Active Volcano
When I was in high school, I remember one particular teacher rather fondly. Memhir Gebreyesus, a.k.a. Koborta (to my peeps from Den Den, some of y'all know who I'm talking about). Memhir meaning "Teacher", his nickname meaning blanket (which I still have no idea what that's about) and the second part being his name, which means..........well, part of it is a popular pronunciation of Jesus. He taught high school geography, but I remember him for his short stature, thick glasses, doctor's coat (a symbolic uniform of the teachers back then) and constantly uneven facial hair, which, when I think about it today, sorta gave him the image of a mad scientist-meets-black hobbit. A particular session that stood out is when he spoke about volcanoes and the destructive power they had, especially how it could suddenly erupt without warning. He later proceeded to prove his point when he "disciplined" a student for talking, rather loudly, in class. Once again, anybody who has gone to school in Eritrea will attest to this fact....the teachers don't play. But, despite the violent nature of his corrective methodology, it did instill a lesson in me that I hadn't thought about until recently.
In one of my previous submissions ("Shit-Face" Therapy), I spoke about a hometown boy in my current residence, who was going through a bit of a quarrel with his significant other. To those who don't know, I redirect you to the aforementioned blog. To those who have been keeping up, let me update you.
My friend is once again passed out on my sofa. Just looking at him has given me some incentive to consider immediate sobriety for the foreseeable future. The reason for this goes back several weeks, i.e. mid August. On the morning he woke up from his stupor, hung-over complicated with a "diamond-splitting" headache, he began that morning in his usual bravado. Denying the incident that had taken place the previous night before, he started to both praise and disrespect his girlfriend. He would go from calm to aggravated, whisper to shout, in about the same time it took a Lamborghini to go from zero to 60 (2.8 seconds, in case anyone is wondering). And though he was able to regain and eventually maintain his calm, he was on the verge of tears at one point. When I think about that, I didn't see a drunk or a lunatic. I simply saw a man who was lost. A man almost at the end of his rope, hoping that it would come with a noose before it ran out. And then I saw the look. It wasn't a look of homicidal mania (thank god, cause then I would've had to bar him from my place and lord knows I barely have any friends out here as it is) nor the look of self-pity. It was the resignation of a man who had realized that the thing he wanted, the thing he so desperately was trying to hang on to, had become the thing that he was going to lose. And no amount of effort could prevent the inevitable.
He left my home, head down, yet oddly determined to prove himself wrong, despite his revelation. And while he spoke to me confidently that all was well, he and I both realized that it wasn't. Truth be told, I still don't know if he was trying to convince me of that or convince himself. I would hear from him sporadically for the next couple of weeks, him telling me of the "progress" he had made with his girl and the hope it gave him. He joked about how he was hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst. Personally, I've never subscribed to that believe. I've always felt that it was humanly impossible. You can either do one or the other. And while he was content to sit back and watch things get better, deep down inside I knew they wouldn't.
The culmination came this evening, when he appeared at my door step with a shopping bag full of 6-packs and a look on his face that's reserved for victims of a natural disaster, who had lost everything. As I sat him down and attempted to pry some information out of him, while working on my "dinner-in-progress" (tuna melt with fresh cheese spice and black pepper, for those wondering), he simply sat there, near-catatonic, almost like a man trapped in his body, screaming inside to wake up so that he could discover that this was all just a bad dream (like a Freddy Kruger victim). Finally, when I was done and he had realized that reality was not going to go away, he explained everything to me.
Although I have his permission, I would prefer not to blow his business up like this. Therefore, I will simply give highlights. Man talks to woman. Man professes love. Woman is silent. Man wonders why. Woman pathetically attempts to relieve him of his doubts. Man persists, asking if she wanted to end this/accusing the woman of infidelity and deceit (and the funny thing is, sometimes, in a situation like that, silence is just as resounding an answer as a "Yes"). Man loses temper, proceeds to destroy the home he had built with her, before leaving, thus ending up on my sofa, passed out with what I can only assume is enough beer to incapacitate a horse......or a baby elephant). When I asked him what possessed him to do that, he simply said "I was angry".
And the hilarious part is, I can actually relate to this. I've been down that road where that anger is an almost-welcomed companion. Its that slight burn in the pit of your gut. Its the small spark-turned-flame-turned-fire-turned-inferno that tears through you faster than any mechanical speed demon that car-makers can put together. It fuels you, consumes you, pushes you further into that void where all is open game and where your only objective is not to hurt or to destroy, but to share the pain you have inside, through the easiest way you know how, action. But, what is unsettling about this is the similarities between my friend and I. While I will admit his actions were that of a certified asshole/domestic abuser-in-training, the core of his motivation was not anger or frustration or even satisfaction in the other person's pain. It was fear. My friend was afraid of losing her. And when that fear was realized, when it became clear that that was exactly what was going to happen, he snapped, plain and simple.
