I want to cry more often. There are children crossing the USs southern border. 40,000 this year and an expected 130,000 next year. Children, as young as five, fleeing without their parents and risking horrible deaths because it's better than life where they are, or so they think, or so we're told. And we can't help them. Not all of them. There are too many of them. Too many of US, of human beings in general.
A part of me, feels that masses of us just need to die, but those are just words. Easy to say, harder to see. I watched a video on Facebook yesterday- a horrible accident. Four teens had crashed and died, or WERE dying in the video. One twitched, a streak of blood indicating an enormous hole in the back of her head. Another was missing a face. Well, her face was there, but in the form of a bloody streak that glistened on the black road and ended at her hairline. Another flopped pathetically and whimpered, his legs bent up under him at unnatural angles. People milled around, one of them taking this video. They weren't rushing in to comfort the victims. They hung back and just looked. You couldn't even blame them, really. They couldn't undo the scene before them.
And this gruesome scene was an accident. They happen. But what about the horrors that happen because someone intended them to. A girl I remember from my internship in college spoke in group therapy of the massacres of her home country in Eastern Europe. She watched men cut the fetus out of a pregnant woman and impale it on a spike. It sounds like something out of a horror movie. But it's not fiction. It's real, and once in awhile, my brain, when it doesn't have a firm hold on the reigns of obliviousness or denial, allows me think about this.
And thought after thought, image after image flood my mind and I can't look away. And I can't stop crying. And I'm partly angry that I'm even taking medication because I feel I should be hurting MORE. SOMEONE has to! Someone has to cry and keen and wail in agony at the injustice of it all. I'd be a good professional mourner. They used to have those in, was it Ireland? Italy?
The only consolation is that my pain doesn't change anything. If I felt that by feeling it that I was doing anyone any good, I'd probably never be able to stop. Not really much of a consolation when you think about it.
And then there's the guilt. Why should I have it so good when others have it so bad. The self-loathing creeps in, insidiously. How have I had so many lucky breaks when so many I've known have their lives fall apart around them. I don't deserve it. And I grieve all the more in some vain attempt to balance the universe. Perhaps if I am hurting more, somewhere, someone else's pain has lessened. And I know it doesn't make any damn sense, but it's better than the feelings of helplessness that are the alternative.
Every golden age is as much a matter of disregard as it is of felicity. I read that in a book once. But how can you intentionally disregard stuff like this, and still have any self worth?