On Being Blunt, or What if it was me?

Yeah, I know.  I am blunt.  It gets me in trouble.  I don't care.  

I am blunt because I spent a childhood being mute about the abuse I suffered at the hands of an adult that was supposed to be my protector.  I am blunt now for all the years I spent thinking loud thoughts like "Why don't all you adults see what is right before your eyes! Do something, people with power and means!"  I am blunt now because I know being mute is an unacceptable response to the wrongs of the world.  I am blunt now as reparations for that lost childhood, and as a means to honor the humanity of all the wounded people I encounter. 

So, now I am going to be blunt about what it is like to be in a relationship with a person facing the daily trials of a chronic illness.  It is very difficult.  Everything I imagined for myself at 25, at 35, all the things I had worked hard to accomplish vanished in an instant with a diagnosis that took three long years, much medical trial and error, and several extended hospital stays to reach.  Savings disappeared in an instant, never possible to return.  Access to affordable health insurance became a driving force beyond measure.  Constant dealings with the health industrial complex dominate our days.

All those practicalities aside, I have to watch the person I love, the person I pledged to stand beside struggle with daily activities, yet getting up everyday and trying his best.  I am amazed at the strength of his character, his striving toward normalcy, and how hard he works to do what needs to be done.  I struggle with watching him be judged by people who never take one moment to imagine what it must be like to be him.  It is so frustrating to witness all the people he encounters in his daily personal war against illness who never have the common decency to ask "What can I do to help you stay engaged in meaningful activities and contributing to society?" Or to say "Thanks" for his accomplishments, large and small.

This is not to say I do not have many moments where my own thoughts are less than stellar.  I go through periods of fantasy where I imagine all sorts of scenarios whereby I do not have to deal with this any longer.  I get angry.  I feel tired.  I am depressed.  I judge him.  I once again wonder why no one sees me, sees that I, too, have a struggle to face each day.  It's like being that little kid again, everyday, pleading mutely with the world to make it stop. 

But, every day I blunt the self-pity with a simple question to myself, the one everyone should ask themselves one hundred times a day, whenever they encounter suffering:  What if it was me?

I am made better from this daily exercise.  I am not a martyr.  I am a fully realized human, with a life filled with joy and suffering, pleasure and pain, ups and downs.  I am committed to my ideals.  I will leave this place better for having been here.  And I will do my best not to be indifferent to the suffering of anyone, be they my partner or a stranger. 

Indifference to suffering is as bad as actively inflicting suffering.  When we retreat to the zero-sum game mentality we have been conditioned by all our modern institutions to live by, and think "thank god that wasn't me" or "that would never happen to me" or "I am superior," we are essentially stating loud and clear to the universe and everyone paying attention that we do not care about our fellow men.  It doesn't matter whether we label ourselves a liberal or a "compassionate" conservative.  Labels are words.  Words are not actions.  When we watch someone being kicked when they are down and we do nothing, thinking it best for self-preservation, or maybe even thinking, "well, they must deserve it" we are neither liberal nor compassionate.  "Nothing" is an action.  We are mean.  And mean people suck.  They suck the humanity out of everyone. 

We live in the meanest times I have ever encountered.  I honestly think if the Holocaust were happening today, unfolding just as it did before, there would be so much less resistance, so fewer hidden by those with means, no matter how meager.  Anne Frank would never have gotten to write her diary.  She'd have been dead the first day if some schmuck thought he'd get some extra cigarettes and a gold star for it.

So, for all you who have stood by the sidelines, never asking how we are, here's an update.  We are in need of support.  We live in a time of instant and easy communication.  An email, a text, a note with a "forever"-unbelievably-cheap stamp on it, or a phone call can make our day.  Our little girl could use some reassurance that the world is not filled entirely with self-glorifying, self-serving jerks and a general populace scared witless, silent, and indifferent by the former. 

And "yes" is the answer to the question "Am I my brother's keeper?" in case you didn't get the memo.