CHAPTER 10

PITY: The Poison of Choice

 

   Permanent eviction to an orphanage at any capricious moment was my mother's familiar chant whenever our kin-ship became too much for her to stack and deal with.

   To prove her chants were real, she occasionally threw me a surprise party by suddenly dropping me off at a Catholic institution for homeless kids. Either she fudged my application. Or there was a potential message there.

   The stays never lasted more than a few days. And only when I didn't have an audition or paying job, which should have evoked my keenest Nancy Drew insight, but didn't.

   Therefore, never knowing when I'd be sprung or if I was a Lifer made the dangling edge seem more precarious, intensifying the in-house Fellini ambience.

   I thank God that from somewhere within my soul, I eventually counterbalanced this Anxiety Workout by beginning to decode the higher message in this mysterious installment:

If we don't love ourselves first
how can we trust anyone else's love?

   I learned that my main source of love, stability and friendship had to come from within myself. First from my sense of God. Then from ME to ME.

   And since no one was applying for the job opportunity to love me, I began learning to love me. No easy accomplishment. Ask any lifetime patron of a local shrink shop.

   My affinity for independence interlaced with my inner Confuzak song of Better Watch Out! Better Not Tell! caused me to shrink myself.

   I know some say that's as crazy as doctors operating on themselves. However, I knew where it hurt. And, I suspected Why it hurt. Ergo! I had a very vested interest in my recovery.

   True, it was a long operation. I'm just now removing the last remaining stitches. And I'm thrilled to report: Me, the patient, has survived. Pencil surgery is a phenomenal purger.

   Though there were times when I felt totally unqualified to ever create the quality of life my heart desired, that never became just cause for giving up on personal happiness. And the longer I nourished my recovery with increasing doses of self-love, the more I strengthened my ability to receive love.

   How could I terminally succumb to the Self Pity Toxins as long as I kept my head above slaughter and liked me as-is?

   How could I guzzle the Vintage Whines of Woesay Is Me 'Cause Nobody Loves Me if I never savored the gripes?

   As long as I chose to gut out the cancer of my mother's anger from my system, to unearth more to appreciate, how could I cop-out on me? How could I blame others for any-thing I chose not to strive for and accomplish on a conscious level? I figured:

As long as I never classified myself as a victim, no one else could tag nor treat me as one.

   My shadow of self-doubt became the only warden I needed to face and fire. I vowed to never condemn my life to victim's row.

   I began seeing my peculiar place in life as a part I was cast to play. I was determined to understand WHY so that I could learn what there was to learn, so I'd then be free to cast myself in a new role of my own scripting.

   True, I went through a brief period of pitying Ashley when I was a kid and teen because of how deeply unhappy she was with life, with me, but mostly, with herself.

   Eventually, I saw the foolishness of inviting Pity, the ultimate Party Pooper and Joy Killer, into our already fragmenting family circle.

   Pity couldn't resolve her problems. Pity sure wouldn't ease my situation. Pity was a deadly barnacle that would only infect my soul and quarantine me from the love and joy I felt sure I could create as soon as I gave myself permission.

   Though I couldn't define it as a kid, I felt: To give or ask for Pity would imprison me in a contaminated Whine Cellar for the Terminally Miserable. No fun there.

   As soon as I saw Pity as a Poison of Choice, I vowed to pass on it, to find the humor in, and make the best of, my setup.

   If I couldn't giggle out loud, no one could stop me from thinking fun, nor stop me from writing my journals observed from the punny side of the street.

   The title "They Can't Take That Away From Me" took on extra meaning when it came to coveting the Humor Haven.

   This became one more clue proving to me the only area we ever have any control over is our attitude. I soon figured:

If laughter's the best medicine,
then Pity is the Poison

   Pity retards spotting available cures for unhealthy situations and outlooks. Pity is an opiate wherein detoxification seems impossible.

   To this day, no matter how desperate or unhappy the person I meet, or the situation I experience or hear about, I will not offer Pity. To me it's a dis-service.

