By “M.E.”
Staff Writer
Editor’s Note: At the writer’s request, this article has been published under a pseudonym due to the personal nature of its content.
You are invited to choose your own definition of “driven.” The voice that holds us true to our dreams... or the poison that deceives us, forces us to become “driven over the edge.”
Winter winds whip frozen limbs one against another across the orchard, covered in ice above the ground... this permanence is merely temporary.
Hidden from the sun, acres of grass, green as Ireland, await to emerge, buried beneath a layer of snow and barren earth, now hopeless and empty, but with the promise of tomorrow... this too, is impermanent.
All things must be nurtured to grow… without it, for some, a quick, painless, demise, for others, a slow and self-inflicted one. The first taste of disappointment and lack of self worth may test our strength against impossibility, leading us to claw our way up toward the sun, only to be beaten down once again.
Our paths set before us are not always ones we need to take, and sometimes, we are forced to take them. They may lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, yet, we cannot surrender. Not yet. Only then will we find our way. Hopelessness brings redemption.
Like the blanket of grass hidden, veiled from view, this is a story of self discovery. It involves secrets, acceptance and denial. It is a part of your life and mine, and shares the afflictions we all fear the most, testing the strength of the human spirit.
Before hiding behind the mask, I was happy and alive. Long after that, I died every day. Isolation from friends, family, even myself, brought a loneliness, a desperation, and with it, the evils of the things that take it all away, alcohol, drugs, and attempted suicide. Without help, the seed of self-destruction began to grow. Amazingly, I survived. I moved away on my own, continuing with the one thing that held me high above the world, independence and a drive to be something more.
Where this drive came from, I never knew. It is still with me to this day, the thing that doesn’t let me give up. Sometimes I want to shrug it off and surrender. Time moved on and once again, trust turned its back on me, in the form of a lying cheat of a boyfriend, forcing me back behind the mask. The mask is the thing we all wear, that hides our true selves from the person that others see.
Alcohol, drugs and an endless sea of non-substantial relationships held me in a sleep of death for three days, finally awaking to the reality that one must at least go on with the motions, even if you can’t feel anything else. I started to become driven, this time over the edge.
The heart finds its way to heal… by prayer, by poems, by writing. These are the only answers I can offer. Another chance at love, or so I thought, came in the disguise of of a marriage. That’s when I became driven not only over the edge, but began building layers of denial. Two children later, continuous moving from six or seven different locations in Connecticut to places out-of-state by no choice of my own left me exhausted, without direction, and with that… I left. The only problem was, he wouldn’t let me leave.
Physical and verbal abuse was common, and police were called. I was attacked, degraded, my clothes, belongings, and identification were stolen, and my car damaged. A line of duct tape was drawn down my entire house indicating what side I should stay on. Bolting my door day and night, and after an attack in self-defense, I was arrested. The charges were nullified, and though my son stayed with his father out of loyalty, my daughter remained with me. I never thought I would lose a son at the age of twelve. To make the suffering just a little more painful, my crazy ex-husband took my son out-of-state to live.
Repeated prayer and poems were once again what kept me moving forward. Through all the harassment, separation, and years of isolation from a normal life, I met someone who loved me. I was happy and alive like before the mask… but a deeper place I now began to tread.
Club scenes, parties, back alleys, and an alternative lifestyle lent a host of new problems. In denial, and after finally seeking counseling, I realized that the love I thought was mine these past few years was really a man’s love for drug addiction, and not what I thought.
Matters grew worse when I was laid off my job, having to maintain a house, two young adult kids, and a boyfriend living his own hell, in his own denial. Arguments grew common, and once again, withdrew behind the mask. Hopelessness sank in, the same afflictions poisoning my soul, this time, for months.
A lifeline of co-workers and friends gone, signing up for college began an occupation of thinking... and writing…every day. Not just poems, but fictional stories. They created a passion for something bigger than despair. With writing, came the hope for something more meaningful, a bigger piece of life that was missed somehow, a detour from misery that became my salvation.
Becoming “driven”… the voice that holds us to our dreams… is much like the grass awaiting to emerge with the promise of tomorrow…
Sometimes, paths lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, only then will we find our way…
A video demonstrating the power of love, healing, and sacrifice for something other than one’s self, called “My Love” by Sia is my dedication....
Poet Emma Wheeler Wilcox wrote “Solitude” and I dedicate this poem to those who will appreciate its worth:
“Solitude”
Laugh, and the world laughs with you,
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer,
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice and men will seek you,
Grieve and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many
Be sad and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded,
Fast, and the world goes by
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow isles of pain.
