Last night I was pretty upset. I so very much wanted to write, but even the act itself was too painful. Since then I have transitioned into more of a numb, but with that dull ache that lingers long past the time you start pretending it’s not there.
Some things you just never expect to change.
Oh, you know that things evolve, grow, and develop over time—it is the very dynamic nature of life; but you expect the essence of what really matters to always be there, strong and fixed as nothing else stays. Of course you’re wrong. Since when does life stay static? How can it when everything else is changing? When it does happen, it feels like the floor falls out from underneath you, creating that pit in your stomach that jumps to your throat, the beginnings of fear.
I don’t know a person that hasn’t experienced it, and they all have a different way of describing the sensation: it’s like being slapped in the face, punched in the stomach, knocked on your ass…all attempting to express the same emotions: the hurt, betrayal, humiliation; the gut-wrenching disappointment and surprise. When the dust settles, the fear begins to set in, ask questions: are things ever going to be the same again? Is this my fault? Was I wrong? Can I ever forgive them?
The problem is that you have no control over some circumstances, and you have less control over other people. No matter how well you know them, people will always shock you. My mother has told me that you have to let them make their decisions and let them deal with the consequences, but I am so much less patient than she is. I want to shake them and berate them into making the right decision; when they dig in, I want to beat the common sense into their stupid heads. To realize that they don’t see things the same way I do…it kind of takes the wind out of my sails. When I stop fighting--when I feel like there is nothing left that I can do--that’s when the depression sets in. The fighting I can handle—at least that way I am doing something, still trying.
I guess it all comes back to the nature vs. nurture debate. I have never liked that dispute, personally. The entire purpose of it is to have somewhere to point the finger of blame for bad behavior or bad decisions. I would like to personally think we are all responsible for the decisions that we make, without the benefit of blaming the way we were raised or the natural tendencies genetically encrypted in us. The argument is, however, of special interest to me. I just can’t believe that somewhere inside me, inside Jarrod, inside Amber, are elements of Tim that we are powerless to repress. That someday, in some way, like the Hulk inside Bruce Banner, Tim will shine through us despite our lifelong striving to the contrary.
Maybe that is it—having the personality, the fortitude, the strength and integrity to never stop trying to rise above that little nugget of evil-potential inside of us. Some people have the tools to struggle against it, some people don’t.
I got off on a tangent there. Doesn’t really matter—I don’t know what I am getting at here anyway. Familial strife is to be expected. From what I hear, it happens in every family. And this whole thing was hardly unexpected, despite my denial. It was, in fact, long overdue in coming. The only thing that changed last night is that little last light—that feeble flickering of hope that my naivety held on to all this time that he might do the right thing, he might finally stand up and do what was right….that hope died.
Now that it is all out, it is time for it to go in its box and never be spoken of again. I’ll know it’s there, that little ache of something lost, but it is no longer a burden I wish to bear. It’s time to move on.
--Andie--
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