When Stories Turn Into Tangents
I started with a story, and the clown car of words took me for a ride.
Warning: Some readers may find this post disturbing. It mentions drug addiction and rape.
Perhaps you’ll recognize these first lines as the last lines of last week’s post. I started telling that story and my mind and heart decided to go on a journey.
My stories really aren’t that special.
Have you ever seen an old fellow with a Veteran’s cap? That guy has stories. Some of them bright like the sun and some red like blood.
My dad was one of those guys.
In 1961, a B-52 Stratofortress broke up midair and dropped TWO nuclear bombs near Goldsboro, NC. My dad had to stand in the hole and guard one! One of them is still in the ground!
My dad survived Vietnam. In fact, he was in the Air Force 20 long years and retired. He was proud of his service and he wore a Veteran cap everywhere.
I’ve been with him many times when people thanked him for his service. He would always mention how different it was when he came home from overseas. He’s been spit on and jeered at. He was always grateful that people feel differently about that these days.
Have you ever noticed how they throw people in prison, and some of them thrive because it’s the first time they’ve ever had a stable and structured existence?
Imagine a life so chaotic that prison is the most orderly thing you’ve ever experienced.
People in prison are innovative. There’s a lot of intelligence and talent sitting in cells. Sure, they probably messed up, but they still have immense value as humans. Think what would happen if prison actually did rehabilitate people and help them find meaningful employment, etc.
All that cleverness honed until it becomes something good they can live on and identify as outside of crime.
I’ve been insanely blessed that my experiences didn’t lead me down the roads to a prison cell or Skid Row.
Have you ever seen the people who live on Skid Row? It’s an area in downtown Los Angeles that is synonymous with words like “junkie” and “prostitute”. If you want to see a sampling, check out this channel - https://www.youtube.com/@SoftWhiteUnderbelly/videos
See, we as a society like to slap labels on people. It’s how we categorize all sorts of things, but it’s also how we valuate them.
If I say, “Tom is a junkie.”
We automatically have thoughts about Tom and have probably added him to our “avoid” list. He’s a lost cause, right?
Maybe, but maybe not!
I empathize with junkies. I’ve experienced enough pain in my life to understand the comfortable numbness that comes with drug addiction.
I do the same thing with content. I cram so much of it in my brain that there’s no room for the pain.
I get it completely. I also know there are people carrying around pain that makes mine look like playground sticks and stones.
I’ve watched copious amounts of that television show Intervention. You know, the family member is addicted to something and the family stages an on-camera intervention to get them into rehab?
You know the one thing I’ve noticed most of those addicts have in common?
Their parents got divorced. That was the beginning of their end.
I’d wager to say the breakdown of the family unit in Western society is the root of every problem we have.
Our lives are colored by these things. Many of us are fortunate that our lives reflect our bright existence. We can’t forget the ones who reside in darkness. Their lives are colored by the endless nights of blood and tears.
I had a friend in college who shared her story with me about how her babysitter raped her with sticks. She told me that story, heavy and disturbing, and she walked away and barely ever talked to me again. It was like she unloaded her burden and was afraid I’d want to give it back.
Trauma is weird.
Now that my parents are gone. Every time I hear a traumatic story, I understand more deeply how blessed I am that my parents loved me and kept me safe. They weren’t always perfect, but they were mine and I have lived every day missing them since they left.
Sometimes people ask, “Are you okay?”
Not really. I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again, but I go on and I tell the stories. That’s all I can do.
I can feel that I don’t laugh as easy as I used to. Smiles are fewer and further between. My mind is transfixed on things above and perhaps that was the goal all along. Praise God.
I have no words to ease your mind. Just know you are loved and safe.
A friend recently told me, after I shared my heavy problems with her, and her heavy problems with me, that "a problem shared is a problem halved".