The Breaking Point

And I was doing so well.....

There are inevitably things in every life that test one's limits. Some are minor, and you come through with no issues. Others challenge your very will to exist. In times like those, I guess people turn to whatever it is that should help them. Maybe that's a god, friends, a lover, shopping, food, an old addiction, or a new one. But here's the problem. At some point, all of those will fail you or kill you. Then you're left with the same demons that you were running from in the first place, and then some.

But here's something that I've been curious about since I was young. Why do we run for something better; an escape, a salve, anisthetic? What do you do when you have a cold? Chicken soup, tea, painkillers, maybe some NyQuil. But do you ever just have a cold? Why is there this overwhelming need for denial of the experience? Pain and suffering aren't exactly fun, but they're key parts of being human and alive. I won't pretend to think it's normal, but I've generally gone head-first into every experience, good or bad, if for no other reason than the fullness of that experience. Confront the situation and emotions head-on and embrace whatever the result may be. Children do it on a daily basis. It's part of their self-discovery and familiarization with the world. In adults, I guess it's masochism.

But regardless of one's natural tendencies toward managing this life and everything that comes with it, everyone will at some point face challenges that require a certain degree of suppression. Maybe you have to be strong for your family, maybe you're supposed to set the example, maybe you have to have the self control for both of you, maybe you'll get arrested if you don't, maybe you've got resposibilities and obligations to fulfill. When this happens, there will inevitably come a point when everything you've built up has to go somewhere. And god help whoever or whatever is around when that happens. If it's no one else, then it's yourself. Something will become the target of that release. For children, that's a tantrum. For adults, it's sadism, or something. Then comes the rationalization for the outlash, and the apologizing, and the lost friendships, or the broken homes after a divorce.

So, then, we're left with a choice of sorts, aren't we? Experience everything and risk the pain, or suppress and risk hurting others. That's over-simplification, really. There are degrees of compromise within each option and the blending of the two. Sure. But generally people will gravitate towards one or the other. I can't say which is better; it's relative to the person, really. Just like the threshold of what one can and cannot cope with.

I don't have the answer. I rarely do. Maybe the answer lies not in how you deal with what life has to offer, but in how that translates into the way you treat other people and yourself.

Just a thought.

Addendum

To the previous.....but not on the same exact topic. In my head there's a connection, but I don't have the energy to explain.

Sundays.

Since I can remember, Sundays were spent with my family. Lunch wherever, then back to the house to just spend time together. In the past couple of years, those days took a detour. Progressively less time spent at the house with my family. There was still lunch, but even those got fewer and farther between. Now I look back and realize I haven't sat down to a meal with my mother and grandmother in months. Thanksgiving doesn't count.

I could blame the trend on a few things, but in reality it's my fault. See my previous quotable blog about "No One Makes You Do It." I chose other things and people over the family. It used to be the four of us, then daddy was gone, and it was just the three. And it was kind of empty. But we slowly found ways to fill that gap. Not replace him, we never could. Nor would I want to. Daddy, I miss you so much sometimes.

A relationship or physical distance is never an excuse to neglect your family. Ever. Especially if that distance is a tiny 35 miles from Plano to Southeast Dallas. I'd make that drive for friends in a heartbeat. Why then, is it just too much to do it once a week for the people who shaped who I am?

And now, the regret. They can't go out and enjoy lunches anymore. They're mostly confined to the house unless I'm driving and then trying to escort them wherever, praying neither falls. Because if it's not distance, it's my selfishness. It hurts more than I could possibly express to see my mother right now. I almost don't recognize her, and it's hard to find the real person behind the medication and exhaustion. So I avoid it, because it sucks for me. I made life hell for her in my teens, and I still can't get over my ego to be there for her when she needs me like she never has.

I've really been craptastic as a daughter and granddaughter. But I guess there's still time. There's always time. Until there isn't. And that's a regret I could never carry. Tomorrow is Sunday. And I'll be in the ghetto. With two of the most amazing women I've ever known.

This detox is going to kill me.

My Own Personal Jesus

I like to think that I'm unique, maybe a little fucked-off kinda special. But I know that much of my generation probably feels the same way....hell....I'm sure every generation does. This is probably more of a commentary on humanity than anything else.

But.

Today held one of those moments that really focuses on ones own little quirks. For me, music is so much more than background noise for my life. I can't deal with total silence. If I'm doing anything, I need this stuff to sustain my focus. Or break it. Either way.

A number of times in my life, a certain song or album has come along at the perfect time. Any other day, I would've thought "yeah that's pretty good." But at these times, I obsess to a degree that borders on ridiculous. Then, for the rest of what will probably be forever, that stuff is linked to where I was at that time. Mr. Crowley = Michael. Freshmen = Kirsten, Carey, Krissy. Everclear = shithole apartment in the ghetto. Vault = it's good to be young and stupid. Has Anyone Seen my Baby = how could I have ever been so fucking stupid. Meat Loaf = you know you need to get out, now. Etc, etc, etc.

When things affect me to a large degree, meaning when I go through extremes of emotion, I revert into the kid with the headphones in the corner. My music saves me. From others, from myself, from reality, probably from you. Sometimes it's healing. Sometimes it's a sharp little knife that breaks open the scars to see if they still bleed. They do.

Thus, today I find myself sifting through vinyl at Half Price Books for an hour. Looking for what, I don't know. Probably something to make me feel better. Generally, I find an answer. Or some kind of band aid. Not today. Today I find memories by the pound in the form of 12x12 cardboard covers.