Stark contrasts the last couple days. I went from a murky dungeon to a rejuvenated love for life. I took an involuntary 3 weeks off from my kids. That's the problem. It made me insane. Really. And in that time between, all I had was brief moments of clarity while I fought my strange body's whining adjustments to new germs. And Budapest... Oh and there was the scabies too, but I don't want to talk about that. We all got 'em from our favorite kids so it's the price of loving I guess.
I wrote this whole monologue about what being depressed feels like the day before I snapped out of it, but that's the most overly abused topic of bad "art" that I know of. I'll maybe say two things though? It's pretty real to me, even though its usual purpose and cause is the distortion of reality. And it's an old friend that shows up uninvited that wants to sleep in your bed and eat all your food, and embarrasses you in front of everyone you know. You need to keep him inside the house, but you can't leave him alone in there. You just watch him and hope he doesn't break anything too expensive.
But the cure for that is love. Not the intake, but the output. Seeing their faces gives me a new one for some reason. This weekend once I could finally see straight, I needed to be with them. I had to go Saturday and I got to go Sunday (today/yesterday depending on when I finish this). We did a new board with Alex and he broke new records with the alien shooting. Watching his face light up when I walked in looking for the key to the changing room and watching him gloom as I started walking out, I turned and explained and he turned back into the Alex I know. The mother of one of my best friends said one of the best signals of affection is that you light up when they walk in the room. I don't know how I could say how much I missed him too. So I won't. Chelsea and I helped him through a new board. I hope someday he will be able to tell his own story. One where he doesn't need anyone to speak for him.
Holding a baby in the hospital I thought and went down one of those dark mental halls.
Deprivation is a difficult word to stomach. It's a word that conjures up feelings of vindication. It's a word like rape. It provokes quick judgments and the Christian suppression of them that grasps awkwardly for any reason to forgive this circumstance. To find an "at least..." or a "Someone probably..." to force it to make sense when we really don't know. When we stare at babies we don't just stare at a creature formulated to incite a feeling like compassion by the composition of its facial features and body proportions, which feeling we follow and utter uncontrollably the word cute (there is no derision in me pointing this reflex out). We stare at potential. When I hear deprivation, I see this potential shaved in places like an ice statue. He is a good baby, because he doesn't cry. It's hard at first to see that he's already losing something. He's losing his ability to say that he is a human being, because he has been told by the actions of those around him, who cannot be held completely accountable in no uncertain terms that he is like a human being, but something less. This, because there is no one in the room who consistently considers this person one of the most important things that has ever happened to them. What more can we give him? There is no room in our realistic inns. Slowly I had lost this feeling that there was some kind of fight going on. But the burden of responsibility can't be underestimated, especially in relation to human life. But then, do I value the life of anyone? Do I have time or energy to truly value human life or should I be expected to? I find it difficult to allocate time to accomplish menial tasks sometimes or allocate energy and attention to maintain relationships with those closest to me. I have to set apart my life for a few months to be there for children who rarely see a sphere greater than a few yards sometimes beside their frequent trips to the meal table or resident therapists.
Years ago I came here to save them from drowning with a 5 dollar bill. This time I came for me, because I understand that I don't understand. I just wanted to see them again. I left the first time with that bitter resignation and ignorantly said "La revedere," which this year I learned literally translates, "to reviewings/reseeings" implying that we'll see each other again. It's a wish we say every time we leave, because we never know when we will see them again. Sometimes we mean it more than others.
I'm in this mode of thought, because we recently got e-mailed about a closure assignment and I looked back on how much it hurt to be going. This time I'm looking at that day like more than a dentist appointment.
Sometimes it's maybe better to leave people so that you can let them live their optimal life in your mind, so you can be surprised when you hear what really happened and have the fun of wondering what they're doing now. They stay that magical age forever to you and you can bring that memory back whenever you want. If you don't leave, you see the monotony, the power struggles, you feel the stress that is necessary to love them and you must choose how much of yourself not to give them every day. I find myself clinging to the edge of the pool, clawing the floor beside the surface. It is good that these children are across an ocean, because the symbolism appropriately describes the chasm you feel open as you leave.
But perhaps that's a natural reaction, when you fear that you may never love like that again. This is a false belief, of course. I had to learn to love some of these kids like smokers have to learn how to smoke. And I had my coughing fits like anybody else, Jesus excluded. I made a plan to love them before, I just didn't know what it would be like until it happened.
At the end of the day it's easy to say I'm tired or drained or saddened by events or the lack of certain events. Then in the shower I remembered that I signed up to be sick and alone at times wishing I could be somewhere else, get my heart broken, be tired, fall apart and sometimes want to escape, hear about things going on at home without me, dealing with personalities that see things differently than me, be overwhelmed with not understanding the language at times, bodily fluids including my own, and to frequently readjust my belief system. That's what I paid for. It's calculated to do that to people like me that live their lives mostly in theory. Then I felt clean.
