What Do You Know (You’re Just a Kid) Ch. 30

I wish I could push a button for you.
What I mean is, I wish I could push a button and take your problems away. I wish I could make the world a better place.
But this is life. This is where we play for keeps.

I wish I could help more or say something (anything) that could help make sense of all that goes on. But, I can’t.
I wish I could tell you that life gets easier with age. And sure, maybe it does in some regards. Maybe the challenges have only just begun and now’s a good time to tell you, “Hold on tight, kid. The ride gets a little bumpy from here.”

Please remember and try not to be fooled. No one has the market cornered on life. No one really knows what to do when life turns upside-down. It’s easier for an outsider to tell you to “let go” of something or to say, “don’t think like that,” because of course it’s easy for them. They’re not the ones in your skin.
They don’t know what pain looks like to you. So, I don’t care who you are or how experienced, life can humble anyone in the matter of a second.
Remember this because life has a way of reminding people how small we are.

As for the statement, “What do you know? You’re just a kid!”
I think I understand now.
I understand more about why my Father used to tell me this.
He would tell me that I’d understand when I got older.
I do understand now.
I understand that sometimes as people, and regardless of our roles in life, there are times when we lack the words or the language to explain ourselves.
I understand that my Old Man’s frustration with me was a challenge for him; that what he saw was his projection and that he had struggles too, which is why he had a hard time explaining himself to me.
He had to learn to deal with his patterns on his own—and perhaps his struggle was different from mine, which it was.
Perhaps his pains were equally raw to the touch, just like mine.
But our pains were different.

I understand now.
I understand that two people can watch the exact same event and both can walk away with a separate assessment of what took place.
I know that touch is relatable. But I will never know or understand nor will I be able to prove the value of touch or the sensation you feel in our fingertips.

I know that strength training requires resistance.
And life is this way too.
I know that struggle is necessary.
We need this to learn or to gain experience.
At the same time, I can remember going through the worst moments in life and being told that I was strong. I was told about Nietzsche who said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”
I’m sure this is true.
However, there are times when I suppose I could deal with being weaker.
Do you understand?
There are times when I’d be happy to be weak and go through much less—but here’s the problem.
Life does not ask about our opinion, not when it comes to these things.
There is no one who comes around with a “How am I doing” survey or questionnaire on this journey.
No.
Opinions are not applicable at least not when it comes to the trials we face or the struggles we live through.
But if there’s anything that can be seen as a saving grace it’s this: No one is alone.
No one has special treatment—and even the seemingly fortunate or the kids who are born from the so-called “lucky gene pool,” even they will have to face life, adversity, loss, depression, sadness and pain.
There is no room for debate on this.
No.
There’s only life.
There are the tasks at hand.
There are the subjects of unfair challenges.
There are moments of triumph and success.
There is also the choice of which side we feed—
Our fears?
Our doubts?
Our battles with shame and insecurity?
Or, do we feed our purpose?
What about our passion?
What about our love?
The choice is ours.

But still —
I wish I could make this easier.
I wish I could take away the items of heartache, or remove the burdens of the soul, or if it were up to me, you could eat whatever you want, and as much as possible too, and you’d still be perfect—you’d never get a blemish or feel pain.
If it were up to me, I would have you set up with the feelings of standing on the mountaintop because then it would be up to me to remove the ideas of abandonment or the feelings and emotions that lead us to question our value.

If it were up to me—
No one would ever die a painful or meaningless death. There would be no anger. There would be no reason to fight, and sharing would become a common thing.
People would smile more and yes, I believe that this would brighten the sky.
Everyone would know when to say “please” or “thank you,” and there’d be no reason for pushing and shoving.
If it were up to me—
Sundays would be celebrated more, and we could do things like, run a clothesline across the front yard and drape a sheet across it, so at sunset, we could buy a projector and watch a movie with freshly popped popcorn, right here in our yard.
If it were up to me, I would have certain things put into place—and no one would ever remark out of anger or say an unkind thing.

I would show you things, like the way my Old Man taught me how to bait a hook. This would be fun.
We could fish the Shinnecock Canal at sunrise, and watch the geese fly overhead and hear them calling out to each other. I like this. I like the sight of the geese flying in a “V”.
As for their calling out to each other, I always assumed it was their way of telling each other, “Stay in formation,” because there’s a great big world out there. I always thought this was their way of saying that it’s best if we all learn how to stick together.

I wish there was a way that I could make the world a better place.
I wish I could be more helpful, or that I could soften the edges for you—and then I could keep you from being cut. But, I can’t.
As far as I know, there’s no way to bubble-wrap the world.
There’s just too many edges and not enough cushions.
There’s always going to be cracks in the pavement somewhere. There’s always going to be a tripping hazard and although I would love to offer you a different point of view—I do not see what you see or feel what you feel or live inside of your skin.
I can’t live anyone’s life for them nor can anyone live my life for me.
I think the sooner we understand this, the better we can be at communicating with each other, which means we can listen to hear instead of listening to respond (because we think that we know better).
No one can live your life for you.
Only you do this.

