Wednesday, August 23, 2017

Hey there, Mr. Tin Man.

Every time I say I am going to resurrect a blog, I fail. I use the excuse of not having the time, getting consumed with other activities, writing too much each day for writing to be therapeutic, etc.

But maybe I need to make it a therapeutic space.
Maybe I need an outlet.
Maybe I just need another space of air to yell into in an attempt to hit a release valve.

So, this is an attempt at exactly that.

Just the other day, sitting in a room full of hundreds of union brothers and sisters, listening to stories of torment and struggle, hardship and heartache, pleas for solidarity and help, I found myself bottoming out.

Stories of violence, hatred, systemic barriers and racism, people beaten down and written off by the selfishness of others.
Talking to a friend at home who was being gutted by the selfishness of someone he loves.
Heartache, loss.
Issues much larger than the shit swirling in my own head but a space had opened just small enough to throw a magnifying glass on my own world and just enough have the pain hit me like a ton of bricks to the chest.

The week had begun with so much hope, happiness and positivity.

Now, my heart hurt, my head felt like a pressure cooker and my throat and lungs felt like I was drowning.

I walked back alone.
I went to the bar.
I drank wine.
I opened Twitter.
I opened Facebook.
I saw a friend had gotten married...while in palliative care as he was dying at 39.
I drank more wine.
I am thankful for the company of a good friend who knew something was wrong.
He walked with me in near silence to the monument at the Forks for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls.
I stood there.
I cried there in a circle of medicine pouches.
We walked back and for a while things were hopeful, good.

And the next day my friend died.
In the arms of his new wife.
I wouldn't make it to his funeral.
A guest speaker could not make it because she was assisting in the recovery of the body of a 17 year old indigenous youth.
A friend had his heart broken once again.

But I spent more time with good, strong people. We all talked, laughed, had fun, explored, shared stories.
I had hope that somehow, some way things would work out and things could be...just good.
That through our own strength and fight we could channel what it takes to kick the bullshit in the face.

Isn't it funny how life is a bit of an asshole sometimes? How it makes you just delusional enough to convince yourself things are going to be okay? That there is hope, happiness and maybe, just maybe, there is some good and a path to make a difference?

It's fucking hard.
Up, down, up, down, up, up, up, DOWN.
It's hard when things crash.
It's hard to see any hope when we look at the hurt, the systemic violence, the racism, the misogyny, the hatred, the broken hearts that surround us all on a daily basis.
The feeling of running in cement toward something that is never going to be attainable - happiness, hope, peace, the endless pursuit of answers and solutions - is, for lack of a better word, bullshit.

I'm tired. Actually, I'm emotionally and physically exhausted. Gutted. My heart feels empty. I feel cold. And I still don't have an inkling as to what the solution is. This isn't meant to be philosophical. It isn't meant to be anything, really, other than trying any way possible to let something out.

I've been told that I have a tough exterior, and maybe I do. But there are some things that penetrate the exterior, and when they get in it's hard to flick a switch and say, "Away with you." Sometimes things make their mark, kick a hole and it's hard to make repairs. Maybe the damage is irreparable. Who knows? Out, out, damn spot.

Maybe all we do in this life is find ways to patch holes and paint over the damage to make the exterior look tougher.

I'll be okay. It will be okay. It will have to be.

"By the way there, Mr. Tin Man
If you don't mind the scars
You give me your armour
You can have my heart."

No comments:

Post a Comment