I can't communicate this to the members the group very well. Sometimes I feel I'm not really needed for what I have to give, because I don't have the administrative and people skills, though I may have claimed so in my resumes and interviews. I just have the purpose. And despite all my bleeding heart rhetoric, sometimes I don't even have that. That's the other thing I payed to have again. The smiles and laughs are just a hefty bonus.
I wrote this whole monologue about what being depressed feels like the day before I snapped out of it, but that's the most overly abused topic of bad "art" that I know of. I'll maybe say two things though? It's pretty real to me, even though its usual purpose and cause is the distortion of reality. And it's an old friend that shows up uninvited that wants to sleep in your bed and eat all your food, and embarrasses you in front of everyone you know. You need to keep him inside the house, but you can't leave him alone in there. You just watch him and hope he doesn't break anything too expensive.
But the cure for that is love. Not the intake, but the output. Seeing their faces gives me a new one for some reason. This weekend once I could finally see straight, I needed to be with them. I had to go Saturday and I got to go Sunday (today/yesterday depending on when I finish this). We did a new board with Alex and he broke new records with the alien shooting. Watching his face light up when I walked in looking for the key to the changing room and watching him gloom as I started walking out, I turned and explained and he turned back into the Alex I know. The mother of one of my best friends said one of the best signals of affection is that you light up when they walk in the room. I don't know how I could say how much I missed him too. So I won't. Chelsea and I helped him through a new board. I hope someday he will be able to tell his own story. One where he doesn't need anyone to speak for him.
Holding a baby in the hospital I thought and went down one of those dark mental halls.
Deprivation is a difficult word to stomach. It's a word that conjures up feelings of vindication. It's a word like rape. It provokes quick judgments and the Christian suppression of them that grasps awkwardly for any reason to forgive this circumstance. To find an "at least..." or a "Someone probably..." to force it to make sense when we really don't know. When we stare at babies we don't just stare at a creature formulated to incite a feeling like compassion by the composition of its facial features and body proportions, which feeling we follow and utter uncontrollably the word cute (there is no derision in me pointing this reflex out). We stare at potential. When I hear deprivation, I see this potential shaved in places like an ice statue. He is a good baby, because he doesn't cry. It's hard at first to see that he's already losing something. He's losing his ability to say that he is a human being, because he has been told by the actions of those around him, who cannot be held completely accountable in no uncertain terms that he is like a human being, but something less. This, because there is no one in the room who consistently considers this person one of the most important things that has ever happened to them. What more can we give him? There is no room in our realistic inns. Slowly I had lost this feeling that there was some kind of fight going on. But the burden of responsibility can't be underestimated, especially in relation to human life. But then, do I value the life of anyone? Do I have time or energy to truly value human life or should I be expected to? I find it difficult to allocate time to accomplish menial tasks sometimes or allocate energy and attention to maintain relationships with those closest to me. I have to set apart my life for a few months to be there for children who rarely see a sphere greater than a few yards sometimes beside their frequent trips to the meal table or resident therapists.
Years ago I came here to save them from drowning with a 5 dollar bill. This time I came for me, because I understand that I don't understand. I just wanted to see them again. I left the first time with that bitter resignation and ignorantly said "La revedere," which this year I learned literally translates, "to reviewings/reseeings" implying that we'll see each other again. It's a wish we say every time we leave, because we never know when we will see them again. Sometimes we mean it more than others.
I'm in this mode of thought, because we recently got e-mailed about a closure assignment and I looked back on how much it hurt to be going. This time I'm looking at that day like more than a dentist appointment.
Sometimes it's maybe better to leave people so that you can let them live their optimal life in your mind, so you can be surprised when you hear what really happened and have the fun of wondering what they're doing now. They stay that magical age forever to you and you can bring that memory back whenever you want. If you don't leave, you see the monotony, the power struggles, you feel the stress that is necessary to love them and you must choose how much of yourself not to give them every day. I find myself clinging to the edge of the pool, clawing the floor beside the surface. It is good that these children are across an ocean, because the symbolism appropriately describes the chasm you feel open as you leave.
But perhaps that's a natural reaction, when you fear that you may never love like that again. This is a false belief, of course. I had to learn to love some of these kids like smokers have to learn how to smoke. And I had my coughing fits like anybody else, Jesus excluded. I made a plan to love them before, I just didn't know what it would be like until it happened.
At the end of the day it's easy to say I'm tired or drained or saddened by events or the lack of certain events. Then in the shower I remembered that I signed up to be sick and alone at times wishing I could be somewhere else, get my heart broken, be tired, fall apart and sometimes want to escape, hear about things going on at home without me, dealing with personalities that see things differently than me, be overwhelmed with not understanding the language at times, bodily fluids including my own, and to frequently readjust my belief system. That's what I paid for. It's calculated to do that to people like me that live their lives mostly in theory. Then I felt clean.
I can't communicate this to the members the group very well. Sometimes I feel I'm not really needed for what I have to give, because I don't have the administrative and people skills, though I may have claimed so in my resumes and interviews. I just have the purpose. And despite all my bleeding heart rhetoric, sometimes I don't even have that. That's the other thing I payed to have again. The smiles and laughs are just a hefty bonus.
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