Easy To Be Hard

I've begun lumping the two events together, though they have very little to do with each other. And maybe "lump" is the wrong word; that makes it sound careless and mean. This marriage of unhappy and unrelated partners was subconscious, I believe. They are both about loss, one far more tragic than the other, but they share a common pain rooted in disbelief and shock.

I feel terrible, both in general and for linking these people who did not know each other, who did not share a fate but whom I can no longer see or touch, speak to, yell at, hug. Two of them are gone physically; one of them is gone emotionally and also physically, at least in my world.

How truly unfair it is to remove yourself from someone's life without warning. How unbearably cruel for those left behind. My mind cannot fathom either loss. I had equated his walking away with a death long before the accident, long before the tragedy that ripped two caring, compassionate souls from the world in the most heartbreaking way possible. Why would you choose to walk away from a solid place without a genuine cause when you can so easily be torn from this world without warning?

Compassion is difficult. It's no simple task to forgive and understand something you don't know anything about, something you judge as wrong or bad. It's painstakingly hard to look at these situations and say, "Maybe I can learn from this. Maybe there's something I'm not seeing. Maybe this person is just as complex as I am but in different ways." For a lot of people, this thought process does not exist. The shortest way out of those situations is to jump to condemnation and move on.

Easy to be hard. Easy to be cold.

I've been guilty of lack of compassion as much as anyone else in this world. But I try to recognize it when it happens and I realize why it's so toxic. This is why I try so hard, as much as I can, to choose love. Love those whom society and judgment says you should hate. Love those your ego cannot tolerate. Be above yourself at these times. Because hate breeds more hate; it's a scientific fact. But love breeds more love. And who doesn't want more love?

I'm Here, Too.

The woman at the ticket booth glances down before tearing the slip of paper I hand her apart at its perforated edge. "Oh, that looks interesting," she says quite convincingly, as if she actually might go see it herself. "It should be interesting," I reply, prodding her to follow her gut and brave the hour and 42 minute documentary, The Hunting Ground, focusing on how college campuses have dealt with allegations of sexual assault.

I am prepared to deal with the aftermath of what I am about to put myself through but am unaware of exactly what is in store for me. Whatever this film throws at me, though, I am convinced I can take it. I wouldn't have considered seeing it otherwise.

I start crying within the first five minutes and there are more intermittent tears throughout the film caused by a myriad of emotions from solidarity to anguish, anger and heartbreak. It makes me glad I chose to sit alone. The statistics I encounter are not surprising but are shocking, nonetheless.

I wait until every credit has rolled and the screen is blank before I start collecting my things and putting on my jacket. I'm not the biggest Lady Gaga fan but hew new song that plays during the credits, "Till it Happens to You," written with Diane Warren specifically for The Hunting Ground, releases a new onslaught of tears. The song is spot on because it's hard to imagine what this is all like, until it does happen to you.

On my way out of the theater, the same woman is at the ticket booth and I see her see me as I am walking down the stairs to exit the building. We lock eyes as I pass her and she says gently, "Have a good night." I respond with a soft, "You too." I have a feeling this woman has a story or at least understands mine. I hope she gets to see this film.

Driving home in the rain, I am bombarded with feelings of invisibility. The cars on the freeway that don't want to let me merge or that cut me off give me the same feeling as the law officials or college presidents who swept rape cases under the rug and ignored survivors' feelings. "I'm here, too," I said while gripping the steering wheel. I said it to them, to myself, to everyone who refused to listen or who trivialized my experience. I'm here, too.

Midnight at the Heart of It

I need to find my way back into the light. It happened so slowly that it snuck up on me yet so quickly that it felt like a blow to the gut. How did I end up in this place, this darkness that is so damaging and all-encompassing that I don't even know which direction I came from? I feel like I'm fighting, constantly punching at what I think are walls but are really just air and space. It seems futile yet I know I can't stop. I will hit my target one of these days; I just need the sun to rise a bit.

Random Orderly

I have my tea and my natural stress-relief pills. I have my sunrise-simulating alarm clock and my morning routine. I have my weekly meal plans scheduled a month in advance and everything is packed in individual containers and ready to go by Sunday nights. I have my designated objective for the upcoming week already mapped and set to launch long before Monday morning rolls around and the subsequent chaos ensues.

