Reality and Mortality

It's been one of those weeks.

 

I don't know how to describe it accurately, which means this post is going to be a bunch of words that, at times, will ramble, will make little sense, or will be so poignant to some of you that you will simultaneous appreciate and regret reading them. Yes, it's going to be one of those posts.

 

Over the years I've been writing this blog, one thing about which I have not been shy is my own emotional state. As a writer I firmly believe that I have to be honest on these pages if I'm to earn your readership and respect. I've shared a lot about myself, from my failures, including failed marriages, to my triumphs, and pretty much everything in between. There's not a lot about this writer you haven't come to learn since I first began this blog on July 27, 2011, with the exception of my true, given name; even astute readers, however, have probably come to figure that out fairly easily, as well. One prominent aspect of me that I've shared is the fact that I have suffered bouts of depression in my life, and continue from time to time to battle that demon.

 

Why am I writing this now, you ask? Am I depressed? No, no, I don't think so, but I think that spectre is approaching. I fight it with words, as writing is the best, and really only way I know how to cope with the oncoming darkness. And each time I write on this topic I inevitably hear from readers sharing their stories or simply saying thanks to me for sharing mine. I like to think that sharing posts like this one helps people to know that they're not alone in feeling this way, and maybe these words will help them to cope, as they do for me.

 

So no, I'm not depressed, per se, but there's a lot that's been going on lately. For whatever reason, the whirling dervish that is my mind hasn't quite been able to process it all. I can't explain it; I can only describe it and hope that writing these words simultaneously fills the expanding vacuum inside me, and expels that which overwhelms me.

 

I know part of it centers on acknowledging mortality, whether it be my own, that of those about whom I care, or the cruel trick of God that is the painfully short lifespan of our pets. The inevitability of aging, and the fragility of life that accompanies it, is daunting, especially when you witness it first hand and can do nothing about it. It hurts. I could probably pen more words that ostensibly capture the sentiment more colorfully, but why do so when two, simple words convey the notion so succinctly? It. Hurts. In so many ways. Seeing the ones suffering the effects that nature wreaks upon them. Witnessing the collateral pain of others that accompanies it. And not being able to alter the course of any of it.

 

It is these times I often find myself wallowing in my own self-pity and lamenting my own inadequacies. I want to help. I should be able to help. But I cannot. And then the process begins, and the slide steepens, and I slip into self-doubt. If I cannot help someone through these times, what worth do I possess? Combine those feelings with lulls at work, changes in weather, and whatever other factors creep into my psyche, and, well, that's one hot soup of self-reflection.

 

People often chastise me for not being able to relax. This. This is why I can't relax. This is why I have to keep myself in a state of perpetual, mental motion. Because when things slow down, I think. I over-think. I ponder and postulate and perpetuate misplaced emotion and… here I am.

 

It passes. Sometimes not as quickly as I would desire, but it passes. Writing these words helps. Sharing the whole of me with you helps, so thank you for allowing me the privilege of doing so. But sometimes I need more. Sometimes, we all need a little more.

 

Yesterday I tried to take advantage of the eighty-five degree weather here, and took a late afternoon drive in the Jeep, top down, to the place you've heard me refer to Serenity Point; my happy place on the lake. It both made me worse, yet hopeful.

 

I have always found solace at the water. Living near the shore of Lake Ontario in western New York, I am blessed with ease of access to the vastness of open seas. Looking out over the lake, unable to see the opposite shore, I'm able to contemplate. I can close my eyes and listen to the waves splash the sore, listen to seagulls squawking above, and feel the lake mist on my face. It's a kind of therapy I cannot describe. But yesterday, there was no solace. Right now Ontario is an angry lake.

 

Water levels are the highest they've ever been, and my Serenity Point has experienced the wrath of the lake's ire. The sidewalk along which I would stroll is completely submerged. The shore is littered with driftwood and debris carried there from places only the lake knows. One cannot even walk along the concrete pier without experiencing the angry lashing of the lake's waves upon you; there is little above water but the pier's paved pathway. It was breathtaking to see the just how powerfully the lake's fury can alter something so serene, and it pierced me.

