MI

How do we let our lives get so out of control? We take on those extra commitments, justifying them one at a time for their recreational value or their ability to fatten our resumes, unknowingly eeking closer and closer to the edge of the precipice, until one day we fall. And when we fall, we fall hard.

Three months ago, one of my classmates had a heart attack. Three weeks after finishing her undergraduate degree, this woman, a single mother in her early thirties, had a heart attack. So now, as she writes me an email about how she's trying to keep her stress level down, she tells me about full-time graduate courses, part-time work, professional and student organizations, and parenting. Does she not see the ticking clock? Did the first myocardial infarction not catch her attention? (Would it have caught mine? Or yours?)

Why do we do this to ourselves?

organized letters

I used to write. Plays, short stories, vignettes, poetry, and the like. I used to feel inspired. Now, I reread the words and try to remember the inspiration.

Tonight, I found a play I started writing more than two years ago. It's typical of my writing -- bereft of literary quality, but saturated with cathartic qualities. However, there was something different about this play (or, as the case may be, underdeveloped pieces of a play that will forever be unfinished). Each one of the scenes was based on an event that made me cry.

As someone who has spent years learning to hide emotion, I tend to think that crying is a rare thing in my life. But apparently not.

Funny what you can learn from yourself. . . (Such as the fact that time changes little. My outline for the unwritten portions of the play ended with: "Being lonely--not knowing what family is or where home is--good conclusion, in the middle of all the chaos on stage that is my life, being lost and confused and broken as a conclusion." My tendency to construct run-on, illogical sentences has always been a strength.)

The Sidewalk Is Haunted

That's where our walk from one end of campus to the other started. That's where we were when a sleepy student yelled out his window to tell us our laughter was too loud. That's where he ran ahead to hide behind a corner, and that's where we screamed when he jumped out from the corner. That's where she got her running start, and that patch of grass is where she tackled him to the ground. That's where I doubled over in laughter.

Way over there. . . that's where I sat alone when I needed to think. And way over there, in the opposite direction. . . that's where I sat alone when I needed to escape. And way over there, there's a bench hidden beside some bushes. . . that's where we sat when we needed to escape together.

That's the route we took when we walked in the rain for no reason. That's the route we took when we walked and talked about "us." That's the route we took when we needed late-night caffeine before finishing our work.

And this is the route I take when I remember. When I see life playing out as a film. When I wish that I could have the past four years back. When I wish that the sidewalks were alive, rather than haunted.

Torn

Today, I watched my boss ruin a man's life. In the name of justice.

Today, I found a reason to doubt my desire to be a prosecutor. Because I don't want their brand of justice.

Two years ago, a young man was out partying and found himself engaged in an argument. Another young man approached, trying to stop the argument from turning into a fight. The good samaritan was assaulted by the young man.

The good samaritan suffered serious head trauma. He can't remember that night. In fact, because of memory problems resulting from the head trauma, he can't remember simple, everyday things. He's been rejected by thirty prospective employers because his health problems are an insurance liability. All because of one stupid altercation on one stupid night.

The young man was a gifted student and athlete. He was attending a university on full athletic scholarship, set to graduate in December, leaving one semester on scholarship during which he planned to start his MBA for free. But as of today, he is a convicted felon, serving a two-year prison sentence. No more scholarship, no more graduation, no more MBA. All because of one stupid altercation on one stupid night.

The defense attorney asked for a stay on the prison term, so that the young man could finish his degree. The judge denied the request.

I asked the prosecutor, my boss, whether he felt any remorse for what he had done. The question confused him. To him, it was simple: Actions have consequences. If you fight with someone and cause serious harm, you'll go to prison. End of story.

I argued that taking away the young man's scholarship and college degree doesn't change anything. It doesn't make the situation better. It only makes the young man's life harder. How do we expect him to do anything after getting out of prison when we're taking away his chances now?

The prosecutor was unmoved. If the young man wants to get his MBA, he'll go back to school and finish the degrees when he gets out. In fact, he'll probably serve only six months before being paroled. But he should feel lucky. The victim, the good samaritan, can't even dream about a college degree. He can hardly find work. He can't even think about being in a relationship without being overwhelmed by sadness, because he knows for a fact that he will not be able to remember his anniversary. The good samaritan sat in the very chair I was sitting in, and he was overcome with frustration by his inability to remember the simplest, most stupid little things that we all take for granted.

And as I listened to the prosecutor, I found myself ready to cry. The good samaritan will never be the same again. But neither will the young man. And putting the latter in prison won't make the former whole again. It's a lose-lose situation.

Today, I was disappointed by humanity. One man crippled by a stupid altercation on a stupid night. And another man crippled by a misguided sense of justice in a misguided justice system.

So I stood up, and with my back to my boss said, "I need to quit thinking like a social worker. I'll see you tomorrow." And as I walked away, he laughed.

With Childlike Eyes

In the past eight hours, I've had some of the greatest experiences of the past months.

I walked five miles, not because I had somewhere to be, but because I wanted to.

I listened to five different versions of the same song because I wanted to know what held constant, what the artist was actually feeling and trying to convey.

I stayed up all night, drinking coffee and reading a book from start to finish, simply because I was curious. Unlike all those nights when I cursed myself as I sat at my desk, hating my lamp's dim glow, failing to fully grasp a work because it was just another assignment that I had pushed off far too long, I felt this book, and when my mind wandered, I reread the passage, sometimes three times, to be sure that I was taking in every word.

I went outside to watch the coming sunrise creep across the sky -- not the brilliant, picturesque orange and pink sunrise that adorns postcards, but rather the gradual fade from deep blue night sky to light blue morning and every shade in between. And I watched the dancing of stars' light as it battled against the coming sunlight, trying to maintain dominance for just a moment longer, wondering whether the light was actually still visible or just some figment of my imagination. I watched as clouds made their presence known, with the help of the sunlight that had previously left them vulnerable to being engulfed by the anonymity of the night.

And as my stomach turned, reminding me that all of this was probably the mere product of too much coffee and the resulting caffeine high, I didn't care. It was nothing that water and a few antacids couldn't solve.

Then, I looked at the clock, knowing that in a few hours I'll be at work -- not because I'm getting paid (because I'm not), and not because it's glamorous (because it's not), but because it's good work, and there's a chance I'll make a difference for someone.

So tonight my bed stayed empty, the sheets still rumpled from last night's restless sleep, and I know that I won't make the bed today. I may not even sleep tonight. But if I could repeat this night's events and sense of wonder every night, I would gladly choose to never revisit my bed.

Then he said,

"One person in the village still loves you."

And it was that simple.
I'm an outcast.
I can't go back.
I can't make them love me,
Love who I've become.
I don't want to make them do anything.
And I don't necessarily even want their acceptance at all,
Whether forced or unforced.
But one person loves me.

And tonight. . .
Tonight, one just might be enough.

Recycling

The wind was racing itself,
Trying to make it around the corner in record time,
Pushing dumpsters across parking lots,
Whipping the caution tape so it clapped,
Making random debris dance across the courtyard.
The clouds were moving in,
Blotting out the light,
Threatening to bring rain,
Urging strangers to rush inside.
My hair was in my face.
My feet were cold.
My hands were steadying the pages of my book.
My mind was processing Camus.
I was enjoying a beautiful day.