Today, my mother explained to me what it was like to experience my birth.
Strange; I have lived, up to this moment, approximately 26 years, 364 days and 23.5 hours and I have never before heard this story. I'd like to say that my birth was a momentous occasion on which stars aligned and planets converged upon one another, but, unfortunately, i have no such legendary occurrence to report.
My birth, rather, like my life, is recounted as a stubborn occasion. Due to my late arrival, it seems clear to me that instead of born, I was removed. Coming into this world as a benign and removable lump of humanity may seem discouraging, but it only furthers the relevance of my emotional status.
The day I was born, the first successful heart transplant took place, but my mother was probably grateful that I was no longer inhabiting her parasitically. I likely went home to a house that had expected me, but wasn't prepared to me, particularly considering a sibling who had lived twelve years sans little brother. Much to her chagrin, I'd imagine, there was someone with whom her family would be shared.
As I have grown into the man I am, I have realized a particularly important aspect of my life that I have previously ignored: birthdays are not celebratory, but rather a reflective occasion.
I have found that there are those people that are very capable at liking birthdays. Those people make me jealous. I find birthdays to be not a momentous day. but rather a day on which I reflect upon the year that has passed. I ask myself: am I happy with what I have done, where I am, WHO I am?
Perhaps my occupation has rendered me inherently reflective, but I refuse to think I am a lost cause. I wish I were the one who was uncannily optimistic, but I am too busy dwelling on what was that I cannot see what will be. It seems inherently unnecessary to predict the unpredictable future, but there's a huge part of me that feels discouraged by my own inadequacy to be more forward-looking.
I don't look at this as a flaw, but rather as something that makes me ME. I may not be looking towards 27, but I will think about 26. The past two years have been interesting, to say the least (and to obscure my true feelings), but I can't help but feel the impending THIRTY. I do not fear the milestone, but do ponder where I will be, but not nearly as much as look back at the version of myself that has thus far inhabited this planet.
For those of you who will say, "You're so young," to you I say, "I am young, but I've lived every year twice, wondering what I could have done to be a better me." At this rate, I'll be sixty before I'm thirty, and certainly prepared for retirement.
Battling anxiety and depression is like fighting a gun fight with a knife; you never get ahead. You are forced to better adapt your skills and resources for those battles I can fight. I can't be everything to everyone, but I can be me, 27, and ready for another year, until the next birthday...
Friday, December 2, 2011
Monday, March 14, 2011
Personal Rage and Dylan Thomas
In all of my personal struggle over the past year and more, I find myself tired of the waxing and waning of my inner emotions. I await a time when I don't feel anxious or worried and I can look forward to pleasantries without said joys being compromised and tainted by the "other" feelings that linger, wafting through the air malodorously, choking and suffocating me.
I have never considered myself much of a fighter, but I also do not consider myself a quitter. The competitor in me has now acknowledge that my greatest source of adversity comes from within. Internally conflicted, developing strategies and approaches for coping is quite the difficult process. Like a migratory animal in a world of global warming, I find myself reactive instinctively, and yet confusedly.
Certainly, I am one to say that I don't care about what other people say about me, but that would be a falsity. I am sure that when people think of me, the first adjective that comes to mind is not "strong". I am not one to argue with my lack of physical prowess, but I would not consider myself weak, in any sense. Part of me suffers through hours of painful tattooing to prove to myself that I can take the physical pains of life, partly associating the endurance with the possibility of the future pain I may have to tolerate. Additionally, I feel as though people may see me as a stronger and braver person because I have never had the opportunity to do so.
I suppose I am considering all of this because, in teaching characterization and character traits to students, the concept of bravery and courage are often associate with heroic characters found within fictional stories. Ironically, the aforementioned traits are so easily identified, yet we often overlook the more difficult and realistic human associations with courage and bravery. Again, I do not feel confident enough to call myself brave or courageous, but I will identify with stubborn.