 

Notwithstanding, it gave me hope. Here was this place that brings me such peace, tormented. While it may seem counterintuitive to think that witnessing something in a state of despair can be uplifting, it was, nonetheless. Perhaps it's because I know that it will endure. The lake levels will recede in time. The detritus will be removed. It will persevere.

 

It will persevere.

 

I will persevere.

 

I will persevere.

 

I will persevere.

 

We all experience highs and lows. For many of us, it's the middle that's forgotten. For many of us, whether we care to admit it or not, it is those highs, and lows, upon which we thrive. It is in those highs and lows that we become acutely aware of our existence, our possibilities, and our limitations. What we perhaps don't comprehend is that we find more peace in the middle than we realize. We take it for granted. We ignore it. Or we simply choose not to acknowledge it because, though we feel something during those times, we don't feel it in our cores. It doesn't shake our foundations.

 

I cannot determine whether or not that is a positive attribute, but for me, it is a reality. I am generally happy most of the time, but I'm not as intensely aware of it as I may be when I hit those lows and am reminded of the blessing I have in my life that lift me to the apex.

 

If you ask me why I'm contemplating all of this now, I have no answer. I can never adequately explain how I come to this place, or discern the causes and events that lead me here. But here I am.

 

Those my age, those of us that came of age in the nineties, lost another cultural icon this week with the passing of Chris Cornell. His unique voice was a siren to us who spent our twenties coming to grips with life, reality, relationships and adulthood. And now he, like so many others, has taken his own life, and left us. Perhaps in the days to come we'll know why. Perhaps he left some clues as to why he felt the need to extinguish his own song. Or we may never know and will be left to speculate what kind of demons existed in his mind to drive him to such an extreme.

 

I'm saddened by his passing as his music was a significant contributor to my life's soundtrack during that period of my emotional development. I'm saddened by the fact that whatever he faced was so burdensome that he felt death to be his only remaining option. Maybe that's why I write these words. Perhaps it's because I fear that someday I'll reach that breaking point.

 

I cannot.

 

I will not.

 

I refuse.

 

These words are my outlet. Writing these words is what I need to do, sometimes as much as I need to breathe. It's amazing to me, really, the effect that exuding written text from my fingertips has on me. I am so blessedly fortunate to have found this means of expression and release.

 

I share these words not simply because I need to, but also because I hope to deliver one, simple reminder to you. A mantra you've seen repeated here from time to time is one so simple, yet often so difficult to comprehend:

 

You are not alone.

 

Though I feel secluded and sequestered at times, I know, I know, that I am not alone. I am surrounded by those that care about me, as are each and every one of you. And you must know it, too. You must remember that fact, every day, and remind yourselves that, regardless of the emotional shrouds that cover us, the pain we experience, or the malaise that washes over us, we are not alone and there are always those who will reach into the darkness to guide us back into the light.

 

You may not realize it, but even you, those of you I do not nor may ever know personally, are here for me simply by reading these words. I cannot begin to explain how much it means to me to log on to the blog website and view the readership statistics for these pages. You've visited these pages tens of thousands of times. You've come from all across the world to share your time with me. The simple gesture, that act of your clicking on this blog, buoys me in ways you cannot imagine, and for that I am and always will be grateful. I know I'm not alone, but you both assure and reassure me that to be the case. Thank you.  

 

So what is it you should take from all of this? I can't answer that. All I can tell you is that I needed to write this. I needed to pull up the edge of the curtain that darkens my stage and peer out into the garish lights of the theatre that is my life and know that they still shine as brightly as they did yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. You are that light. And I hope you can see the light in your lives as well.

 

If you can't, just know I'm here, if nothing or no one else. Comment on this blog. Write to me at jamesjgoodman@yahoo.com. Don't be afraid to reach out to me or anyone else. You may not realize it, but support surrounds you in more ways than you can imagine.

 

Thank you, as always and once again, for letting me be part of your world, and for being such an integral part of mine.

 

~JJ

 

 

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