I assume that no matter what I say or regardless of what I might try to explain, or no matter how hard I try to express my feelings or to convey them to you in the simplest way possible, and regardless of how I might feel remorse or if I am sad or mournful, or if I am regretful, or if I am thankful, if I am happy and overjoyed or confused and off put by the way I see my life—the bottom line is I don’t know what the color blue looks like to you. I don’t know what the different version of colors look like from your eyes. I don’t know what heat feels like on your skin and I cannot begin to know how your senses differentiate between something pleasing or pleasurable, to something that is unsightly or pained and uncomfortable.
I do not see what you see or feel what you feel. To be honest, it would be insulting of me to assume that you see, taste, touch or feel things the same way that I do.
We are all free and welcome to be who we are.
Understand?
I am told that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. If this is true, then perhaps it would also be true to say that one man’s pain is another man’s pleasure.
Who knows?
I can see this now. I can understand that we are all destined to be different. Each and every one of us has an inalienable right to be unique; as in completely and totally, or absolutely nonidentical, as if to prove that as a human being, or as a person here on this big moving object which I have come to consider as something I like to call “project earth,” which is made of different forms of life, or people, of man or woman, or in any other pronoun you’d like to choose—we are made of billions, which mean we are huge moving object spinning around the sun, and rolling in an orbit, with literally billions of different life forms, and billions of different variations or life, and billions of different assumptions, opinions, assertions and beliefs.
This means there are billions of different versions of the color blue, or orange, and there are literally billions of interpretations of a word or the connotation and denotation of what a word means.
There is only one truth, however, and any variation of that truth can only become an opinion, at best.
We are here, now, together. We are all a passenger here, on Project Earth.
We are moving now, all at the same time, and all at the same speed.
At the same time —
One minute can seem like a blink of an eye to me, but to someone who is in pain, or to someone who is feeling or experiencing loneliness or agonizing from a loss—that same minute can seem like an hour, and to them, an hour can seem like an eternity.
Everything is relative.
I cannot say what heartache feels like to you. I can’t describe what loss is like to your heart nor can I compare myself or my feelings to you or yours because although we are similar in some regards—the bottom line is I don’t know what color is like from your point of view.
I don’t know what the sensation of touch feels like from your skin nor can I assume or prove that what I see, feel, or understand is the same as anybody else.
I can’t even prove I’m right.
I don’t see this as being bad.
I don’t see this as a problem.
No, I see this as a good thing.
I see this as a miracle the same as I view us, or each and every living being as a miracle.
Think about how intricate we are, down to our fingerprints.
No one has what I have.
I don’t know when it was (or if it ever happened, completely) but there came a time when I realized that I am different in so many ways. It is this fact that makes us all similar. We are all just creatures. We are all trying to find our way. we are all different. And that’s a good thing.
I don’t know why some people take on the fights they do or become so offended by things that are otherwise simple, or not so big.
I don’t know why people feel the way they do. I cannot say that I know anything for a fact. However, I know what I have been told. I know what I have been taught. I know what I assume, or what I think and why. I also know that I have learned poor habits. I know that I have learned good lessons from bad teachers and bad lessons from good ones.
Understand?
I know that I am only one person and that I have no right above you or above anyone else.
I am not better or worse.
I know that the saying is true, that my perception is not truth—therefore, my perception is only true to me. And that can be dangerous at times.
I remember sitting in a group of people who lost their children. Some of the members of the group lost their wife or their husband. Some lost a brother or a sister and some lost a friend or a lover. However, the commonality between the members was that everyone lost someone to an overdose or to an otherwise slow or painful demise from addiction, pain-management, or opiate use.
I was asked to come in and speak about myself and explain part of my story. However, I was addressed by an angry woman. I was told that I do not know the pain that comes with losing a child. I was told that I do not know what it’s like to hurt this way.
I explained no, I don’t.
You’re right.
I only know about my pain. I know what it was like to hear my Mother scream in agony, awaiting a shot because pain-management gave her such a tolerance to opiates that when her surgery was finished, there was no pain relief. So, I had to sit in the room and listen to my Mother, to the only person who truly believed in me, or in other words, I had to sit and hear the screams from my Mother as she begged to die, and say things like “God, save us. Bless us and save us.” Then she would scream in pain again, and then she would say, “I don’t want to live, God, please help me.” Or, “Please take me!”
And me, helpless as ever, a son, a role reversal in the truest form; I had to sit there and listen to the screams of the only person who never gave up on me. I had to listen to the agony from the one person who never stopped believing in me, who never left me or gave up, no matter how bad I was or no matter how unreachable I became.
My Mother was always there, no matter what, and at that moment—I had to listen to the only person who cared for me, unconditionally, beg and plead, or try to bargain for her death.
So, no . . .
I don’t know what loss is like to that Mother who claimed her own brand of loss. But this is not why people come to grief groups.
I don’t know what pain feels like to that mother nor does she understand what pain feels like to me.
I can understand that we are different, and I accept the difference in our terms.
At the same time, branding our loss is no different from branding our own version of God or the truth, or the word, or the interpretation of the word. Therefore, branding a sense of ownership does not mean that either she or I own the world more than anyone else.
Arguing about the relevance or the size and the differences of our pain is no different from us arguing over who owns the earth or who has more right to sit or stand. Arguing about pain or the ultimate pain is as pointless as comparing the color blue to someone who sees blue in a different version.
I have no right to corner the market on anything nor do I have the right to judge or dictate or determine what pain feels like to you or to someone else.
I do not do comparisons anymore.
I relate when I can.
I understand that an insult to me might be funny to you, and vice-versa.
So –
When I stopped trying to sell my brand and when I stopped trying to prove my point or when I wanted to feel better about me being me, and when I wanted to improve and to stand up, even when I thought that I couldn’t or that I was undeserving — I had to realize that I am not anyone else.
I am me, which does not mean I am alone or that no one thinks like me or that no one understands.
No, not at all.
I came to the comforting idea that I am unique in the best way possible.
I don’t have to match the brand of someone else.
I can be me.
They can be them,
and we can agree or disagree.
And the two of us can be fine that we are different.
We should be different—
All of us are different.
This is what adds color and depth to the world.
You have your version.
I have mine.
I can be right or wrong and so, you know what?
That’s fine.
This is when we can understand the victory of learning how to agree to disagree—and now, maybe, you can go your way, and I can go mine . . .
and somehow, we can go in peace, either together
or separately.
The choice is ours.
The Written Addiction 