Driving through the sunlit, endearingly gritty streets of Tacoma yesterday evening, I chat with my friend Ben after what felt like a very long, very sad day. We were both hurting for different reasons. Me because of one of the many little deaths out of which life always returns, and he because of the ugliness he had encountered that day with his students.
Brushing it off and saying “it’s just one of those days” is a disservice to yourself. It’s a cheat out of giving yourself permission to experience real pain, real emotions, real sadness. Whether or not you understand where it’s coming from doesn’t necessarily matter- and it doesn’t make it any less.
I feel everything so keenly and bluntly today. A grade A example of a seemingly bipolar being, sensing each moment pointedly and on each end of the spectrum. Some fill me with what feels like a hot cup of tea, filled with surprising lemon tartness and smooth honey and warmth and safety, making it difficult to breathe in a way where everything seems to skip a beat- some are ragged and painful and sharp around the edges, making it difficult to breathe and not in the lovely way where everything seems to skip a beat.
Pain is a strange thing. It’s beautiful and it’s horrifying and it’s been researched and reviewed and wondered about for centuries. I’ve read that the body refuses to remember specific types of pain, childbirth for instance. There are also the types that the mind will hold onto forever. Research shows that any pain lasting more than a few minutes leaves a trace in the nervous system. But that’s only physical pain- what about the emotional? Suppression or substitution are two ways of avoiding memories of painful or uncomfortable times, yet in the moment of emotional or mental pain it feels as if there is no way to reduce it other than chemically.
This last week I got to spend time with my sister, Hilary, and my brother in law, Ron at their home and where I like to call one of my “happy places”. The places where I feel at ease, where stress’s chilling fingers find it difficult to find a full grasp, and where I feel unconditional love.
We are constantly being told how we deserve to be happy.
“As long as you’re happy.”
“Make yourself happy.”
“If it makes you happy, then do it.”
“If it’s not making you happy all the time, why do it?”
It’s days like today that make me miss home the most. The sky is an ominous gray, rain drips down the window mirroring the tears I deftly try to wipe away before anyone notices. Even the music I have plugged into my ear buds, music that should make me happy, excited, and alive, only ushers my thoughts to a warm car, artificially heated, flying down a highway with the sound turned up high and a friend in the passenger seat. Something completely unavailable here in Cambodia.
Through a constant stream of social media, a never ending source of news constantly being thrown at you from the world wide web, and behind-the-screen interactions with people you’ve both encountered face to face or through the vast pages of the internet- it’s become more and more shockingly obvious that there are some seriously misguided people (on my side, generally older men) and basically disgusting creeps in this world.
It won’t be until 10:10 today that my dad died four years ago. I honestly and embarrassingly can’t remember whether it was morning or night, the fluorescent hospital lights and agitated sleep on hard, angled chairs warped time and reality.