Anyone who has read my blog will have seen previous entries where I've made some "unsettling" comparisons. And this may be one of them. I neither condone nor encourage my friends' reaction to this. I simple understand the circumstances as well as anyone else would, if not better. Over the course of this summer, I was.......not in the best place, to paint a pretty picture of it. And in my place, my mind wandered to places it should not have, entertaining notions that are complete lunacy, but at the time held such merit. Tingling nerves evolved into crippling insecurities, supposed apathy appeared as disregard, which both later transformed into fear and anger. And in those states, I've had my own moments of questionable behavior. I've burned bridges, I've destroyed connections, I've created the state that I was afraid of being in. In the pursuit of reacting to that which I feared the most, I ultimately created it.......irony's a bitch, ain't it?
As per usual, no drunken encounter with my friend would be complete without some pathetically poignant last words before he allowed the effects of alcohol to completely shut down his conscious mind altogether. And he did not disappoint. As I struggled to lay him down and take his beer away from his near dead hands, he looked me square in the eyes and asked ".......is this my fault"?? And as usual, I did not have an answer for him.
By comparison, he is not the brightest bulb in the room, but his moments of poignancy is more a question of simple questions asked at the right time. Was it his fault?! Despite the in-depth information I have received, I honestly can not answer that question. And while I wish I knew what had changed between them, perhaps its simply a question that can't be answered. One could cite the fact that as easily as people fall in love, they quickly fall out of love. Perhaps there was never any to begin with, but rather ulterior motives. Maybe it was all just a sick prank, if one could be persuaded to engage in that notion. Nonetheless, the reasoning for the course of events does not change them. It happened. So, what now?
Dr. Phil, with his annoyingly-country, yet all-too-accurate phrases, said that "you can't choose what you do when you lose your temper, but you can choose whether you lose your temper". The problem with that is, that choice, at times, is so easy to make, it borders on instinct. And its wonderful, I won't lie. The exacting of your wrath upon others. The problem though, its just a temporary high, as addictive as a narcotic, as fleeting as an orgasm. And its afterwards, when you have to look at yourself and realize the cracks that you've made in your window of perception. In the end, all we can do is hope that enough damage has not been dealt for it to be irreparable. Hope that, given enough time, something can be salvaged, or even that something good can come from this.
I can just hope that my friend finds some peace, though I know that I can not guide him to it. Not simply because I am as lost in its pursuit as he is, but because that's a journey he must make on his own. I can only hope he makes it there, before his quite-possible self-destruction.
As for me, I'm still in the danger zone. Like all things, I have to let this run its course. I just hope that when its over and done, my volcano hasn't burned down too many bridges. And if so.......
In one of my previous submissions ("Shit-Face" Therapy), I spoke about a hometown boy in my current residence, who was going through a bit of a quarrel with his significant other. To those who don't know, I redirect you to the aforementioned blog. To those who have been keeping up, let me update you.
My friend is once again passed out on my sofa. Just looking at him has given me some incentive to consider immediate sobriety for the foreseeable future. The reason for this goes back several weeks, i.e. mid August. On the morning he woke up from his stupor, hung-over complicated with a "diamond-splitting" headache, he began that morning in his usual bravado. Denying the incident that had taken place the previous night before, he started to both praise and disrespect his girlfriend. He would go from calm to aggravated, whisper to shout, in about the same time it took a Lamborghini to go from zero to 60 (2.8 seconds, in case anyone is wondering). And though he was able to regain and eventually maintain his calm, he was on the verge of tears at one point. When I think about that, I didn't see a drunk or a lunatic. I simply saw a man who was lost. A man almost at the end of his rope, hoping that it would come with a noose before it ran out. And then I saw the look. It wasn't a look of homicidal mania (thank god, cause then I would've had to bar him from my place and lord knows I barely have any friends out here as it is) nor the look of self-pity. It was the resignation of a man who had realized that the thing he wanted, the thing he so desperately was trying to hang on to, had become the thing that he was going to lose. And no amount of effort could prevent the inevitable.
He left my home, head down, yet oddly determined to prove himself wrong, despite his revelation. And while he spoke to me confidently that all was well, he and I both realized that it wasn't. Truth be told, I still don't know if he was trying to convince me of that or convince himself. I would hear from him sporadically for the next couple of weeks, him telling me of the "progress" he had made with his girl and the hope it gave him. He joked about how he was hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst. Personally, I've never subscribed to that believe. I've always felt that it was humanly impossible. You can either do one or the other. And while he was content to sit back and watch things get better, deep down inside I knew they wouldn't.
