The Wait Is Over

It occurred to me the other night that for years now, I've been running a tally of all the unfortunate events that have occurred during my lifetime--a tally that has often left me feeling overwhelmed and bewildered, even bitter and jealous towards those who seem to have had such an easier time of it.

But you know what? I'm sick of feeling that way. While lying in bed that night, I suddenly felt that yes, it's true that I've suffered in ways that most people would consider torture, but I also felt that it's all been quite an extraordinary journey in terms of raw life experience.

For reasons I don't fully understand, there's been a sense of shame attached to it, and I see now that I still carry secrets, even after all this time. And in my subconscious mind, these secrets are the proof that at my core, I don't really deserve to be walking around among the masses feeling good and healthy. I'm a fraud, and all this shitty stuff that has happened is because of that--not because I'm a fraud necessarily, but because of what I'm hiding.

But then it hit me: Having survived all of these disasters has certainly made for an extraordinary life, and when I look at it alongside my God-given gift of communication, I can see quite clearly that I'm not really doing anything with it.

On the one hand, there is this all this extreme life experience, and on the other are these communication skills that I've been developing for years. Whether they're skills in writing or painting or music doesn't really matter; it's what they've all added up to that counts--an ability to communicate on various levels with various tools, and I'm not using them to their fullest.

When I used to write songs, I would always incorporate my life experience into the work, even if the songs were somewhat fictional. But when physical pain took over my mind and body, I simply couldn't find the words or the melodies anymore that could express what I was going through. It was that bad.

Painting became an easier outlet, but at some point, my life and my art began to part ways, and I began to wait for that golden day when I'd finally feel better, when the pain in my jaw and face and abdomen would be gone, and then I'd be able to make use of my talents. Only then would I be able to fully enjoy them and make sense of all this, as if 20/20 hindsight were the only valid lens to look through.

But you know what? That painless day may never come. I must face the fact that I've been in pain for nearly a decade now, fighting it every inch of the way--seeking out every resource, every treatment, every doctor I thought might help--and while I've improved in some ways, the suffering on certain days can be as bad as it ever was.

I see now I'm not living an integrated life. While I've been able to accept the darkness in my soul and in my history for the most part, I haven't been able to accept the dark truth that life can be grossly unfair, and when our bodies fail, it can be terrifying...and enraging.

But there's another truth here, which is that no matter what shape we're in, physically or mentally, we deserve to be loved, and we particularly deserve to love ourselves just as we are.

I thought that I'd accepted all this, but the other night it was an a-ha moment indeed to see how I've just been waiting to come alive again. And waiting. And waiting.

The wait is over.

Scary Pretty Things

In my last post, I referred to my friend Troy's wife, Angie, as "scary-pretty." It just popped out, and now I find it a curious adjective. I could easily describe my sponsor, Mary, that way, as she has one of the most beautiful faces I've ever seen.

When we first met (at one of my first AA meetings), we immediately connected, and within five minutes or so, she offered to be my sponsor. I said an unequivocal "yes," but I couldn't help but notice her extraordinary beauty. With her long, blonde, straight hair, she looks like a California model cloaked in urbane Manhattanite high-fashion threads. As I walked home from the meeting that day, I wondered if I could actually spill my guts to a face that was so perfect without feeling some kind of intimidation or, worse, jealousy. I actually considered backing out of the deal with some kind of lame excuse.

But it took just a few minutes to have the insight I needed. How many times in my own life have I felt rejected or rebuffed because of my own gifts? While I've lost a friend or two due to my health ordeals (some just can't handle this kind of thing), what's actually hurt far worse have been the rejections when I was shining at my brightest. Whether it was a successful art exhibit, or my writing a memorable pop song, or looking particularly fine while wearing a clip-on ponytail, or--perhaps most important--just feeling a day of boundless joy, the no-comment commentary or the sly digs were deeply painful, at times even excruciating.

These are the things we do to one another when we feel insecure about our self-worth or our own gifts. That insidious character-erosion of those we supposedly care about is a deadly game, for sure, and it hurts both perpetrator and victim alike. Sadly, when I've shined a bit too bright, instead of it serving as an inspiration, some friends fell by the wayside. While their departure was ultimately welcome in the end, as I couldn't stand the stress of it anymore, it was also profoundly sad, as are most situations where communication crumbles.

As soon as I had this insight, any intimdation I may have had about Mary's looks vanished, and since then, I've discovered that the beauty of her soul far exceeds her external appearance, if that's even possible. She couldn't be more compassionate, intelligent, loving, non-judgmental and serious about her role as my sponsor.

And, perhaps not surprisingly, she has the face of an angel.

Lucky me.