Farewell

Where are you, my mirror image? He who lived his life for my hopes and dreams, unknowingly, is now gone. You never knew me. We crossed paths exchanging superficial pleasantries wondering about each others' thoughts, projecting our own upon whom we saw as worthier and, therefore, unattainable. We shrouded ourselves in mystery as if it could render us invulnerable to our reflection. For you were I and I was you and our fates were intertwined; until there was no fate, no destiny and no hope.

I think you sensed my purpose before I ever did. I just went through the motions of my perceived existence, thinking I knew the truth. I believed I knew right from wrong, good from bad, right from left. You taught me that I knew nothing and mercifully enlightened me into a state of confusion, which was far beyond my former state of oblivion. I knew nothing about you, despite all you had told me and you knew all there was to know about me despite my silence.

They put you up on a cross and felt entitled to be loved and forgiven. I sat there watching and doing nothing. I have forsaken you. I am no better. You forgave and gave and I took. I took and so did everyone around me. I was one of many scavengers. I never kept my promises. You had faith in me and I betrayed you for the devil that kept looking on, standing by your side, watching your every move, smothering you, inundating you with self-doubt, tormenting you with guilt: A disease that gnawed your flesh leaving you weary and hopeless. I thought I was doing what was right abandoning you, for I had no right to be with you. We all abandoned you. I want to abandon me, for I can no longer stand myself, but where would I go? Would you ever smile at me again or will God's mercy guard you from the likes of me now that you are in his company?

You hoped I would follow your lead and I couldn't and wouldn't. I was lost and self-absorbed. You attempted to guide me to no avail. All I had to do was to stop resisting. So, I put up one fight after another. You gave me so many opportunities. You were in disbelief that I could have been so foolish. I was! I dug my heels in, relishing in my ignorance. You wanted to save me from myself and from my own regrets, to no avail. A lifetime of chances was not enough to allow for my redemption. I was never worthy of you, your time, your pain, your tears or your smile. Yet you gave them all to me and I knew not what to do with them. I wasted them, and cried in agony having realized my loss.

Here I am: A shell of my former self; feeble and wounded, I carry on with my sordid existence, feeling empty and alone, hoping I may never wake up from the sleep I longed for, ever-so-long.

Completely Unrelated

I just realized that a number of people have found this blog as a result of an accidental misrepresentation. Apparently, the title of the blog and the word "catharsis" are leading fans of the Russian metal group Taedium Vitae looking for information on their song "Catharsis" to come here. I apologize for the inconvenience. I had no idea about this until I Googled the blog myself.

It is a testimony to how the sentiment or the lack thereof and the goal are in no way unique.

Love is All You Need?

 I remember working in a hospital, in another city, 8 years ago or so.  My mentor was an eccentric, middle-aged Englishman who was a self-proclaimed histrionic. He had an amazing sense of humour and had some very Unorthodox ways of practicing his profession. My classmates labeled being supervised by him as a "waste of time". "You never learn any diagnostic criteria from him or anything that might serve you well on the exam", I was told, "He's a nice guy, but I learned nothing from him". I think I can honestly say that if I ever managed to help anyone it was because of that man. I remember finishing morning report on the ward on a Monday, after having been told about one of our newer patients' acting out over the weekend. She suffered from borderline personality disorder, a dreaded condition that is quite challenging to treat. I was chasing after my mentor: I, with my short stubby legs, then on crutches no less, chased after the 6'4", slim and swift controversial guru. I was about to open the door to her room, when he dramatically stopped me, asking me, to hold it. I assumed he was going to tell me to conduct the interview and discuss my approach. Instead, he modeled the following: He stood tall, took a deep breath through his nose while closing his eyes, gesturing with his fingers as if implying that he was getting himself into a meditative trance. He held in the breath for a few seconds and exhaled while keeping closed and said: "Love!" before knocking on the door and entering the room. He smiled as if he was partly joking. He never really took himself seriously. The gist of his method facilitated some of the most profound human connections I ever made and simultaneously set me up for endless agony.

