Cabot O’Callaghan captures that moment when the tidal wave of life takes you under, and you surface, grateful to be alive.
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Daddy only stares into the distance
There’s only so much more that he can take
Many miles away
Something crawls from the slime
At the bottom of a dark Scottish lake
—The Police, Synchronicity II
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I tell myself that I’m handling life’s challenges, that they can be shouldered when measured in a length of a day. Then I inhale deep to sigh and the air stutters into my lungs, just like after a hard cry.
The body doesn’t lie. A reservoir of repression is spilling over.
What happens when you try hard but it doesn’t matter? When authenticity fails? When love comes chained to chaotic torture?
Is failure a sort of twisted success?
I wanted to cry all day yesterday—a truth confessed by the stutter in my breath. It robbed me of the ability to connect. Another day to celebrate an absent god. A world gone madder by the latest appalling tragedy. The unending frustration and painful dividends of divorce with children. The maddening need for affection, touch and a sense of togetherness. The emotional erosion caused from the eternal tending of a son with an incurable chronic illness. The impotence to help lessen the suffering of someone precious. The undeniable uncertainly of a deconstructed life.
I can’t help but see myself as both moth and flame, like instinct betrayed by the flames of dysfunction.
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Too much of this. Too little of that. Plans gone awry. Failure with no net. I can’t help but see myself as both moth and flame, like instinct betrayed by the flames of dysfunction. And If feel the ice-harsh judgement of these bleeding words even before they are read, an accusation of romantic self-pity. Fuck you.
No one wants to openly admit their weaknesses so they viciously attack of any who dare to break rank. How dare I feel anything but comforting emotion. How dare I let blood in public.
I don’t want your meaningless successes, your hollow uplifting self-talk, your false balms. I want truth. I want hope. I want confidence. I want arms to break in. I want to be rid of this haunting prescience that my heart is about to be impaled and then torn apart by the ruthless barbs of withdrawal.
All I have is my words, and I’d be dust without them.
Self preservation screams to sacrifice limbs and run. But I know all I’d be capable of is a crawl, the act inflicting too much loss for escape.
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Self preservation screams to sacrifice limbs and run. But I know all I’d be capable of is a crawl, the act inflicting too much loss for escape.
A character of Daniel Quinn’s novel The Holy finds himself in the midst of a mid-life crisis, grappling with a call that he can deny no longer but unable to clearly hear. He walks away from his old lie of a life, reluctantly leaving a son behind, and wanders in search of what pulls at his core. The abandoning of his son eats at him while he flounders from one situation to the next unaware that his guides are with him, trying to lead him to his authentic path and back to his son.
He fails, even as the invisible guides try their best to steer him and protect him.
I’m terrified that is who I am.
When I was finally alone yesterday, I couldn’t cry. I wanted to wail until snot and tears mixed and ran down my neck. Nothing.
Only as the sun slipped behind the distant coastal range of mountains did I suddenly panic at the loss of it. I begged it not to go.
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I drove looking for a place where I could break and no one would hear, where I would have no pressure to withhold any part of my grief. Eventually I found myself on a high outcropping of rock with a wide view of the sunset and the valley below. Tears would not fall. Only as the sun slipped behind the distant coastal range of mountains did I suddenly panic at the loss of it. I begged it not to go.
How fast the sun arcs the sky, unappreciated until the last moments. An uneven crescent, a sliver, an afterglow.
Don’t go!
Only then did tears fall and cries sound. A hidden deer resting in the tall dry grass stood and lept away, startled at my breaking.
Everything leaves.
Photo—Chris Pizzitola/Flickr
Oh shame,,,am touched
That’s my wish, above all.
Incredibly touching. We are all in this strange ocean of life…the shifting currents…the waves so big they takes us under. At times it is only our dedication to those we love that keeps us coming up for air. I commend you for sharing your pain. Your son is so blessed to have you, and one day you will feel like you are riding on the wings of an eagle…It will be the sweetest reward for all of your sacrifices, endurance, and determination to hold on to hope. You have the strength. Love gives you the strength each and every day.… Read more »
I’m ready for calmer waters. Thank you for your words.
Wow. This touched me. I am feeling much the same my friend. Thanks for sharing your hell and letting us know if we are in it, that we are not the only ones
Thanks, Rebecca. I’m in a weird place. Riding the wave and dog paddling.
Wow…