We’re not old enough for this

American society is not old, grown up, mature or independent or faithful enough to handle the technological advances that have and are occurring. In fact, they are making us more immature, inpatient and dependent. At least for me it’s that way.

Here’s how I know. It’s not unusual for me to have a spell of sadness or loneliness or depression as I go through my day. I have chronic major depression – so it’s normal, really. I’ve had it all my Life – except when I was a kid I was told it was called being “ungrateful” or “acting like” something’s wrong.

So, I send a text to a friend. It’s usually not an emotional spewing, just a “hey” to see if they are “there”.

Then, they don’t respond (gasp!). I go on working or sitting in front of the TV, or puttering around a procrastinated project, trying to not pay attention to how long it takes them to answer; but still checking my phone in 1 – 2 minute intervals. In my head this is going on:

“Wtf? Am I not important enough to respond to? I thought you said you cared. I though you said you’d be there. Unless you are ignoring me again – are we not talking and you didn’t tell me? WTF man!?”

And this is WITHIN the first ten minutes.

TEN freaking minutes – I‘ve taken a crap that lasted longer than that.

This is so cliché I could just kick myself, but I long for the good ol’ days . Those days when I would have these feelings – and there was no way to reach out to anyone.

Hear me?

There was no way to reach out to anyone. No method or device to use for immediate sympathy, or access to someone to “process it” with. There was a phone, but it only made phone calls and was in your bedroom – not your pocket.

So what did I do “back then” when the messy ick of being human was in my face? I DEALT WITH IT.

Those crappy abandoned, hopeless, worthless and miserable feelings that came up – I FELT THEM.

Today, we don’t deal or feel anymore; we text, email and blog about feelings and problems. But we never really sit down in the living room with our demons and challenge them in hand-to-hand combat.

No wonder we’re such a mess. No wonder I despise my weakness and inability to “deal with emotions in a healthy way.” I’ve conformed to society’s ways (again) and lost touch with myself (again).  I had more emotional savvy and self-knowledge drunk and journaling than I do now sober and surfing the internet.  This is change, but it is not growth.

It’s time for personal rebellion. It’s time to shut the laptop, leave the TV off, shut off the phone … and just sit. And breathe. And be. And feel. That is how you deal with feelings – you feel them.

Plight

There is a particular aloneness – one that is not warmed by the love of friends, spouses or children.  It’s a cold, stark aloneness that occupies my core.

It’s been as defining and ever-present as my DNA. Always there, chasing me in one particular direction or another. Sometimes I slow my steps and just let it be with me, but not for long as it’s so heavy and it hurts to carry it.

This aloneness isn’t just a feeling of sheer terror; it’s a piece of my BEING. When I’m with it, I don’t feel terrified, I AM terror.

If this is resonating with you – then you, too, have been abandoned. The experience is worse than death.

I was a newborn when abandoned by the first mother. I remember it – will always remember it, because that kind of trauma echoes throughout one’s Life.

I was not wanted. I am not wanted. It’s true – she said it to me.

So searching for her is all I have.

There’s comfort in the search. It’s familiar. I’ve spent years searching, hoping, wishing, crying, praying and “getting over it.”

In the search I find only bits and pieces of public information, but it’s SOMETHING that affirms she exists. As long as she exists, I have a very dim hope in a very dark world. I have the dim hope of a deathbed confession about the child she gave away. Then maybe I’ll get to see her one more time or maybe she’ll finally tell my brothers. And maybe I’ll finally exist.

Thank you, Emily

“After great pain a formal feeling comes– The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs; The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore? And yesterday–or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round A wooden way Of ground, or air, or ought, Regardless grown, A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead Remembered if outlived, As freezing persons recollect the snow– First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.”

Thank you Ms. Emily Dickinson for penning these words – and to all those who’ve kept them alive.

Posting here for purely selfish reasons. I feel a nudge to keep this poem close. Premonotion? Maybe. Does that scare me? Not at the moment, as it’s been a very difficult year, yet all I’ve needed to persevere has been Divinely provided.

As It is to be, so shall It be.