Eventually, I learned that sometimes love is not enough. Love is not enough when people cannot accept it. It is not enough when they do not know or feel that they are indeed loved. My capacity to love has been both a gift and a curse. While it brought me a lot of love, esteem and validation from the objects of my sentiments but then , because it is but one faint consolation in the midst of too much hardship. The most wonderful people I met had been previously labeled by others as "difficult". For some reason, they sensed my mantra and offered me the most precious gift they had to offer: Their trust. I was not worthy of it. I unwittingly failed them and misguided them. I sold them time-limited hope in the form of an emotional investment. The whole system was against them. Others seemed to give them the run around, passing on the responsibility from one person to the next. Their physical pain was seen as insignificant; their exhaustion as secondary to whatever label of mental illness could be blamed. I saw myself in these people. I would have been just as distressed, anxious and irritable had I been in their shoes. The frustrating situations they would describe to me would have probably led me to being charged on multiple counts of assault, mischief and destruction of property had I been the one experiencing them. The theme is of people giving up, despite being loved, because it no longer matters in the midst of the money-mongering apathy that surrounded them.    

     

The Seven Plagues of Former Landfill

Here I am conforming to the pressures of modern technology and blogging for the first time ever, in an attempt to compensate for my inability to afford psychotherapy. I never had a journal. My paranoid inclinations never allowed me to write anything down, without worrying about the ridicule the uncensored outpourings of my psyche may face. Perhaps it is fitting that I would blog rather than journal: While this blog is in no way "secret", it borders on being so, by being a droplet in an ocean of so many blogs, many of them even promising to be entertaining. I write about the mundane reality I exist in. There is nothing unique or special about it: It is a mere declaration of daily frustrations that may or may not be reaching the threshold of universality in globalized western society.

A "world-class city" my new home aspires to be, to no avail. My city already demolished most of our historical buildings. The symphony orchestra was about to go under a few years ago, if it had not been for funding from some philanthropist who happened to appreciate classical music. An annual carnival was created to showcase the works of a few artists, because a number of major corporations wanted to prove they, too, had the capacity to appreciate creativity. Yet our artists, as a rule, tend to live in abject poverty, regardless of whether they received awards or accolades or not. People who do not live here own most of the real estate, leading housing to be unaffordable for those who actually do. Social stratification has become an undeclared norm, in a country that long prided itself on alleged universal health care. Most still believe we live in one of the world's greatest countries, which says more about the world we live in than it does about our country. I know many a person would take offense to my statements. I would have, too, a few years back, but then I started meeting the unsheltered, the marginalized and the forgotten. They are all around us, trying to survive their every day bearing witness to the hypocrisy of our government seemingly advocating for human rights elsewhere.

I do not presume to understand the intricacies of our local and national politics, let alone our foreign policy. I am just disappointed with my experience of a particular population habitually falling through the cracks. No one seems to care or perhaps some do but they are just as "insignificant". Do I even care enough to make a difference? Perhaps not. I may be plagued by the tales of horror I unwittingly participate in, but I am also a hypocrite. I am part of that dysfunctional system I so loathe. I am fully dependent on it. I am a fraud. I fail the very population I hypothetically serve, daily. Despite their hope, their faith and the best of their efforts, I sell them empty promises and a pill; sometimes, two, three, even four or five. Come to think of it, I never counted the maximum number of pills I have slyly imposed on all those seeking that highly coveted shred of happiness. I constantly preach that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, when I see the tunnel is an endless abyss. I promote a purposeless scavenger hunt of imaginary items that shall never be found. I mean well, but I have grown tired with my impotence.

In the midst of the bleak surroundings of this reality, I cry my own minuscule woes, which are nothing when compared with those of most of who surround me. I have a supportive family, I need not fear the lack of shelter or food, I can always afford public transit and my inability to pay my bills is the direct consequence of my irresponsibility. I live on a former landfill region, that is now part of a cement jungle primarily housing the young and affluent. I have no real problems, except for the occasional pang of insight.