Thursday, May 17, 2007

screaming the blues.

"The Blues."

Can you see it on a person if they walk right past you? Sometimes yes, most of the time no. Is it a scent? Is it visible wear and tear on the soul of a stranger, that you might somehow just notice semi-consciously?

Can you listen to them without them saying a word? Like putting a seashell against your ear, can you hear what the lines in a person's face are trying to tell you? The man with the dark circles under his eyes, the dirty jeans, the anxious way he taps his old sneakers on the floor while he nurses a cigarette; his eyes. His eyes... can you even fathom what it would be like to have seen what those eyes have seen?

Can you visibly tell when the human being you are looking at is a broken man or a woman? Or has been at one point in his life? Can you even imagine what it means, what it takes for every inch of you to be broken?

I know I can, because I was in a room full of them tonight. Broken souls. A room full of so much pain (and continuous healing) that it took every living ounce of strength that I had inside of me, I kid you not, to stay inside of it for an hour. No more, no less. No casual hello's before the meeting, and a quick exit at the end to make sure I wouldn't be subjected to what I was already in denial about, which was that I was at an NA meeting. Narcotics Anonymous.

Every week, one person "shares" his story for the others there, but they say it's mostly for the newcomer, so he or she can understand and not feel alone anymore. I put "share" in quotations, because, well, to me the word sharing is what a kindergardener does when she gives one of her toys to another classmate. Javier, probably in his early to mid-thirties, was not "sharing." As it was explained to me, it was the first time this particular member was telling his story to the group, even though he was there for quite a while, through many relapses. What this man proceeded to do was conduct a visual autopsy on his emotional and mental self while he was still alive, and talk us through it. He told us his story, and through his story I could hear what I could imagine to be everyone else's stories; I have a very vivid imagination. I did not know these people, but I felt them because they've struggled harder than you or anyone you know will probably struggle in their entire lives. Each had a story easily worth a million, or more, of mine and your tears. I know because my story has collected many of it's fair share in my short time on earth.

Javier sits there in a church all-purpose room, in a folding chair. He is part of a circle of people in folding chairs, and they are all listening to him speak, when he can. Some of them are looking at him, faces proud, yet eyes welling with tears. Some of them listen to him while they hide their faces in their hands. Some look ahead at the wall directly across from them, seemingly numb from all the stories they've heard. Javier sobs quietly as he tries to get through the part where he tells us all that both his parents were alcoholics, and both his brothers were alcoholics and drug addicts, and that he never wanted to be like them.
This is a confession.
This isn't a real worlder complaining about their roommate. This one confession, as with the few more he carefully, somewhat uneasily let out tonight, shook the earth. He studders at parts, takes long pauses at others. None of this is easy. He admits to certain actions, feelings, emotions that only someone else who has also hit rock bottom would know and relate to, and those people laugh with him out of compassion. I am one of those people laughing.

Javier is just a man. A smart guy, too. He isn't a monster, there is nothing wrong with him physically, mentally, or emotionally. He is just a man dealing with life. His life, and where it has taken him to. He is not making excuses, he is not placing blame. He is just a man who is suffering greatly, and will continue to suffer every single day for the hurt he has caused the people who he loves and cares about the most. He is a man who is lucky in every sense of the word. He is a man who feels guilt like I hope you will never feel in your entire life, a guilt I would not wish on my worst enemy. He is a changed man, changed by the confessions he had heard before him. He is a man with white chips in a drawer, every one of them painful to look at. I hold mine as close as a wedding ring. I am scared.

Javier gets to the part where he tells us about the laptop that he pawned one night to scrounge up money for drugs, and falls out of his storytelling mode, now just talking to himself; "why did I do that?" He starts to cry again. "Why did I pawn that laptop? I loved that thing, man. That was my laptop..."
This is a confession.
He digresses and moves back into his story, and meanwhile everyone in the room, including myself, knows exactly why he pawned the laptop he loved. I'm beginning to understand that since I understand, I belong here; if someone didn't understand Javier's journey, if someone had never walked those same footsteps, they couldn't even fathom it. I am Javier. Everyone in this room, filled with love, hurt, guilt, fear, redemption, god, pride, pain, and shame... they are all Javier. I am Javier, and thank you Javier for quietly lighting the path. He's not saying a word, he's not pointing in any direction, he's just lighting the way for me and then walking it himself.

I could have been acquiring nations;
now I am one man rebuilding a single castle by himself.
all we have are choices.