Thursday, December 04, 2014
The Good Old Days
And then, there's the emotional stuff. Yuk.
History is a fickle bitch, isn't it? We often see the "good old days" as something that they really weren't, filtered through our lens of self-preservation and pride. We convince ourselves of how the past was truly a wonderful place to be, only to learn years later that it was a facade, a smoke-in-mirrors illusion. Those memories we hold near and dear are far too often little more than exaggerations of extreme mediocrity. For example, I remember the holidays at my home, the moments of laughter and joy as we prepare for the celebration of the commercialized date of Jesus' birth. Mom and Dad made sure that the house was festive even though we didn't really have a lot of financial resources at the time. Years later, I find myself doing exactly the same thing during times of need - creating a loving memory that covers up the deeply felt shame of not being able to provide in a manner we desire for our kids. We do what we have to, I suppose.
I remember what it was like to wake up, to live, to not have physical pain. I remember looking forward to doing this, experiencing that, emotionally and spiritually hungry for life. I remember when my demons were quieted by a simple smile, a gentle touch or even an encouraging word. I remember the times when I realized that I was not the sum total of my experiences, but rather I have survived in spite of them. Finally, I remember when just breathing, wanting to breathe didn't require gargantuan effort...those, my friends, were the "good old days."
If I could go back in time, there are so many things I'd change, but therein lies the rub - I know that I can't and I'm forced to face these demons who have followed me throughout the years. They whisper in my ears that those "good old days" were the best of times, that my life today is horribly insignificant contrasted with what I had "back then." Some of it is a lie, some of it is true.
To be honest, I'm not even sure why I wrote this blog - other than having another wrestling session with my own beasts, and somehow I know that I'm not alone. Or, hell...maybe I am.
Marching on smartly...