Back to the Beginning
My Friend,
It’s been long enough since I first wrote to you. You need to start trusting me.
To be clear: trust is a decision for people like us, not a feeling. You can’t see me; you can’t touch me; you can’t even ask me questions with the assurance that you’ll ever get an answer. All you can do is have faith that the unseen generosity of a heart split open for the sake of your consolation is both genuine and good. You just have to trust. So, with that, it’s time to take a shovel to the dirt and start digging.
Let’s go back to the beginning. Your beginning.
I know family is a thwarted concept of inarticulate love and amassing anger for a lot of people, which is why I’m not asking you to ponder the way your family has treated you, or the trauma inflicted upon you as a result of their presence. I just want you to start thinking about the kind of situation you were born into.
Personally, I was born into the epitome of the American Dream. From the outside, everything was perfect. Parents who stayed together; luxury cars; big houses; pretty hair; endless opportunity; silver spoons; and whatever other materialistic madness this world believes to bring joy. It was all mine. And yet, I can say without a shadow of a doubt, that while I had more material things than anyone else I knew, I shouldered more burdens than they could ever dream of, too.
I tell you this because, unlike everyone else, I don’t want you to judge yourself for the circumstance you were born into. By that I mean: don’t define your story by the standard of comparison instituted by the people around you. Their standard is unwise, unclear, simple-minded, untrue, and founded on pity, hatred, jealousy, and instability.
Here’s the unpolished truth:
Just because everyone else thought you had a lot, doesn’t mean you did.
Just because everyone else thought you had nothing, doesn’t mean you did.
So, with that, I want to know where your story began.
Were you born into the American Dream?
Were you abandoned by your birth parents?
Were you adopted? Or were you simply abandoned?
Was your reality harsh?
What were the people who raised you like?
Did you ever understand them?
Did you ever feel understood by them?
Were you permanently bound by something stronger than blood?
Or, did their choices and behavior ultimately force you to walk away with a stinging wish that they’d be well on their way to the grave?
Did you have brothers or sisters?
People you called cousins?
Food on the table when you wanted it?
Did you go to bed hungry?
Were you happy as a child?
Or has your laughter always been silent?
Whatever your answers to these questions are, let them be. This is your story. I’m simply helping you understand it.
When you think about the beginning—your beginning—do you appreciate it? Are you thankful for the family and life you began in? Or do you resent it?
It’s entirely possible that you feel both thankful and resentful toward the cards you were dealt. In fact, I’d argue that the most human answer is to feel torn by the contradiction of loving and hating every aspect of your world. I wouldn’t call you crazy for loving certain parts of being poor. And I wouldn’t think you entitled for resenting particular aspects of your riches. There ain’t much about this world that’s all good or all bad.
Nevertheless, when it comes to your beginning, focus on what you feel the most. Thankful or resentful.
Once you’ve decided how you feel, start asking yourself why. Don’t expect to find an answer, though. Just allow the question to hang in the balance of your consciousness. You’ll know you’re on the right track when you start to feel a little crazy.
Talk Next Week,
