When I was younger, thinner, and before life had its way with me (multiple times), I bought into the fairy tale that said we should all live happy ever after. The goal was to have the perfect life – straight, white teeth (the bane of my existence); a 2000+ square foot home with impeccable landscaping; a luxury car; and the right shoes and handbag for every situation. Of course, the reality is that I have terrible yet expensive teeth; hooves instead of feet, and a black thumb. How I got from my illusions of happily ever after to a place where a cat condo is considered appropriate interior décor for my living room is perhaps not a real shocker to anyone but me.
I’m getting uncomfortably close to another birthday, which can only mean that I’m that much closer to the senior discount at Denny’s – and of course, these little life milestones provide ample opportunity for self-reflection. As I consider my past 30 – 70 turns around the sun, I can’t help but pay attention to those who’ve played a role in this sitcom I call my life. I’ve collected a fascinating cast of characters over the years. Some are on the payroll like my kick-ass personal trainer or my elfin therapist while others are just the people that I meet when I’m walking down the street. Maybe it’s the wisdom of middle age, maybe it’s my inability to establish and respect interpersonal boundaries, or maybe it’s just a coincidence but I notice that lately, most of my conversations are focused on bruises. I’m not talking about actual contusions of the flesh but rather, those bruises on our souls. I’m talking about those moments where life knocked us down hard and we had to decide whether to give up, give in, or give it our all.
Lately, the people who I find the most inspiring are those whose bruises have healed but still lurk beneath the surface. I’m talking about the guy at work who took out a second mortgage on his house to pay for IVF so his wife could have the family she always dreamed of. Or the woman on the city council who’s battled cancer three times while running a company and giving back to her community. Or the guy who served two tours of duty in Iraq, lost his hearing and some of his sanity, and can’t quite reintegrate into real life the way he wants to. Or the single mom of three down the street who works three jobs to put a roof over her kids’ heads and who wants nothing more than to see them all graduate from high school. The nurse at the clinic who just had her own son arrested after he stole her car but who manages to take your blood without leaving a single mark or bruise on your skin. A woman who lost her fiancé to accidental overdose who channeled her grief into starting an overdose prevention charity. Your dear friend who stays married for the sake of the kids. That colleague who dotes on his ungrateful wife and kids. Your coworker who has a demanding job, an adult child with significant special needs, and an aging father who is showing signs of dementia but who shows up every day with a smile on his face regardless. And of course, my very own husband who overcame addiction and incarceration and stigma to become a force to be reckoned with.
When they share their stories with me in the matter of fact way that one might deliver a weather report, it breaks my heart. I want to take their hands and look into their eyes and weep. These are their bruises and in some cases, their scars. Of course, they are more than the sum of their bruises. They are complex, resilient, strong and determined human beings. They are my friends, my coworkers, and my posse. And just like the song, their bruises make for better conversation. They’re not alone in how they’ve been . . . we’ve all got bruises.
I have my own bruises and scars, but I do my damnedest to keep them covered up – not because I’m ashamed of them but because I don’t think they’re anything special. We all have bruises and mine aren’t any more or less interesting or colorful than yours or anyone else’s. I don’t want anyone’s pity or even their empathy for the bruises I’ve endured along the way. In fact, I almost never show all my bruises to anyone. If you ask, I’ll tell you my story, but I might omit a few chapters – mostly unintentionally. Even my therapist is still learning new details about me and let’s be honest . . . I’ve let that asshole see my cry a whole bunch of times lo these last eight years. Here’s the deal. Yeah, I’ve got bruises – but I am more than that. Every single time life has knocked me on my ass, I’ve gotten back up, arms swinging, ready for a fight.
I may not live in a McMansion. I may (okay, I do) have a cat condo in my living room. (You're welcome, Carl.) I may not be wearing a diamond ring the size of a compact car. I may buy my clothes at Target and I may forget to wear makeup to work more often than not. Do I work hard? You bet I do. But so do a lot of people. I happen to be lucky enough to get a big paycheck for the fruits of my labor. There are people who do much more important work than I do – teachers, police officers, addiction counselors, and nurses to name a few – who deserve much bigger paychecks than mine. But I’m happy with my humble little existence. I get up every day with one goal. I want to make my part of the world a little bit better than it was yesterday. I want to be a daymaker. And I want to believe that the reason this old gal has survived all these bruises and scars is because she’s here to quietly make a difference.
I guess that’s what give up, give in, or give it all you’ve got is all about. Of course, my husband just ordered a megaphone from amazon.com, so any ambitions of quietly doing anything are probably off the table.
© 2016 Princess D.
No comments:
Post a Comment