Of all the things I am, a quitter is not me. I don't back down. I may get angry, but often that anger motivates and fuels me. That's where Dylan Thomas, and my English-obsessed ways, surface. I read and reread the following poem tonight in an effort to refocus my life in the face of adversity:
To me, it is clear that the speaker of the poem is attempting to express contempt for a mere resignation towards death. It appears that it is neither honorable or appropriate to accept death and a predetermined fate. We should all fight against impending death rather than passively acquiescing to death's silent request.
Thomas divides the poem into four separate parts in order to build upon the idea that raging against the dying of the light is a valid approach to not only death, but also, more implicitly, against the darkness and tribulations that may frequently arise in life. In the opening stanza, the speaker introduces the message of battling against passivity only to succeed the introduction with four paragraphs of examples of fighting against the dying of the light. The continued repetition of this key phrase, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," builds upon itself to provide emphasis.
Later, the tone becomes far more emotionally charged and personal as the speaker talks about his father. In many ways, one could read this poem and provide the suggestion in an analysis of "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" saying it is as a statement about living a strong life and refusing to go down quietly.
To my point I come: I shall rage on. I may not always emerge victorious and my sphere of influence is, often times, rather limited and beyond my control, but never will I merely accept the unacceptable. Where I am is where I am meant to be, but it doesn't mean I can't fight for more in a brave and courageous manner, even if it goes unnoticed.
I have never considered myself much of a fighter, but I also do not consider myself a quitter. The competitor in me has now acknowledge that my greatest source of adversity comes from within. Internally conflicted, developing strategies and approaches for coping is quite the difficult process. Like a migratory animal in a world of global warming, I find myself reactive instinctively, and yet confusedly.
Certainly, I am one to say that I don't care about what other people say about me, but that would be a falsity. I am sure that when people think of me, the first adjective that comes to mind is not "strong". I am not one to argue with my lack of physical prowess, but I would not consider myself weak, in any sense. Part of me suffers through hours of painful tattooing to prove to myself that I can take the physical pains of life, partly associating the endurance with the possibility of the future pain I may have to tolerate. Additionally, I feel as though people may see me as a stronger and braver person because I have never had the opportunity to do so.
I suppose I am considering all of this because, in teaching characterization and character traits to students, the concept of bravery and courage are often associate with heroic characters found within fictional stories. Ironically, the aforementioned traits are so easily identified, yet we often overlook the more difficult and realistic human associations with courage and bravery. Again, I do not feel confident enough to call myself brave or courageous, but I will identify with stubborn.
Of all the things I am, a quitter is not me. I don't back down. I may get angry, but often that anger motivates and fuels me. That's where Dylan Thomas, and my English-obsessed ways, surface. I read and reread the following poem tonight in an effort to refocus my life in the face of adversity:
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
To me, it is clear that the speaker of the poem is attempting to express contempt for a mere resignation towards death. It appears that it is neither honorable or appropriate to accept death and a predetermined fate. We should all fight against impending death rather than passively acquiescing to death's silent request.
Thomas divides the poem into four separate parts in order to build upon the idea that raging against the dying of the light is a valid approach to not only death, but also, more implicitly, against the darkness and tribulations that may frequently arise in life. In the opening stanza, the speaker introduces the message of battling against passivity only to succeed the introduction with four paragraphs of examples of fighting against the dying of the light. The continued repetition of this key phrase, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light," builds upon itself to provide emphasis.
Later, the tone becomes far more emotionally charged and personal as the speaker talks about his father. In many ways, one could read this poem and provide the suggestion in an analysis of "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" saying it is as a statement about living a strong life and refusing to go down quietly.
To my point I come: I shall rage on. I may not always emerge victorious and my sphere of influence is, often times, rather limited and beyond my control, but never will I merely accept the unacceptable. Where I am is where I am meant to be, but it doesn't mean I can't fight for more in a brave and courageous manner, even if it goes unnoticed.
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