The Return Of Pollyanna

I continue to explore this strange, new world. I wasn't sure if this new state of acceptance was going to stick, as this journey of chronic pain has been fraught with so many hills and valleys. But it seems it has, as each morning I'm waking up in a calmer state.

What's troubling, though, is that I haven't given up the painkillers, and I wish I could. I went most of the day without them today, but by the time I got home from afternoon errands (including a 12-step meeting), my face hurt just so bad, and it was all I could think of. I ordered a refill from the pharmacy, took two Vicodin, then fell promptly asleep for the rest of the afternoon.

This is what bugs me about painkillers. They rob me of precious hours of my life. I suppose I was hoping that a new state of acceptance would somehow make me so emotionally strong that I could withstand physical pain, but that hasn't been the case, and I'm wondering now how this is all going to play out.

What I love about pain medication is that, even if it does nothing for the pain, it helps me to escape it for a short while, at the end of which I usually take more to keep the escape going. But what I hate about it is that I no longer experience the natural highs of making art or music. I no longer experience those magical moments of truth where "art happens," and I'm left dumbfounded by what I've been able to channel.

I miss these experiences...a lot.

And as I sit here, I sip on a glass of wine and smoke a cigarette, which, combined with pain medication, makes me feel like a total degenerate. I must be the picture of the classic tortured artist. I can think of friends from the past who found these images of themselves romantic, but trust me, they're not. They're sad, and I feel weak and stupid until I catch myself and just accept that this is tough road I'm walking and will therefore be fraught with mistakes.

Some of my recovery pals like to think that this pain is just a manifestation of my secret desire "to use," and I do try to keep an open mind to their opinions. But as I sit here, my face fucking hurts. It's as real as this tasty Pinot Noir and Camel Light.

Decisions, decisions.

What's been interesting is that in this new state of acceptance, I can see just how angry, bitter, guilt-ridden and jealous I've been towards those who have such healthy and pain-free bodies. I wasn't even aware that I was feeling such things until I decided to stop fighting the pain so hard.

I was even jealous of my two- and four-year-old nieces, who are so innocent and pure, so healthy, so joyous, and live in such a love-filled life. I couldn't look at them at not feel some twinge of sadness and regret, as if all of the good things of life had passed me by, and one of my only real uses now as a human being was to help them grow into strong healthy adults. In such a state of pain and addiction, my life was beginning to feel over.

It was a horrible state to be in, and only now do I see just how destructive it was to my psyche. But acceptance has changed all that. I accept now that these awful things have happened to me in my life, and it's all okay. I can deal with it. I can make something with it; I can give it all meaning, and who knows? Maybe these very writings will be the biggest thing I will ever offer my fellow human beings, which means that every twist and turn won't be wasted, provided I can stay honest and true about every detail (which tonight is the issue of alcohol and nicotine).

I read an article recently by Scott Kiloby about something called "non-duality," which is the name of what I've been experiencing, apparently. We've exchanged a couple of emails about the topic, and he closed one by saying this: "What is, is what is. And a full surrender into that brings a peace of mind totally unknown to most people. I also experience it as unconditional love."

It occurs to me that had I not gone through this terrible ordeal, I might not have stumbled upon this insight, which indeed fills me with unconditional love.

When I played with my nieces this Christmas, I was filled with such light and such joy at watching them tear open their gifts. And instead of feeling any kind of jealousy or resentment, I felt deep compassion for them, as they go through their own trials and tribulations in their growth experience. And I was happy for them that they have a family who loves them so dearly.

Everything seems poignant to me right now, although I think I'm starting with the flu. Although I hate feeling these symptoms, I can even see the bright spot in having a nasty cold in that I don't smoke when I'm sick, and this will be a good break from it for a few days...an opportunity to break the habit for good, hopefully.

I'm feeling a little like Pollyanna again, which has always been an aspect of my character and has been missing for years now. I've always felt it's been a slightly corny part of me, but how I welcome her return. I don't know if she'll be here tomorrow, but she's here right now, and I'm grateful.

The Elusive Keyser Soze

It's been about ten days or so since Michael and I met for dinner. And as expected, it was a heartwarming event.

