The Wide Window

 

Two things can come from fear: anger or discretion.

To be angry is to wish to destroy the object of your fear. It is not inherently unhealthy to be angry. Anger gives you power, and power is a necessity in this horribly sad world.  But sometimes individuals forget why they become angry: they enjoy the anger as its thing, for its own sake. We commonly call this falling in love with anger rage. And it frequently comes about because someone has had to be angry for so long they've forgotten what it's like to live without it, and forgiving real life for not being as thrilling as anger is very difficult and sad.

To be discrete is to realize, with a sinking and sometimes helpless feeling, that you cannot face the thing you think a risk. So you withdraw, trying to find a way to live without the thing that you held dear that was threatened. Like anger, that feeling that accompanies discretion can be overwhelming, nevermind addictive. You and I usually know it as cowardice.  While I don't know many people who like rage, I don't know of anyone who isn't disgusted by cowardice. It pulls you inward, away from everyone and everything, forcing your mind to go into overtime to justify your behavior.

But there is a way out of both horrible traps: relationship and mourning. If you can find people you can share your grief with then the threat of being consumed is made much less.

This is a book about cowardice. And what it can do to people who are sidelined by it. Reading it I found myself disgusted by Aunt Josephine's actions. How could I not be? I don't need to be addicted to rage to find her actions repulsive. Humans like a good fight; we like blood. It's as simple as that. And the idea of not spilling it to right wrongs is a hard one to take in, but there's a nobility, a strength, a deliberateness to pacificism that can take even greatest war-dog off guard. Well, assuming it's genuine of course. 

Don't we always wonder: is someone who practices discretion to the point of non-violence secretly a coward?

I know I do.

Aunt Josephine was once a woman of great discretion, or I hope she was. Because what I found in this book filled me with a level of disgust I can't adequately explain. She knew the children were in trouble and sold them out! As a parent I felt flashes of indignation that were similar to a volcano. How could she abandon her charges like that?? How could someone lose themselves that much?

But what room do I have to talk?

When I thought I'd lost the woman I'd eventually marry I became addicted to rage. It was rage or grieve, at least in my thought process. I was a coward: I chose rage. Anything is easier than grieving. During my teenaged years and early twenties it took people on average a year to actually get to know me. They had to get past all the tics, all the built-in walls of spite and deliberate emotional traps, designed to get anyone and everyone away from me.

The worst part was that none of this was purposeful. It's amazing what we come think of as normal.

But my refusal to grieve about ripped me apart.

So I know why I'm disgusted: looking at Aunt Josephine, I find myself looking into a darkened mirror. Would I sell out children entrusted to my care? No, but I tried to abandon my siblings, stunting their own grieving process, leaving them to figure out their own baggage from our time in "The Warzone". The stuff they had to deal alone that they shouldn't have to is impossible to undersell. No, I couldn't answer those questions, my parents completely dropped the ball here. But I could have grieved and questioned with them. I left them to questions of theodicy no one at the age of four should have been grappling with, not alone, not to mention the other two older siblings. I could have been helpless with them.

I ran. And raged.

I shouldn't be so hard on Aunt Josephine. Probably shouldn't be so hard on myself, either. 

But talk of forgiveness certainly is hard to swallow when the consequences are etched into the eyes of your siblings, into their laughter (how much lighter it used to be, all around! I've forgotten much, but not that), and into the silences in your conversations. Forgive a horror so enormous that we hardly notice it anymore?  

How? 

How do you forgive the air you breathe for poisoning you? How do you forgive soundwaves for bringing you the cries of the siblings you forced yourself to ignore? Light, for burning images in your brain you'd gladly drink the rest of your life away to forget? It seems absurd, impossible.

But not forgiving is the coward's way out. The air must be forgiven, the light must be released from guilt I imputed it, soundwaves for bringing me the sounds I'd give almost anything to forget. Otherwise we go back to cowardice and rage.

I know my drug.

I reject it. With all my being. Now and forever.

I'm sad Aunt Josephine switched drugs.