Confessions Of A Cynic
How old do you have to be before you’re allowed to be a cynic? How much life do you have to experience before you’re allowed to determine that life is not all it’s cracked up to be? I suppose it’s all rather relative. For some, it seems they live their entire lives completely naive of the hardships faced by so many people. For me, it was probably around the time I graduated high school. I grew up in a very tiny school — my graduating class was less than 60 students. The first “week” of school was always spent at a retreat-style camp, getting to know teachers and classmates alike. It was, for the most part, a decent experience. But my senior year redefined life for many students and teachers. Avoiding all the details, a classmate of mine drowned during our senior retreat. His death hurled myself and my fellow classmates into a world that so many of our parents tried to protect us from. Your senior year of high school is supposed to be a time of jubilance and rejoicing — but for the handful of graduating seniors that year, there was little to celebrate. Despite our best efforts to deny our vulnerability, as a 17 or 18 year old, we are still very pliable. One of the defining moments of my childhood was watching teachers that I looked up to — teachers that I respected — lose composure and weep. When you’re a student, it’s easy to overlook the fact that these beings, who are supposed to teach you something, are, in fact, human too. I think for many, the transition out of childhood is a long, sometimes subtle one. But I clearly and vividly remember the moment that I stopped being a child. That moment, looking around thinking, “Oh my God — this is actually happening.” That moment when I saw terror on the faces of those whom I looked up to for so many years. The moment when I realized that there was absolutely nothing I could do to alleviate the pain others were experiencing.
People often say, “Kids are resilient; they bounce back from tragedies.” But what happens when that tragedy rips away the very innocence that defines a child? I contend that losing your childhood innocence and becoming a cynic are two different things. Yes, I was thrust into the world of death and misery very quickly and, by many accounts, far too early. But like any story worth telling, there was a girl. Two girls, actually. I won’t go all, “Woe is me” on you — but let’s just say that the old saying, “The first cut is the deepest” holds pretty true. In fact, after my first real heartbreak, I would have said that there was no way I would ever experience pain like that again. Sweet, sweet, naive me from the past.
I’ve yet to find an instruction manual on living with Bipolar Disorder. When you’re dealing with feelings of depression so intense that — I’m sorry to say unless you’ve experienced, you just can’t understand (even the most empathetic) — trying to maintain a healthy relationship can be next to impossible. Dealing with the onset of Bipolar Disorder caused me to lose sight of just about everything in my life. I lost a woman I was in love with, lost my intentions of education, many days I lost the will to live. By the ripe age of 25, I had witnessed death far too often. I understand that in wanting to be a nurse, I will inevitably lose patients. I’ve watched death slowly tear a mother away from her family, steal away a 17-year old who was likely one of the happiest people I’ve ever known, and some days I’ve wrestled with death so intensely that it feels like going 12-rounds with a heavy-weight champion. I often wonder if people understand what it is like to lay in bed for 17 hours, and be so exhausted when you finally do get up that all you want to do is sleep because you have been literally fighting for your life against the hardest opponent you will ever face — yourself. I was classically trained in policy debate. I’ve been taught how to be presented a resolution and to equally defend and oppose my positions. I was trained by a very well-respected coach and was lucky enough to face some of the toughest competition in the nation. This has made me a better person because I can simply no longer just see one side of an argument. However, those nights where I’d be trying to figure out why I was still alive, it made for one hell of a showdown in my mind. I could always negate the idea of life — I had been trained to do so. I suppose on the flip side of the coin, I was also countering death with very solid reasons for life. In some respects, I think, had I not been blessed with the critical analysis training I went through in high school, I’d likely be dead, as I would have lost the debate in my mind to live.
All of this has given me some insights into our world and the lives we lead. First, there aren’t enough Snickers in this world because life, most of the time, for most of the near 8 billion people on the planet, is shit. Some will say that it’s elitist to say that as I write this on my laptop in my air-conditioned apartment, while there is genocide and mass poverty around the world. But, life is more than the sum of our belongings. I’d gladly give away all of my possessions if I could live a fulfilling life. (Note I didn’t say a happy life — I specifically said fulfilled life. There’s another post coming on my views of happiness. Spoiler alert: I’m not too big on the idea.)
Rose Kennedy once said, “It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” I’d like to expand on that quote, but it is so well written I think it really speaks for itself.
