Time of Need
Expectancy is the root of all heartache.
William Shakespeare said it best. Expectation is also a great teacher because it can, through vast and varied disappointments and betrayals, show you the true colors and shades of light and dark in a person. As of yesterday morning, I had a whole different idea planned for my Monday blog. It is amazing how the space of just a few moments of realization can change your whole course of thinking. But this is life.
The best way to avoid disappointment is to not expect anything from anyone.
I am not here to go through a series of things and thoughts and people who have disappointment me, because I am so far away from all of that right now as the new day comes and once more I am grateful for the new time I have to work towards what I have been building so carefully. I surely have been my own share of disappointments to others. There is no one safe of sparing the feelings of this uncomfortable and sometimes crippling range of emotions.
I have been shown the truth of personalities and all the way down to the bones of some people lately, and this is something I have been working on my entire life, not only to protect myself but to protect the ones who I have put here on this earth. My flesh and blood, replicas of what is truest and the best and the worst of me. My three sons will always trump any other humans on this planet. I do not care how far away I go, or how far away they go. They will never be outside of me in the way that those outside of me are, if that makes any sense. Any mother will agree. Even those old mothers who cannot remember what day it is, or what they should be doing or saying at any given moment, they know what cannot be written or expressed. They know what they know inside of their own hearts, no matter how much it may be heavy or hardened or broken.
Easter Sunday has been a difficult day for me ever since my father passed away, almost seventeen years ago. My mother has never had another companion in her life since then. Many of you know she is suffering from dementia and now, many other physical issues have come piling up one by one. I have been a grave disappointment to her more times than anyone in her whole life probably. I have not been much of a "good daughter" until recently, in my own opinion. I have taken the responsibility of her emotional state in my hands and then have it burn me so badly that I must drop it and walk away. I truly do not want to abandon it because I am a firm believer in "What goes around, comes around."
I have lived my life believing that I never want my sons to feel the burden of my emotional anxiety and deep sadness because it is not theirs to bear. They will and do have their own internal issues and struggles and heartaches that I will never know anything about, because, unlike me, being "mother", they are spared that eternal madness and elongated emotional turmoil that comes with loving them so much that I refuse to drag them down into the depths of what they will never know or see within me. I can only hope that through my sometimes humble and sometimes extravagant displays of written emotion that they can know me far ahead into however long it takes to understand that this is done in many layers of thought, insight and the bitter interrogation of my own self. It is done in tireless reams of paper and ink and words that is the truest I will ever be able to articulate for them, what is not only inside of me, but what they inherited by being my children.
Realizing what was important and what was priority yesterday, I was sorely disappointment and deeply saddened by a trail of things that have been leading up to this one painting I have been illustrating in my mind of my expectations, and I am not living up to them for one reason or another. Mostly because there are so many painful milestones along the way. One after another, I see stakes being driven into the ground of a reality that will always be the same for us all, the pending death of those around us that we care about, or not care about. The deterioration of relationships and alliances and trust that we thought would always be there, or at least be there when we needed them the most. The expectation that people would be able to realize when these times were, or at least feel when those times were, and be more understanding, compassionate or aware. It is the expectation that kills you. Breaks your heart so deeply that you pull down heavy metal doors that you cannot lift back up again alone. Not that you would want to, after trying so hard to trust again.
So you do something simple. You walk. You drive. You turn on the radio and before you do, you say to who ever is listening, "PLEASE. Give me a sign that you hear me. That you will help me, even though I am locked in this dark place with the doors all pulled down. With thorns in my heart and sides and tears in my eyes. PLEASE."
You turn on the radio. And the beginning of the song plays softly. Reminds you of all the other times you heard it. And the tears in your eyes roll quietly down to that place in the base of your throat. You pull over and watch the sunset on a day where there is joy to be found everywhere but in your own heart. You drive by the cemetery, you don't go in. You drive by the places you have driven by literally hundreds of thousands of times, and everything looks like a stranger.
In the midst of the darkness of uncertainty, there is a place where SHE ALWAYS ANSWERS. There are empty pill bottles and hearts full of a pain that cannot be pacified by anything tangible. No one can tell another person how to help that sharp and excruciating thing inside themselves how to stop influencing their current or pending relationships. If I come across as depressed and extremely emotional, it is working here. It is coming out in the words, and it will come out in the music, and in art and poetry and it will come out. It will be part of the seashore and the forest and the very air you breathe when you are next to me. And no one can tell you that its going to be alright unless it is you. Deep inside of you, you are the only one who can know that. If you need help, you must ask. You must ask those you know are willing to help without a hidden agenda. Those who won't use it against you when you need it the most. Those who truly are on your side, who appreciate not only what you do for them, but what you are made of.
I needed help, and I asked the One I Trusted Most. And SHE ANSWERED. Over waves of the radio, She answered. Over the realization of names and words and connections that only I was meant to hear and read and see. She answered. On this broken bed with this enormous dog in the light of another Monday morning with tiny sparrows along the old azaleas and bright yellow dandelions, She answered.
And I will be alright. Over and over again I will be alright.
I am grateful, and blessed to have the anchors of my sons to keep me afloat on a ship that continues to sail on a sometimes very thick, dark, deep black ocean. It is I that owe them something, not the other way around. It is I that must allow them to have the freedom to become everything they wish for the potential to be. It is through me and my example that I work so hard to show them, that yes, they can do it. No matter how long or hard or painful it may be. Many people do not take the chances to live for themselves and allow those they love to do the same. It is there where so many little red threads to our hearts are overworked and broken. I am not like other people.
Until next Moonday...
xox C 333