Man of Contradictions

 Somewhere deep in a valley between some of the tallest mountains around, was the cave where he hid. Well, it wasn't exactly hiding... Not when he was likely the only person around for miles, but all the same, he doubted anyone knew he was there. He was that quiet, he doubted anyone would even notice him if they were aware of his presence. 

Tony Benjamin had learned long ago to keep to himself. Associating with people hadn't gotten him very far in his life. All it had brought was hurt and heartache. And yet, there was still a yearning to find the special someone it seemed so many others had. So for better, or perhaps for worse, Tony wore his heart on his sleeve. Just in case- you never know right? But, he still kept his distance. Just in case. 

Tony looked up and down at the man opposite him, in the mirror. He saw himself as he was, but he saw too the Tony only he knew. The Tony he hid away out of near indestructible instincts to protect himself. He saw the complex contrasts; wanting connection, yet actively avoiding it, how chill and laid back he was in the rare moments he spent with others around, compared to how internally anxious he was inside.  

 "You confuse me," he said, shaking his head.  

"I know. I confuse me too." 

No one would ever guess his age from looking at him. Whether it was his anxious ruminating, intellectual ponderings or something else. Whatever it was, the facts remained the same. His worry lines were deep and he had gone grey. If you stopped at appearances, Tony Benjamin was an old man. But, if you looked deeper and gave him a chance, you'd see how young he really was. Tony was standoffish (at times) but super soft and sweet at his core. He was incredibly smart and at the same time, astoundingly anxious. Anxious because he was smart, yet at times, a little dumb because he was anxious.. How that worked, even Tony wasn't sure. What he was sure of was that he, Tony Benjamin, was a man of contradictions. 

"So, knowing all of that, knowing my complex contradictions, my faults and attributes that contrast each other. Knowing all of that, would you take a chance on me?" He waits with baited breath. 

 

Winds of Connection

 They shrug. “Call me, he, call me she..” They slide their shades a little further down their nose to reveal focused, dark eyes beneath, bearing into your soul, almost like a test. "But what I'd much rather is that you call me they. Or even better yet, call me, me." They grin. "When it all comes down to it, that's who I am, more than anything or anyone, after all. Me."  

You'd like to get a word in edgewise, but they rush on so fast, you don't stand a chance. 

"I am me, just as you are you," they say. "Why do we have to attach labels to everything? What does it matter?" 

You open your mouth again., but again, they push on. 

"It doesn't." With those two words, they speak for the both of you. 

Holding their gaze, you just nod. 

"Now labels..." they trail off, thinking. "Labels," they try again, "are funny things. Labels seem to highlight what is different about us. Now don't get me wrong. Differences are great. But labels seem to take away from that. Labels seem to taint the difference, and paint it in a bad light. Now, we don't want that, do we?" 

You shake your head, feeling like you have no choice but to agree, even though you're really not sure, about the idea, nor where they're going with it. "No." 

They tut, as if their own view wasn't already apparent. 

With a sharp inhale, they raise a finger in the air. "In that sense, differences can drive us away. What I'd really like is to focus not on difference, but on sameness. What is it that we have in common? What is there that brings us together? That unites us?" Their eyes are trained on you, as if expecting you'll have the answer. 

Just when you don't think you can take it anymore, they wave a hand in the air and you feel the relief course through you like a great big sigh. 

"That's what we have to find out, isn't it?" 

You nod, perhaps a little too quickly, grateful. 

They raise their arms, their striped poncho falling like wings and spin around, swirling the poncho in the air. They throw their head back and laugh. "Feel that." The movement of their arms creates a warm breeze that tickles your cheek. "How sweet is it? How freeing and beautiful."

You simply look back at them, at a loss for how to respond. 

"That's what we need. Shared experiences. Sameness. We need to be brought closer together. What we need, more than anything, is connection."  

Wish

 With a name like Jewel, anyone would be forgiven for thinking she was a gem. That she had a heart of gold. It's an easy mistake to make, I guess, when you don't know her like I do. Anyone could easily fall into that trap. I should know. I did... 

I thought Jewel was amazing. I thought she may well have been the best thing since sliced bread. See, Jewel is the kind of person who oozes charisma. She radiates charm. She's the kind of person who could light up a room and have everyone in it eating out of the palm of her hand with a mere snap of her fingers. 

One such night, I watched on in awe as she spoke to a growing crowd of people. More and more of them gathered around her, all of them laughing heartily or with beaming grins that illuminated their whole face. And over in the corner stood I, her quiet, shy kid sister, wishing I knew how to talk with people the way she did. To connect as effortlessly as she had. 

