I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I’ve been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It’s not just him. It’s the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I’ve observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I’ve watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don’t make your children love you more. And they don’t make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.
Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end To what good How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair
Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there’s no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That’s why I just deleted an hour’s worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn’t have to be shared. It doesn’t have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.
There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.
About living life more fully. What does that mean Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he
IS my heart’s desire. To be sad that my life isn’t full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I’m not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn’t any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it
would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it
used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I’m not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I
like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get
some, so it’s still good.