I have been an organizer since I could purposely place things in a semblance of order. I have always longed to make sense out of randomness, to keep like with like. I remember desperately trying to create a makeshift miniature closet for my socks when I was in grammar school. The only thing that kept me from achieving it was basic craftsmanship.

I've had a fair amount of practice and have all of the skills necessary to take this crazy life and make it logical. It is my forte and the type of task that brings out the best in me. And, I believe, it will be the one thing that ensures my survival.

Turtles and Whatnot

My goal is to start moving back towards the things that I love. I've become distracted by uninspiring time-sucks that are not necessarily destructive but are also not moving me forward. I've picked up unhealthy habits in the last three years that I've used to protect me from my own thoughts and fears. At the time, I needed them to fill in the cracks but I'm afraid if I don't move on soon, I will get used to comforting myself and forget how much I appreciate challenge.

My free time exists in short bursts throughout the week and in long, rolling hours on the weekends. I've put some goals on the back burner for now, realizing that I can't do everything all at once. My perfectionist brain would love to master all I'm passionate about at the same time but my realist brain has taken the wheel lately; it knows I need to make choices; it also knows I am a very thoughtful and calculated decision maker. Slow and steady, I'm fighting my way to success.

Spinning Plates/Tunnel Vision

I'm trying not to shift my weight too much. I can never tell what will throw off my balance and I don't have the luxury of swaying not to mention falling. Everything on my very full plate is something that has a definitive purpose and losing just one portion of it would wreak havoc on my life right now.

I get questioned as to why I have so much going on and, depending on the audience, I give an honest answer or lie through my teeth. Just existing is exhausting, with each section of my day having its own restrictions and needs. There are days when, from beginning to end, it feels like I've lived four full days, hopping from place to person to job to hope.

I know this is a phase. I know there will be light at the end of this crazy tunnel because I can no longer see the light when I turn and face behind me. I'm in the middle and it's uncomfortable but fulfilling. Losing faith now would be a rookie mistake. I'm a veteran who has been in this situation too many times to know that the good I am seeking is well on its way.

The Disadvantages of Being a Sarcastic Wallflower

I'm starting to think that maybe I'm just misunderstood everywhere. I thought it was regional, an east coast anomaly, that my sarcastic humor and quiet nature weren't appreciated. But I may have been mistaken as the left coast is struggling to catch my drift as well.

Sarcasm isn't my crutch to ward off potential friends or relationships; it's how I've always gotten around. My mom tells me I have the same humor as her father who died when I was 7 months old. He was adored for his dry comments and deadpan demeanor. "He's Irish," they'd say, giving him a strange ethnic-based validity that I rarely receive. The most commonly used explanation for my personality is, "She's a bitch." 

I've been described as an enigma many times throughout my life. I'm not overly-reactive; I don't always have something to say; I'm an observer and a thinker and a processor. I used to revel in my perplexing prowess. It made me feel unique and mysterious. These days, it just makes me feel alone.  

Reminiscent Heartache

I should have known when I saw you looking through me, from my chest to my spine, after only three weeks. It wasn't a stare, just a glance, but it felt like indifference in its purest, most basic form. Yet I continued on because I have faith in things that no one else does. I have boundless faith, especially if it may eventually cause me harm. I am the eternal optimist, keeping the good in the forefront while sweeping the rest aside until there is so much of it that it crumbles over me like the breaker along the shoreline that I thought I could ride but ended up pummeling me instead.

I should have known when I was kneeling on the sidewalk outside my house, vacillating between sobs and pleads, simultaneously begging for you to stay and demanding that you leave. I wanted to be held while you walked away so I let you assume both roles: villain and savior. Then we were both confused and that was the ultimate comfort. It allowed me to remain stuck because you were stuck, too. We were twins, shadows following each other seeking guidance and truth but receiving only blame.

I should have known when you called me broken on the last night of my 37th year, which was a good year for me. One in which I found I could not only get by without you, I could thrive without you. I felt the most whole I had felt in years that night and yet you still saw pieces. For someone who claimed to love me so much, you assumed that's what I wanted: to be loved. But all I really wanted was to be heard.