The culmination came this evening, when he appeared at my door step with a shopping bag full of 6-packs and a look on his face that's reserved for victims of a natural disaster, who had lost everything. As I sat him down and attempted to pry some information out of him, while working on my "dinner-in-progress" (tuna melt with fresh cheese spice and black pepper, for those wondering), he simply sat there, near-catatonic, almost like a man trapped in his body, screaming inside to wake up so that he could discover that this was all just a bad dream (like a Freddy Kruger victim). Finally, when I was done and he had realized that reality was not going to go away, he explained everything to me.
Although I have his permission, I would prefer not to blow his business up like this. Therefore, I will simply give highlights. Man talks to woman. Man professes love. Woman is silent. Man wonders why. Woman pathetically attempts to relieve him of his doubts. Man persists, asking if she wanted to end this/accusing the woman of infidelity and deceit (and the funny thing is, sometimes, in a situation like that, silence is just as resounding an answer as a "Yes"). Man loses temper, proceeds to destroy the home he had built with her, before leaving, thus ending up on my sofa, passed out with what I can only assume is enough beer to incapacitate a horse......or a baby elephant). When I asked him what possessed him to do that, he simply said "I was angry".
And the hilarious part is, I can actually relate to this. I've been down that road where that anger is an almost-welcomed companion. Its that slight burn in the pit of your gut. Its the small spark-turned-flame-turned-fire-turned-inferno that tears through you faster than any mechanical speed demon that car-makers can put together. It fuels you, consumes you, pushes you further into that void where all is open game and where your only objective is not to hurt or to destroy, but to share the pain you have inside, through the easiest way you know how, action. But, what is unsettling about this is the similarities between my friend and I. While I will admit his actions were that of a certified asshole/domestic abuser-in-training, the core of his motivation was not anger or frustration or even satisfaction in the other person's pain. It was fear. My friend was afraid of losing her. And when that fear was realized, when it became clear that that was exactly what was going to happen, he snapped, plain and simple.
Anyone who has read my blog will have seen previous entries where I've made some "unsettling" comparisons. And this may be one of them. I neither condone nor encourage my friends' reaction to this. I simple understand the circumstances as well as anyone else would, if not better. Over the course of this summer, I was.......not in the best place, to paint a pretty picture of it. And in my place, my mind wandered to places it should not have, entertaining notions that are complete lunacy, but at the time held such merit. Tingling nerves evolved into crippling insecurities, supposed apathy appeared as disregard, which both later transformed into fear and anger. And in those states, I've had my own moments of questionable behavior. I've burned bridges, I've destroyed connections, I've created the state that I was afraid of being in. In the pursuit of reacting to that which I feared the most, I ultimately created it.......irony's a bitch, ain't it?
As per usual, no drunken encounter with my friend would be complete without some pathetically poignant last words before he allowed the effects of alcohol to completely shut down his conscious mind altogether. And he did not disappoint. As I struggled to lay him down and take his beer away from his near dead hands, he looked me square in the eyes and asked ".......is this my fault"?? And as usual, I did not have an answer for him.
By comparison, he is not the brightest bulb in the room, but his moments of poignancy is more a question of simple questions asked at the right time. Was it his fault?! Despite the in-depth information I have received, I honestly can not answer that question. And while I wish I knew what had changed between them, perhaps its simply a question that can't be answered. One could cite the fact that as easily as people fall in love, they quickly fall out of love. Perhaps there was never any to begin with, but rather ulterior motives. Maybe it was all just a sick prank, if one could be persuaded to engage in that notion. Nonetheless, the reasoning for the course of events does not change them. It happened. So, what now?
Dr. Phil, with his annoyingly-country, yet all-too-accurate phrases, said that "you can't choose what you do when you lose your temper, but you can choose whether you lose your temper". The problem with that is, that choice, at times, is so easy to make, it borders on instinct. And its wonderful, I won't lie. The exacting of your wrath upon others. The problem though, its just a temporary high, as addictive as a narcotic, as fleeting as an orgasm. And its afterwards, when you have to look at yourself and realize the cracks that you've made in your window of perception. In the end, all we can do is hope that enough damage has not been dealt for it to be irreparable. Hope that, given enough time, something can be salvaged, or even that something good can come from this.
I can just hope that my friend finds some peace, though I know that I can not guide him to it. Not simply because I am as lost in its pursuit as he is, but because that's a journey he must make on his own. I can only hope he makes it there, before his quite-possible self-destruction.
As for me, I'm still in the danger zone. Like all things, I have to let this run its course. I just hope that when its over and done, my volcano hasn't burned down too many bridges. And if so.......
I actually like Dr.Phil. I try not to say I swear by his methods, but I do and it's helped me understand people. But that quote of his was shit. People are different. Some are better at keeping their temper in check while others feel with their heart and soul.
ReplyDeleteAnd we actually CAN choose what we do when we lose our temper. Is Wayne Brady gonna have to choke a bitch? Feel with your heart, whatever it is you need to feel. Anger, sadness, joy...
It's the only sign of how alive we are. But make sure what you're feeling is being controlled by your soul.