   Not to say we can laugh people out of abusing others, nor laugh abusing memories away. But, we also cannot schmooz them out if it. Nor help them by emotionally refinancing their Woe-Is-Me!-Imprisonment.

   Humor was a significant gateway through my wall of resistance. It led me to where I could exhume reality and search for Truth sans the stubborn defense of Ego-on-Duty. Ego that is either falsely defending past inflicted wrongs, or falsely denying them with emotional cover-ups.

   Sure, a lot of people say humor's a scam for covering up true feelings. For me, it's a handy way to cut through the bull to dig up reality.

   M.A.S.H. illustrated the madness of war with humor aimed at defrocking the pious Masquerades of Merit that our specie uses to rationalize warring against itself and murder under the okayness of flapping national flags.

   "The Russians Are Coming! The Russians Are Coming!" spotlighted the nonsense of prefab territorial and political malice and the fear of the unencountered that's encouraged amongst our own fear fueled specie.

   The movie "Baby Boom" illustrated the limitations we place on our capabilities when we remain receptive only to what we assume we want and can do in life, rather than what we need and are capable of accomplishing when we limit ourselves to what we have done, rather than open ourselves up to what we may be able to achieve.

   For me, hovering as a hummingbird so as to witness the human comedy offered incredible views into the solutions I could activate.

   Ok! So, how did I find a wit of humor in my Incinerator Inn? The dark, dirty room I hid in as a little kid in our apartment building, huddling with my doll & some cookies? That Trash Motel of Youth? Simple. I reasoned: At least I had a roof to roam under. A teeny apartment of my own simply in need of a little TLC, a few potted plants and a picture here and there and voila. Home. I decorated that place repeatedly in my mind.

   Who knows? That game of Make-Do-Decorating may have prepared me for my later gigs as a set designer for TV shows.

   Do understand, I'm not making light of the horrid events nor instigators of hellish times that seem to collapse our lives. Rather, I do not make them worse in recall or in nightmares than they were in actuality. Nor prolong their memory via getting stuck into Pity's hip pocket of revenge.

   I discovered it was easier to bring balance into out-of-balance ordeals by focusing more light on the Gateways to Solutions than on the originating Doors of Difficulty.

   We all harbor the capabilities to help ourselves to hunks of happiness, plate loads of peace, cups of clarity and loads of love if and when we approach the Smorgasbord of Life, we permit ourselves to open our senses, dump the kidhood shackles of unworthy-to-enjoy critiques and quit taking on proxy guilt for others' actions, even our past reactions, and . . . then dig in!

   It's vital to not waste time struggling to rewrite our pasts, or maneuvering to make ourselves a victim, or jumping in to judge ourselves as bad due to the choices we thought were right when we made them as a kid.

   If I gave into that temptation, it would be easy to tag myself a dope for having allowed my early home life, orchestrated by Ashley's anger, to bully me into suppression; to If-only me into a straight jacket of regret. Like:

  • If-only I spoke out maybe I could've gotten help for Ashley.

  • If-only I used the $$$-making ability of my kidhood maybe I could've had the clout to create a sound financial island where no one could've ever gotten close enough to hurt me.

  • If-only I dumped the home judgments of my worth sooner maybe I could've avoided underpricing my skills for so long.

  • If-only I understood the need to focus upon the personal and cosmic reason for my existence, maybe I could've avoided wasting so much time as a Cosmic Girl Scout, trouping through other people's angers where I did not belong, such as my first marriages of madness.

  • If-only I didn't let myself get sucked into the Jehovah judgments from my first husband's posse power, maybe I could've fought harder against my daughter's cult capture; maybe I could've believed in my ability to get outside help.

  • If-only I saw how I allowed other's to devalue my ability to contribute to life maybe I could've emerged sooner from the backstage shadows.

   See what I mean?

   The If-only Quest leads straight to the lunacy of Scaling Mount Maybe.

   If-only is the emotional brat kid of Pity and Guilt.

   If-only is a death trap.

   If-only can't change the past. It only spoils the present and future food for optimistic thought. No tasty fun there.

Copyright © 2006 by Krystiahn - All Rights Reserved