Little did younger me realise that while I looked on with wistful wishing, she was also stealing glances back at me, secretly wishing the crowd that surrounded her would all just go away and leave her alone, just like they were with me. They did eventually. Because eventually, she figured out how to make them all go away. Every single person that tried to get close. Not straight away though. For a while, they all kept coming back. Kept trying. But eventually, they realised, and eventually, they gave up. Eventually, I did too. But I persisted longer than the others. I was the biggest sucker of them all. 

With a sigh, I concede to myself that she is my sister after all. Of course I didn't want to give up that easily. Of course I wanted to believe something else, something better. Of course my view of her was rosey coloured. Of course it's only now, that it's all been going on so long that I'm starting to really see. And of course it feels as painful as it does to me, because that's who I am. 

I am the bleeding heart who feels everything almost too deeply. I care, too much. Love too much. I peer at my sister across the way. She puts on a good face, pretending like a professional, as if her life depends on it. In a way, I suppose, it kind of does. Or at least, this facade she has going does. I squint, as if this will give me clearer vision. It does a bit, but not into what I really want to see.

I can't help wondering if Jewel's heart is encased in a thick layer of ice. Or had it long ago turned to stone? Either seems like a possibility, for how little she seems to care or feel for others. If she feels at all. But what does it matter? Knowing these facts won't change the way Jewel is. It won't change the mask she puts on in front of everyone, nor the fact that she never seems to take it off. None of that will change. I just wish it would. I wish that somehow, knowing could help me fix it. Stupidly, I just wish. 

If wishes were horses... Our father has said this to me so many times that the words are so ingrained in my brain and I can practically hear him saying it, even though he's nowhere near me. 

"Beggars would ride," I finish in a whisper to myself. "I know, Dad." I sigh. Even though Jewel and I might balance each other out with our levels of feeling and caring, this is our problem. Someone always ends up hurt. 

"Could enough blood melt ice?" I wonder aloud to myself. "Could it crack stone?" 

Across the way, Jewel steals a glance on my direction. Just for a moment, our eyes lock, and I know. We both wish.  

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this story follows on from How Do You Solve a Problem? which you can read here

How Do You Solve A Problem?

 When my parents named me Maria, I don’t think they realised just how fitting it would be. I was named for my great grandmother on my mother’s side, though I’ve grown up to have more in common with a certain classic musical heroine.

 

My family would sing the lyrics to that song of hers whenever my symptoms might show themselves.

My father shakes his head. “Maria,” he tuts. “You care too much.” As if I can help it.

“You feel far too deeply.” My mother says with a worried frown. As if I can make it stop.

 

My best friend Effie, on the other hand, calls it endearing. And sweet, like the way I always want to run around and take care of everyone else. How it seems to physically hurt when someone important to me is in pain and struggling. Like the time I cried a river when Effie’s grandmother died when I’d never even met the woman. Or maybe I’d been crying in response to Effie’s pain. Either way, that’s just me. It always has been, and I have no idea how to be any other way, which leaves me with a burning question.

 

Is it really a problem? How? Why? And who on Earth gets to decide? Yes, there are physical symptoms associated with it. Similar to with a panic attack, it can feel like my heart is being squeezed to within an inch of its life sometimes, other times it feels like it’s crying. But how and why does that make it a pathological problem? I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong with me. I don’t feel like I’m diseased. I’m a bleeding heart and damn well proud of it. It’s something about me, like my mousey brown hair and blue eyes. Why does there have to be something ‘wrong’ with it? It’s not affecting anyone. If it is, it’s for the good. Doing good makes me happy. There can’t possibly be a problem with that. Surely.  

 

Take it from me, Effie would say, having someone like you who cares so much… I’ve never had a friend quite like you. A friend who would hold me and cry with me about my Grandma.  A friend who would do anything for me.

 

I remember that day. It had been one of those heart squeezing occasions. Oh wait. I think I might get it now. It’s the physical sensations, isn’t it? That’s why it’s been pathologised and labelled a syndrome. And, I suppose they are annoying, but it feels relatively minor. Like a tiny price to pay for what I get in return. For the chance to share, live and laugh with some really amazing people. For the privilege of being loved and cared about by them.

 

So let me ask you now, do you see a problem? Am I really ill? Am I really a problem in need of solving? Or am I just a bleeding heart?

Everything's 'Fine'

The frame sits on one side of your desk, protecting your most prized possession. You remember the day the picture had been taken, on one of the family holidays when you were both kids. Oh, how you wish you could go back there. Back to that time when you were younger, free and unburdened by the worries that plague you now. Before any of the craziness that's unfolded recently had occurred. You wish you could go back to when you were blissfully oblivious and unaware of the demons that have been around all along. Looking back, you’re not quite sure how you could have missed them.

