And this thought made me deeply sad. I’ve thought this thought, but never processed the related feelings.
Three nights ago I was dreaming I was in a flooded home, my childhood home. I was on the second floor, but everything was drenched in water. One of my favorite books was soaked and unrecoverable. And in the dream I started to weep. Everything was gone, and there was nothing I could do. I felt the presence of my father, who died, and who I also could not reach in any way, and who was quite frequently mean to me. He belittled me nearly every chance he got, while pretending it was a joke. But none of the jokes were funny.
And it occurred to me that the point of therapy is reaching a point where there are enough tears for your pain. For many of us, there is pain which cannot be cried out. It is a deep, dull–sometimes sharp–ache for which there is seemingly no cure, and no true relief. People like that become drunks, or addicts of some sort. Some kill themselves. All live reduced lives.
Two nights ago, I dreamed a kind old woman was mixing medicine for me, and saying “there is no cure without a home.” A kind presence in my dreams is a new thing for me. I felt very, very little kindness in my own actual home. None, that I can recall, if I am honest, even if perfunctory and almost ritual things were done, like buying me Christmas presents. There was little open hostility, but very little thoughtfulness. My own mother, after all these years, does not understand me at all. I am a thought to her, an abstraction.
Last night, I was in a public space doing something or other, contemplating that my life has lacked love, and it is such a sad thing that people live and die all the time without ever really feeling love. They never find that person. They never find that group. You live and die and never really feel like you have anything figured out. Life, if I might indulge in cliche, is unkind, very often. I could die today, and do so without feeling like I have anything “sussed”. I hope I don’t. I need more time. I still have work to do. But many die with unfinished work. So it goes, as Kurt Vonnegut memorably put it.
I can honestly say I have done my best to face my life with courage, and with a determination to figure this thing out.
And I continue with my visions of a solution, of a church which works, of the creation of countless ersatz, but more real than real, families. I continue with my vision of making connection easy, obvious, and nearly inevitable for nearly everyone. I dream of new forms of “home”. It’s not just me who is hurting. It’s almost everyone.
I thank God for giving me a robust body, and the sense to take reasonably good care of it. I am on a river, and there is no telling what is possible for me. I place my faith in the rejection of self pity, perseverance, and curiosity/wondering.