Hard Days and The Stories They Tell

"I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. I am not bound to succeed, but I am bound to live up to what light I have."- A.L.

I was working with a client in the emergency room a couple days ago that has been hard to forget. He was very intoxicated but by the time he had gotten to a bed in the hallway, he was able to articulate full sentences and understand the normal-kind of English he and others speak daily. I didn’t say much to him because my co-worker was really the one who was supposed to be working with him, I was just there helping. But I may have said one or two things and instead of giving everyone hell like he had been, he choked back a giggle and forced himself not to smile. I stared at my folder in front of me and pretended I didn’t see him. He began to tell us all he was a good guy but that he drinks a lot. He kept saying sorry. I told him he didn’t have to be sorry but he kept apologizing anyway. Of course, I couldn’t help but fall into a moment where I saw something in him that I knew he could not see anymore and “that” was more heart breaking than his addiction in itself. I see people like him all of the time, unfortunately they barely ever influence me, I feel something for a second but then I know I need to put them behind me because it is just my job and I can not afford to get caught up in what I see. My co-worker continued asking him the necessary questions, while I stood beside him writing on his forms, he kept putting his head on my shoulder for a second then lifting it. I said nothing. One last time he rested his head on my shoulder and into my ear he whispered so no one could hear him, “Thank you”. He brought no attention to himself by doing this except my attention which at that point he had entirely. For a minute, I heard my father, as “thank you” poured from his lips. I am sure he needed a shoulder and I am almost positive I have been waiting for a thank you since I watched my own die from the same thing he had been abusing. I knew the man was sorry. I also knew he had no idea how he would ever stop now. I write these little stories that may not make sense to others because they’re not on the surface, they’re very real, they’re hard to come by. To most people that man was just another drunk guy, to me, he was much more. I also write because some days are harder than others—I have a habit of not allowing myself to let those days happen. Instead I try to figure out why they’re hard. I am told I don’t ever really let myself feel whatever it is that my psyche needs to because I “distract” myself with the “why” instead. But what else is there to do when you’ve always been your only outlet—when the only way you know to work anything out is to sit down and think about it—about all the possibilities, the positive and the negative so there are no surprises. I’ve been given insight to things about myself in the past couple years that I would’ve never thought of. After all of this insight, the one thing I’ve noticed was the lack of patience I have for myself—for where I am in my life—for my parents—for my expectations of people—for the days where I am feeling at my worst—for the eyes I have that only see what I want them to see and not what really is—for the things I wish I had but don’t—for the things I wish I could give but can’t—for all the should-a, could-a, would-a’s that I have continuously burdened myself with. Life experiences have taught me that I won't ever be perfect but I am still teaching myself to be ok with that fact. I am continuously trying to live up to my own expectations—expectations that make up for the people that my mother and father could not be. Expectations of who I would like to be. I bombard myself with all these ways of life—everyone else's rights and wrongs. I let all of these lives influence mine, when no one's way is right or wrong, it is just their way. I see people just getting by every day— in the streets, in line at the café, in the ER, on TV and in my career. I can’t allow that to be me. There are days I wake up proud, other days I wake up thinking I am not enough and I somehow need to be so much more. It is those days I see that my fixation on perfection still exists. Sometimes, I don't want to do anything at all because I’ve completely burnt myself out and I’d rather live a mediocre life being happy with what little I have. I've battled these parts of myself my entire life; it is the battle between love and hate. I know the love/hate theme is so cliché in these neighborhoods but part of me loves me and the other part of me is absolutely disgusted by me sometimes. People might say all of this was because my father was an alcoholic and my mother wasn't around much. Well, even if that is true and all of these grandiose idea's of the family I had are true, I still don't want to be torn between the two worlds anymore. No matter how much work you do on you, you’ll see, that work is never over. So fill yourself with life before the life comes right out from underneath you.