets, emails. Let Libyans, Bahrainis, people of the world know that they are not alone or forgotten.

I find it awfully fitting that this is my 100th post. A lot has changed over the past couple years since I started this blog. Even more has changed since the time you’re going to read about in this post.

I’m fantastic. I’m good. I’m solid. I’m not sad. I smile. Take this post for what it is – a reflection on the power of love in even the darkest moments of our lives.

It seems odd that in a post about love I would talk about suicide, but here I am, doing just that.

My family, as documented thoroughly, is one of the most incredible families a person could hope for. They are supportive, and loving, all without being a “helicopter” family that micromanages every aspect of my life. I am also blessed to have friends that stick with me through thick and thin. Some I thought would be friends forever have instead fallen by the wayside. Friends I didn’t know I wanted or needed have cropped up and now I can’t live without them.

But my story doesn’t start with a happy ending. Neither does it start with a story of abuse by loved one, neighbor or stranger. Nor does it start with a tragic accident (though there is one of those), bullying or any of the more “typical” precursors of suicide. Mine starts with “simple” chemistry. My mind, body, whatever does not produce enough of whatever the happy chemical is. I don’t ever remember not being…sad.

Even when I got to college, an incredibly uplifting and positive time in my life, there was a pall hanging over me that I couldn’t shake. Little things were big things, and my mind just couldn’t comprehend the new situations I was finding myself in or things I was learning about. For the most part I was able to cover it up, carry on like things were fine, but the weight of pretending to be happy took its toll.

My world was rocked to its core following the Accident. The intricacies of my feelings regarding the accident in the months following, and even now years later, are many. But it sank me lower than I had ever been before. It was with a heavy, dark heart that I graduated college.

Even my elation at getting a job in a field I had been passionate about in college was overcast with a deep depression. A shyness encouraged by self-doubt ensured that the job I was doing was practically impossible for me. Every time I tried, every time I failed, the self-doubt and -hatred grew.

One night it all became too much. I had failed (again) to get an event put together. I was going to be the reason this, that and/or the other failed. I was going to lose the respect of those I respected, the love of those I loved. I prayed for an end to the pain.

I remember it really clearly. I was driving my car (Hank – a ’91 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais) and it was round abouts 2 a.m. There were no cars on the highway as I drove home. This was my opportunity. I increased pressure on the gas pedal. Before I knew it, my 16 year old car was doing 90 miles an hour down the road. My goal: a stand of trees about a mile ahead. With luck I’d be out of my misery and no innocent bystanders would be hurt.

Then I got a text message.

I don’t know if the person who sent it to me remembers that night. I never really let on what was happening on my end of things, so maybe that night isn’t as memorable to them. I remember reading and sending back messages through an unstoppable wall of tears. And gradually, as I received assurances that despite the upcoming changes we would remain friends, I eased my foot off the gas, passed that stand of trees wiping the tears from my eyes. And kept driving.

I do not want to create this idea that love alone can conquer suicidal thoughts, because not every case is like mine. But I know that without the love of my friends and my family, I would not be here today. They may not know it, but they have saved my life over and over just by virtue of loving me, even when I can’t find it in me to love myself.

My friend Elisa, blogger extraordinaire over at Ophelia’s Webb ( http://www.opheliaswebb.com/ ), has a series going on this month called “Pas de Deux,” a month long take on “love” in all its forms and functions. She took submissions from people from all over the world to guest post. Like many, I wrote something for consideration.

The writing was some of the most honest I have ever done. Elisa, being a rockstar, gave me some feedback. However, I chickened out at taking it. Today I am developing it more, and posting it in a safer venue, my own blog. The nice thing about having it here is that instead of hundreds (thousands?) of visitors, I may get a dozen. Not that many people will read it. I know it mitigates the vulnerability factor if no one reads what I write, but just saying the words – even if virtually – is enough to freeze my insides with fear.

Stay tuned for my words – much editing needs to be done before ready for “mass” consumption.

I’ve written a lot about the awesome influence that my parents have had in my life (hint: it’s immeasurable). But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the other people who have helped in forming me.

My family has never been a Waltons kind of family (thank god). Although close, loving and supportive, we weren’t perfect. And that’s fine. Who really wants to be? But to this day, when the chips are down, my family is there for me. And that cannot be undersold.

But this post (as you can see from the headline) isn’t to talk about my immediate family. It’s to talk about my grandparents.

As my father pointed out when my paternal grandfather (Poppy) passed away, I am incredibly lucky to have had both sets of grandparents until I was an adult. I was 18 when Poppy passed. I had a veritable lifetime of memories with him. I was almost 25 before I lost my next grandparent – my paternal grandmother (Gummy). Now, at almost 30, I still have both my maternal grandparents.

This has all been thrown in acute relief. I learned this morning that my grandfather (Granddad) had what they’re considering a “mini-stroke” this weekend. There is nothing like an illness to put the mortality of our loved ones in sharp perspective.

My earliest memories are lined with images of both sets of grandparents. Summers spent at respective summer getaways, Thanksgiving spent at the Kid’s Table, the tradeoff at Ludlow after my parents had time away from us. My grandparents, all four of them, are incredible people. Who did/still do incredible things.

It’s not by happenstance that my parents instilled in us a love of service, the same was instilled in them. Between Rotary, volunteering with various Adirondack Park conservation agencies, to church, to schools, to you name it, all my grandparents have been active within their community for the majority of their lives.

Poppy was in WWII, Granddad in Korea. Both grandmothers, and all four great-grandmothers, went to college. My goal is to be half the person that they were, they are, and that they wish me to be. Maybe someday I will be. I just hope I get there before it’s too late.