Cracked
From the time I was pretty young, I was a glass half full person. I could always see the bright side. For years, even though I suffered from depression, I refused that diagnosis, believing that if you could see the light at the end of the tunnel, you couldn't be depressed. I could always see the light. I always looked for the positives in crappy situations. The Silver Lining was what I wrapped myself up in every night.
But on September 11, 2001, my glass cracked.
And since that day, my half full has slowly seeped out of that crack, soaking the Silver Lining (which I've discovered was only meant to reflect, not absorb).
I watched the towers fall that night eighteen years ago, with my two-year-old on my lap, while I read Winnie the Pooh to her. I cried along with the rest of the country. My heart and soul ached for those who lost their lives and for those left behind. I knew we would never be the same again.
And then, in the aftermath, the country pulled together. People pulled together. In the midst of this awful destruction, beautiful humanity stood tall. There was a spirit of determination; there was a newfound kindness for our fellow Americans; there was love. In the beginning, it was just about helping. It was just about being human and caring about other humans.
But it was short-lived.
War was declared and our seemingly undying need for Us Against Them was met. With everything in me, I believed (and still believe) it was the wrong decision. It made me sick to hear it, and devastated to see it. I remember having a conversation with my mother and she said, "It will be over quickly." I disagreed. I told her we would be having the same conversation in five years. She scoffed. Five years later, she said she didn't remember making that statement. I'm sure she didn't remember it ten years later either. Or fifteen.
I have often said that if my daughter hadn't been born before 9/11, she wouldn't have been born at all. The world changed that day. Well, to be fair, the world didn't change. The world had always been a terrible place; I was just fortunate not to live where pain and fear are as normal as deciding what breakfast cereal to eat.
No, the world changed for ME that day.
9/11 became a window for me. And instead of being clouded and caked in the ash of the towers, it allowed me to see clearly - perhaps for the first time - what we are capable of doing to one another. Not just the hijackers and terrorists, but us, too - the "good guys." I saw the destruction caused in "defense" of our way of life; of our ideals; of our "honor." Never a nationalist, I stopped seeing flags and borders, and I only saw people.
I still see the people. Only the people. I see the pain. I see the fear. I see the hopelessness. I see the anger. And though I can't always fully understand it, my empathetic response exists in overdrive.
My half full has taken eighteen years to very nearly empty through that crack. It wasn't just 9/11, certainly. It was also divorce, betrayal, abandonment, cancer, financial ruin, dealings with our criminal 'healthcare' system, working with people who need so very much, but for whom there is often no help, and the worry about aging in a society that is not kind to its elders.
It was and remains politics on a global scale, this narcissistic, self-important, sick individual currently at our helm and the administration that enables him, the refusal of our 'leaders' to take science seriously, the hatred and vitriol spewed constantly on the Internet and in-person, the intolerance and ugliness of so many religions, the refusal of most of the world to set aside what is convenient for what might make a lasting positive impact on our environment, the apathy of the citizens of the world, which has allowed power-hungry, selfish, greedy people, who simply do not care about the rest of us, to rise to the top.
All of it.
It is overwhelming. It is soul-crushing. It takes my breath away and leaves me feeling flat and empty or in pain. And I know it's not just me.
My hope is gone.
My faith is gone.
I do know there is still good in the world - there are such good people doing such good works. I really and truly know this. I look for the good every day. I see it every day. I try to recount it in some way. Every. Single. Day. I look for humor. I look for beauty - in words, in ideas, in nature, in animals, in art, in people. I see it. I breathe it in and it adds, drop by drop, to what was once my half full. It keeps my glass from being completely empty.
I hope the day never comes when I can't find anything to add... when the last of what's good seeps out of my cracked glass.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about it.
I look in wonder and amazement at people who still want to bring children into this world. I admire (or I'm jealous of) their optimism and their hope. I have so many questions for them...
Aren't you afraid for them? I am.
Aren't you going to feel guilty when you have to hand this mess over to your babies? I feel SO guilty.
Do you really and truly believe that it's all still fixable? Sadly, I don't.
As of right now, my daughter is certain she doesn't want children. Truthfully? I'm glad of that. I don't want her to have them. I have enough fear and guilt and worry for the rest of the world's babies.
But I do admire the optimism that allows them to keep being born.
