Mein Trauma

I've done it!

Someone posted this to Facebook:

....earning gobs of "likes" and piles of enthusiastic comments. At last, someone has articulated and elevated my pain! So perfect!

Misfitting (though well-intentioned) dork that I am, I felt moved to respond, much in the way moths are compelled toward scalding candles. But this time I proceeded with utmost care, having experienced substantial (dare I say?) trauma over a lifetime of effort to salve pain I'd failed to recognize as being clutched at for dear life by spoiled, comfortable people desperately hoping to feel something/anything and whose sole riveting life experience was That Time the Bad Thing Happened.

On this go-round I composed my message diligently, expunging all trace of eye rolling; of disapproval. I made my case as flatly non-combative and as inarguable as possible. Fully recognizing that my impulse to undercut juicy poignant drama from impassioned actors in mid-performance is just awful, I didn't expect a positive reception. But I hoped to express it in a way where I'd be deigned to live by the hungry ghosts who relish this stuff.

So why do it, if not just to be a dick? Because there might be someone within earshot in genuine extremis, ripe to reframe out of self-imposed Hell. A person can fall so deeply into this pit that the play-acting turns real. I try to be useful for the rare soul for whom this sort of thing is not fun anymore. I've been there, so I'm compelled to leave breadcrumb trails for errant fellow travelers.

There are people who, rather than feel annoyed when I shit all over the performance, feel deep relief from being reminded of the performative nature. I'm here for them. If I've annoyed you today, awesome! That means you're fine! Pray continue! Stop back sometime for the food porn!

Here it is:

I've been through more trauma than most people and, for me, the greatest trauma of all is self-inflicted when one adopts the term as one's mantel and constantly refers back to it. No other form of suffering can ever match that ongoing - and ultimately optional - trauma.

To be sure, I received zero likes and zero responses. Duh. But no one grabbed me by my ear lobes and screamed into my face that YOU CAN NEVER EVER EVER UNDERSTAND *MY* PAIN. No unbridled pique was unleashed at my stubborn refusal to admire their greatest possession, cherished above all else. They surely didn't like it (though perhaps one quietly benefitted), but they shut the hell up about it, which is as good as it gets, really. Truth-telling crucifixion peril: low. 

At age 61, I have climbed the highest summit, and returned safely. I will retire to the Shire, nurse my Orc battle wounds, and live the life of a gentleman farmer until it's time to embark for Tol Eressëa, across the sea.


If it didn't help a quiet ripe one this time, perhaps a seed was planted which might offer consolation at some later date when the anguish loses its allure.