There is a worry in not knowing the right answer to any of the questions that have been rattling around my head for the last few days. I try so hard to be better for myself and my wife and the ones I love – my quest for helpfulness is not limited to Dad’s drinking or my brother’s flakiness or Mom’s issues or the family’s separation. I want to feel quiet again and I want to feel passion again and I want to feel relaxed again. I just don’t want to do it wrong for them one more time. I don’t want to accept that my eating habits are normal and anxiety is treatable with stress management techniques I currently have in my toolbox, because this has been wrong before. And what happens if I am wrong?: I get anxious when my wife looks beautiful when I walk through the door = WRONG… This isn’t a matter of not thinking I could get it wrong, it’s that I have gotten it wrong, very wrong in doing what I have done, turning myself into this shell for the greater good. I can’t forgive myself for my past wrongs because that choice isn’t there. If I do forgive myself, it opens up the distinct possibility that it will happen again, losing the guardedness that will protect me from hurting the ones I love and/or myself.
The problem with having done this wrong so many times, been a failure at getting through this with complete success, is that there is doubt and worry. It is not like running where you can get out of the run-walk or stop-for-a-breather habit. Once you break this seal, it can never be unbroken.
Looking up from underneath, from below the depths of the world. I’m not a part of it. People don’t concern themselves with the below, not this type of below anyways. The destitute, the downtrodden, the down-and-out – they are below, but given a helping hand up. It might be charity or just goodwill, but they are helped up nonetheless. I do not appear to have this effect on the people around me. They don’t have the answers for the questions this type of below has to ask.
Given how constant my brain moves and how the off switch is so very far away right now, it seems unimaginable to me that I have never played “what if” in my mind. Never thought about what would have happened if this had gone differently, if I hadn’t been infected with this blackness. Guess it’s because I’ve never seen the point, either that or the hope that “what if” is still a possibility, that hopefulness and dream-like imagination was choked out by the questions’ dominance long ago.
I don’t think that anyone is going to solve these conundrums. I don’t think that ultimately, there is help out there for a sinner like me. I am destined to bear this albatross for my days. In which case, the noose is tight around all of us and the unfeeling tidal wave is either inevitable and hard or wearingly gradual and pain-staking. The only thing I know I can do, without doubt or worry, is make sure the other mariners in my life have rafts and that the albatross is strung only around my neck.