We met at the ferry at the old World Trade Center site (now called World Financial), and I must say, the sight of him shocked me. The pictures I have of him show a small blonde boy, yet on Aug. 18th, he was anything but. I almost looked right past him, in fact, for now he's a big, burly, tatooed, salt-and-pepper-haired construction guy, a man in every sense of the word, carrying massive responsibilities on big shoulders buttressed by thick skin.

He's in charge of one of those new towers at Ground Zero, leading 800 men and 14 supervisors hundreds of feet skyward in a project with staggering safety issues, pinpoint details and pure unadulterated weight.

But I wasn't thinking of that when I saw him, of course. I only saw my childhood best friend, and in that moment, my heart nearly stopped. For a long time, we just sat on the waterfront and held hands, trying in vain to catch up on over 35 years of separation, but mostly just looking at each other for hints of our childhood faces and souls.

Our faces have changed, of course, but within a relatively short amount of time, I was most definitely in the presence of Michael again, as it didn't take long for him to get me laughing.

Over the course of the evening (lasting nearly seven hours), there were countless moments where I was laughing so hard that my face actually ached, just as it did when I was a kid. All the mischief in Michael the boy was there and more in Mike the man, and like the Grinch who's suddenly so touched by the Whos in Whoville on Christmas morning, I felt my heart grow bigger and bigger inside my chest with each passing hour.

There was constant hugging and kissing and reminiscing and picture-reviewing, and before I knew it, nearly all the restaurant patrons were gone except for us, and it was time to leave.

Since then, I've emailed him a couple of times, suggesting get-togethers, as we had talked about various things to do in the future, but it's been almost a week now since my last email, and I haven't heard back. For some reason, I'm not surprised by this, as I know just how much tragedy and disappoitment Michael has suffered in his life, and that the two places he finds the most comfort are at his job and in the company of his daughter. Something tells me he might not want to venture beyond that, and instead leave our child friendship in the past, as a true and perfect thing, a sacred memory not to be toyed with.

So I'm not sure if we'll ever actually see one another again, but one thing I do know is this:

After such a difficult four years of my own, it's been wonderful to discover that such feelings of joy and love are in me, and that I still have so much love to give. I've learned that I haven't turned to stone after all, and far from being bitter, I've actually been able to transcend difficult days of physical pain, a discovery that somewhat shocks me. Love does indeed heal, and I want more of it in my life.

My own wounds have made me fearful of love, too, but when it comes to Michael, my love borders on something truly unique--even divine--and that has made love feel safe to me in a way it perhaps never has before. So whether or not I see him again isn't important, I suppose, although I hope I do.

I thought about him for a long while today, and couldn't help but think of Kevin Spacey in "The Usual Suspects." Towards the end of the film, his character, Verbal Kint, talks about the elusiveness of Keyser Soze, illustrating it with a puff of air into his fingertips, saying, "And like that (pouf)...he's gone."

Michael swept in like an angel of mercy, distracting me so completely from pain and bouts of withdrawal during some crucial weeks. I thought little of myself or my suffering during that whole time, feeling instead the bittersweet pain of grueling anticipation. I also saw the arc of life, my own life and his, and often found myself weeping, not out of sadness, but because of being moved by life itself, and by the bond we shared as children.

But he seems to have vanished just as swiftly, leaving me to feel like I'd been hit by lightning, or perhaps had a shock treatment, and now I'm not quite sure where I am. Luckily, I took a few quick photos that night, so proof does exist that it really did happen. But like Verbal Kint, I'm blowing a puff of air into my own fingertips, marvelling at his sudden elusiveness.

He's where he belongs, though, up in the clouds on the gazillionth floor. I can see his building clearly from across the river here, and I smile when I look at it. He brought love back into my life, and for this, I will forever be grateful to him. I only want him to be happy and healthy, whether we're in one another's life or not.

All this said, I do know that I will see him again one day, if not in this life, then maybe the next. I know him and he knows me in ways most human beings never get to experience. And the power of this reunion restores my faith in a power much greater than myself.

How could I be anything but grateful?