I can’t tell you, “You’ll understand when you get older,” and expect this to be a working solution.
Plus, I can’t guarantee that you will understand when you get older.
To be fair to this, I don’t understand much.
I really don’t.

I don’t know what to do next. And sure, I know this is vague and more figurative than literal.
I mean, I know how to tie my own shoes.
I know how to cook a few meals.
I can fix things. I can talk in front of crowds.
I know that I have the ability to help people, which is not a talent.
Not really.
No, this is something all of us can do.

I don’t know if my understanding or dealings with empathy are true or accurate.
However, I know that I have been honored by some truly incredible people who have allowed me to find a position in their lives.
I have heard from people like you, Rita.
I know what happened because you told me.
I know about your losses because you allowed me to write about them.

I know about a woman in Iceland who wrote to me about the crazy antics that went on in my house.
She read a story about my second hero, and that’s my older brother, Dave.
She read about the time he tied a rope to the back of his car and dragged me around the parking lot which, to be honest, this is not as horrific as it sounds because there was snow and ice on the ground—however, he did almost kill me. And I mean that literally.
But again, that which did not kill me only served to make me stronger (I think).
The woman from Iceland went on to tell me about her brother and how they had a similar, crazy relationship.
She told me that something I did was helpful.
The woman mentioned that she hadn’t seen her brother in the flesh—at least, not after his suicide.

I think of the kids who I have had the opportunity to speak with and who sent me pictures from their prom, because they knew that I never had the chance to go to mine.
I think about the people I have sat or spoken with or the people who I’ve had the chance to break bread with and share a meal.

I think about the mental health professionals who have inspired me to do more. And I think about the ones who told me that I had no idea what I was doing, or that I should stay in my lane, or how I should leave the real help to the professionals—and I thank them too because they inspired me to seek a better education (and prove them wrong).
I think about the people who came to my groups. I think about how they shared their stories and how moments or real conversation, without judgments or agenda, or how people can be human to each other instead of acting like they know more (or better) and how this can be lifesaving.
Literally . . .

I know that I can’t stop the rain. I can’t stop the world from turning and although I have tried, there is no way to have time stand still—just so I can figure out what to do in a pinch, or so that I can say my last goodbye a little while longer.

Nothing can stop this.
Life is happening.
Love is happening and so is hate.
So choose wisely and find where you want to be between the two.

I have come to this conclusion for myself, that the depth of my love is equal to the span of my hate—and if I can be that hateful then I would have the equal capacity to be just as loving—if not more.
I say more because while I understand that love is daring, the weight of love is less burdensome than the weight of my outrage or my hate.
Besides, one of the two is lifesaving
and the other can be life-ending.

I was an angry kid . . .
Yes, I was.
The last thing I want to be (or become) is an angry old man.

The truth is we are all just children. We are all just a sea of kids who are hoping to find a better place to play in the sandbox.
Some are better at this game than others.
And me? I’m not sure if I’m good at this game or not.
But here I am.

I told you about Fulghum and what he said about being too good at playing Hide-and-Seek, remember?
His suggestion was, “Get found, kid!”
I think I’ll do that.

So, humbly and with an open heart, I am offering you this as honest view of my playbook—not so that you can follow me or because I think I know better.
No.
I’m offering you this because it is up to you to assess what your life is going to look like.
It is up to you to choose who you will invest your time with.
It is up to you to choose who you’ll love and who you’ll trust.
It is also up to you to understand that nothing can soften the sharp edges of life—and we’re all bound to get a few cuts and scrapes or bumps and bruises.
But this can, does and will teach us—and make us stronger.

And for the record:
I think the people who sit on their high horses should get off and learn to walk for a while before they speak about something.
What I’m trying to say is people like this have no authority.
No one does. Myself, included.

We are all a series of windows and doors and moments of opportunity.
No one can live your life for you.
And sure, everyone will have an opinion or an idea.
There will always be someone who claims to have a better cure.
But no one can live, love, laugh or learn for you.
This is your world and now, this is your time.

Are you ready?
Good . . .
I know there’s some sharp corners and some jagged edges ahead of you and I wish I could push a button and take them away.
But I can’t. And we both know that.

I suppose if it were up to me to understand that certain matters are either unfixable or unchangeable, then perhaps it is up to me to learn how to listen more and talk less.
Maybe this is the only way that I can make my own little world a better place.

But then again, what do I know.
I’m just a kid. . .
Remember?