 

You gaze at the picture awhile, studying the features you share, noticing especially those you both inherited from your mother- dark hair and eyes, stark against milky skin. For you, that’s where the similarities stop. But your sibling inherited more than that. They also got to share in the monsters that mislead our mother's mind. The all-consuming demons that leave her so deeply troubled. The ones that haunt her every moment and turn her every dream into a nightmare.

 

Their demons have them convinced that the demons don’t exist at all. And yet, the demons taint their every thought, a constant threat hissing in their ears. The demons are always there, influencing all they do. They've always been there, for as long as you can remember, like constant companions. Back then, you were just too young to know about them, but you know better now. You were too innocent to notice the flashes that would pass by their eyes like lightning, present only for a brief second. Although, you've never had any idea what the demons do, only that it corrupts them. If you could get into their heads, hear what words the demons whispered, know what ran through their minds, maybe you might have half a chance of getting to the bottom of all this.

 

You wonder why you can see the demons so clearly when the rest of your family are so blind to their existence. How can they not see? How can they not understand that the demons are why everything feels so hard all the time? That the demons are the reason every step feels like trudging through quicksand? But then, it’s hard to see something clinging to your back without a mirror. You’ve offered to hold up a mirror so they can see for themselves, many times. But they always decline. “Thank you,” they say, “but I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Their eyes pierce yours, searching. As if they’ll find the answer hidden somewhere there. As if the problem lies not with them, but with you.

 

"I've had enough of 'fine'!" You jolt from the chair with such force it flies away behind you. You whisk your hands through your hair, fingers catching with increasing frustration-fuelled friction. Then you stop. Your eyes narrow when they fall upon the picture frame sitting on your desk. You glare at the people in the picture, your younger selves, reaching to lash out at the image. "What is it anyway?" Your fingers freeze, curling around mid air, as if the mysterious 'fine' might be something you can grasp.

With a heavy sigh, your arm falls back to your side. Instead, you take a big breath before unleashing a scream that could easily shatter glass and knock the very roof from above your head. At times like these, the burden upon your shoulders seems far greater than the weight resting upon theirs.

 

A pang of guilt settles in your stomach at the thought. They’re the ones with demons tarnishing their wrecked, wounded and troubled souls, not you. You don't have their demons deluding you. They’re the ones in dire need of help. Except, they won’t let you. They don’t ‘need’ it. The looks they give you are seared into your memory; are you sure you’re not the one who needs help? 

 

You've tried arguing back, but they've never listened to reason. At this point, you’re verging on pulling tufts  from your head. That pain might be easier to handle than this… this utter agony. You drag the chair forward by the arm rest and fall back into it. Blinking away tears, you run your finger along the edge of the picture frame. With a sigh, you remove your hand. You struggle for breath, throat clogged with lumps too large to swallow. Your hands are bound by powerlessness and helplessness and there’s nothing you can do but shake your head in despair.

 

Share the love … At least, that’s how the saying's supposed to go. Except, not for you. For you, it's more like share the pain. You’d take it, too. If it helped them heal or get better, you’d take it all. But then, if your love were enough, their minds would be free from worry, their souls well and their hearts unburdened. If your love were enough, they’d be set free from all that imprisons them. Instead, your love for them rests a heavier burden upon you. A load you must carry alone. They are all you have, but they don’t need you. They’re 'fine'. Fine. The word drips with poison as it runs through your mind. You might break something if you hear it uttered just one more time. Because that's all they ever tell you. It's all you ever hear and you're sick of it. Because what even is it? What is ‘fine’? You have no idea, but one thing you do know is what it’s not- them.

 

They’re not 'fine', as much as they'd like to believe it. They're not 'fine', yet they don't even realise it and because of that, you're not really fine either. How can you be, when the people you love most aren’t? When they don’t even realise how not fine they are? When there's nothing you can do because they're the only ones who can change themselves? You can’t help but worry. It’s like you don’t have a choice. It’s like it all falls to you, and then the anxiety becomes three-fold, because you’re worrying not only for yourself, but on both of their behalves as well, because they can’t.

 

Or maybe they won't. Why is anyone's guess. Maybe because there was one time when a little bit of reality seeped in and it was too much for them to bear. They couldn't handle it, so they turned and ran the other way.

 

You shake your head, imagining them standing in front of you. "Yes, you can totally run away from all your problems. You can deny everything. Because that will make it all disappear, as if none of it ever happened at all." You sweep the air with one of your hands. "Because that's totally how it works." Now, your words are the ones filled with poison.

 

With a heavy exhalation, you turn your gaze upwards, as if you’ll find the answer you long for in the ceiling that covers your head, in the clouds in the sky or maybe even further up than that, in the heavens high above. How do you go on loving someone when loving them is so painful? How can you catch someone on the run from it all? How can you help someone when they can’t, or maybe won't, see the truth?