I'm not real, but I pretend I am in words.
June 19, 2011
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Dear Friend
I came here to write to you that you don’t have to be unhappy to be a revolutionary. That you can find some measure of joy and peace, and still fire arrows of discontent at society by night, in the hiding dark, or in the sun of the street.
As I thought about it, I came to realize it isn’t entirely true. That what motivates, rather than want, which you point out is such an ugly word (phonetically, visually, and in meaning, from what I gather), could be the fires that stir our psyches so violently. That perhaps our discontent is exactly what breeds the revolutionary, what propels the fight forward, what makes us contrary and argumentative and generally difficult to live with.
So is the revolution nothing more than misfiring neurons, ill-equipped neurotransmitters, internal damnation?
Can we have all this creation and riling things up without the witch’s hand in our heads, stirring our internal brew? I have tried to squelch the monster inside who must live in chaos and utter freedom. I have tried with Bible, with Philosophy, with Support Group, with Addiction, with Therapy, with Hospital, but these straightjackets did nothing but cause a later explosion equal and opposite to the force with which they were applied.
I sprinkle on anti-|psych|otics (does this mean anti-THINKing?), throw handfuls of anti-depressants, and heap on meditation, mindfulness, (all these Anti-M’s, is this Kansas? probably not) but inside the Thing only rests and saves its energy.
Husband says, “Did you stop taking your medication?”
I say, “No.”
He says, “Then what’s going on?”
I say, nothing. I say nothing. (I’m breaking apart again.)
Your beast wants to shake up the world, your town, something larger than yourself, while mine seems limited to those just inside my tiny scope. Does this make me less? My wishes for my children go something like this:
1. I wish for them to see things as they are, to have a heart of compassion but still speak truth.
alternatively:
2. I wish for them to be blind, to have a life that is happy and unburdened by truth and painful vision. (Do I really wish this? In my most painful struggles, I have.)
3. I wish for them to love fiercely and protectively, to shower it out over everyone around them.
alternatively:
4. I wish for them to be protected from heartbreak. (Again, do I? Ah, but it hurts! My babies!)
5. I wish for them to not be me.
Some people can spread pollyanna cheer and leave the room a better place than when they arrived. Some can paste up teeth and bring out whatever is already in people: anger, ownership, joy, creativity.
I don’t know where I fit, as I waver back and forth, knowing the cost to my children if I let go of myself entirely, straddling that wall of washing dishes, vacuuming, and making crazy things with words.
I have joy, I have disastrous pain, I have love.
I give those things away.
Yours,
Me
- fang