And I'm glad there are people with hope and faith in humanity.
I'm glad there are still glasses half full.
We certainly need them.
But on September 11, 2001, my glass cracked.
And since that day, my half full has slowly seeped out of that crack, soaking the Silver Lining (which I've discovered was only meant to reflect, not absorb).
I watched the towers fall that night eighteen years ago, with my two-year-old on my lap, while I read Winnie the Pooh to her. I cried along with the rest of the country. My heart and soul ached for those who lost their lives and for those left behind. I knew we would never be the same again.
And then, in the aftermath, the country pulled together. People pulled together. In the midst of this awful destruction, beautiful humanity stood tall. There was a spirit of determination; there was a newfound kindness for our fellow Americans; there was love. In the beginning, it was just about helping. It was just about being human and caring about other humans.
But it was short-lived.
War was declared and our seemingly undying need for Us Against Them was met. With everything in me, I believed (and still believe) it was the wrong decision. It made me sick to hear it, and devastated to see it. I remember having a conversation with my mother and she said, "It will be over quickly." I disagreed. I told her we would be having the same conversation in five years. She scoffed. Five years later, she said she didn't remember making that statement. I'm sure she didn't remember it ten years later either. Or fifteen.
I have often said that if my daughter hadn't been born before 9/11, she wouldn't have been born at all. The world changed that day. Well, to be fair, the world didn't change. The world had always been a terrible place; I was just fortunate not to live where pain and fear are as normal as deciding what breakfast cereal to eat.
No, the world changed for ME that day.
9/11 became a window for me. And instead of being clouded and caked in the ash of the towers, it allowed me to see clearly - perhaps for the first time - what we are capable of doing to one another. Not just the hijackers and terrorists, but us, too - the "good guys." I saw the destruction caused in "defense" of our way of life; of our ideals; of our "honor." Never a nationalist, I stopped seeing flags and borders, and I only saw people.
I still see the people. Only the people. I see the pain. I see the fear. I see the hopelessness. I see the anger. And though I can't always fully understand it, my empathetic response exists in overdrive.
My half full has taken eighteen years to very nearly empty through that crack. It wasn't just 9/11, certainly. It was also divorce, betrayal, abandonment, cancer, financial ruin, dealings with our criminal 'healthcare' system, working with people who need so very much, but for whom there is often no help, and the worry about aging in a society that is not kind to its elders.
It was and remains politics on a global scale, this narcissistic, self-important, sick individual currently at our helm and the administration that enables him, the refusal of our 'leaders' to take science seriously, the hatred and vitriol spewed constantly on the Internet and in-person, the intolerance and ugliness of so many religions, the refusal of most of the world to set aside what is convenient for what might make a lasting positive impact on our environment, the apathy of the citizens of the world, which has allowed power-hungry, selfish, greedy people, who simply do not care about the rest of us, to rise to the top.
All of it.
It is overwhelming. It is soul-crushing. It takes my breath away and leaves me feeling flat and empty or in pain. And I know it's not just me.
My hope is gone.
My faith is gone.
I do know there is still good in the world - there are such good people doing such good works. I really and truly know this. I look for the good every day. I see it every day. I try to recount it in some way. Every. Single. Day. I look for humor. I look for beauty - in words, in ideas, in nature, in animals, in art, in people. I see it. I breathe it in and it adds, drop by drop, to what was once my half full. It keeps my glass from being completely empty.
I hope the day never comes when I can't find anything to add... when the last of what's good seeps out of my cracked glass.
But I'd be lying if I said I didn't worry about it.
I look in wonder and amazement at people who still want to bring children into this world. I admire (or I'm jealous of) their optimism and their hope. I have so many questions for them...
Aren't you afraid for them? I am.
Aren't you going to feel guilty when you have to hand this mess over to your babies? I feel SO guilty.
Do you really and truly believe that it's all still fixable? Sadly, I don't.
As of right now, my daughter is certain she doesn't want children. Truthfully? I'm glad of that. I don't want her to have them. I have enough fear and guilt and worry for the rest of the world's babies.
But I do admire the optimism that allows them to keep being born.
And I'm glad there are people with hope and faith in humanity.
I'm glad there are still glasses half full.
We certainly need them.
I miss mine.
XO,
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