That’s Life
Trauma is bound to happen to all of us in so many different horror forms. Like a Cali girl in Nashville scared as fuck of a damn tornado that actually hits. Or a Nashville gal in Cali terrified of a damn earthquake that doesn’t. Once the storm passes, it doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. Or that it can’t ever happen again. Or for those fortunate folk it hasn’t captured, it doesn’t mean that it won’t. For when it does, it can be extremely overwhelming to pile up all the traumatic rubble that life has knocked over our heads. I’m talking about those Mike Tyson knock outs. Those hits that can forever damage our confidence and uproot your very own morality. Maybe sometimes we need the triggering reminders to help us see the tower of life that’s been built. Imagine how tall your tower would be if all of your trauma bricks were stacked. Mine would probably be half way to heaven by now…But maybe that’s the purpose. Maybe trauma blocks are put into our lives to build us up to take us higher. Not to bury us down into the cold hard ground. Maybe the hard shit we go through, will always shadow behind us to remind us what we can get through. Would you knock your tower down like a bad move playing Jenga? Or would you be gentle knowing the outcome of it falling to pieces, placing it cautiously. Would it even make a difference if ya did? Would you go back to a life where trials and trauma never struck, never knowing what to do with the pieces when they do fall, cause honey, they will. Or would you be okay taking the invisible elevator towards the sky knowing you will probably gather more bricks of life’s shortcomings along the way?
After going through loads of horseshit, it’s alarming to live in such a happy moment in time, where life flies like a fast ball and everything seems dandy as fuck. I actually taste the hot coffee, wearing warm fuzzy socks by a cozy fire, with a beautiful view of white powdery mountains glowing through the window onto my peaceful unwrinkled skin. I have everything I ever dreamt of at my fingertips. My dream home, that has a fucking chef’s kitchen! Yes...two fucking ovens! Beautiful marble counter tops, and enough rooms for each and every one of my blended family members. It even has a huge guest room for my mom, deceased step mom, or my lively girlfriends when the wine flows a little extra on girls night. I’m so in love with a man who loves me just the same. He calms my soul. Life is great, I have not a damn thing to complain about. Just a simple loving gal, that’s been through a whole lotta hell. Maybe this is my sparkling moment in time to shine. But maybe sometimes I do have to sit and convince myself as to why I fucking deserve these things, because somewhere inside, I am scared AS FUCK. Anxious and fearful, because I’ve been content outliving my so-called dreams before. Then suddenly forced to watch the airstrikes land on my forever castle, crashing it down stone by stone. Mining my weak as fuck self out of the collateral damage for five fucking years, just to be happy again. No fucking thanks.
But you see, every war that we defeat, and by defeat … did you die… because I merely mean live through. Teaches us how strong we actually are. Sometimes we do totally build ourselves up by having a few amazing Tom Brady passes. But even smoking hot Tom took damn near career ending hits. Still, that confidence inside of ourselves after a huge fucking defeat takes us straight to the peak. It makes us think we are invincible. Like when the Jenga tower never falls, each piece is perfectly put into place while the tower stands tall. Still, nobody wins, if the object is to make the pieces fall. Obviously, we all love to stand tall and put. But as always, one small slight breeze can knock us down, and we’re back at ground zero. Again. Maybe that’s where true panic lies. The dun dun duuun moment of the calm before the storm. Maybe you reached the moon like Neil Armstrong the first round. But found false happiness because you were so high that you didn’t want to come back down. Relying on that peace of mind. Then bam trauma strikes you from behind like a Griffey bat swing straight to the back of the head. Of course, you’re going to collapse. Hell, you’re probably dead, or if you’re lucky, paralyzed. Trauma is life changing. Like my favorite Sinatra song, “That’s Life.” He’s onto something there. I remember a chilling moment that song played in the bathroom while I was terrified as fuck during a leap I faithed my way confidently through. Let’s just say, sometimes angels send conformities through good old Frank songs. That’s life. One minute you are at peace sniffing dandelions in the outfield, the next a hard ball smacks you directly in the eyeball. That’s life. We don’t have a written manual on how to function during happiness after loads of trauma already lies on our backs. We don’t know what its like to be calm and steady our entire lives to then suddenly be thrashed by shattering pain. Each one of us has our own struggle suitcase. It’s either filled with all of our post traumatic baggage, or seeping with some bullshit that’s about to erupt. Either way, its there. Lurking in the shadows underneath that gorgeous view we don’t pay attention to, because the beauty outweighs the eerie abandoned boarded up Bundy house, that’s just one head turn in the wrong direction away. And you my pretty, are in plain sight.
I have been that tumble weed rolling through the storms of life. I snatched shelter and beautiful scenery in a warm desert, with a cool turquoise river gleaming through my smitten sea greenish eyes. It was pure bliss. I was happy, in love, and hung my hat to retire in the illusion of my very own happily ever after. I never knew one breeze in the wrong direction would drift that certainty along with the river current. That maybe life had other arrangements in mind. It’s hard to see clarity when reality sets sail in uncharted waters. I’ve been blown onto the freeway just to catch eyes with a Semi traveling eighty miles per hour. The stillness can be comforting in that moment. But I have always had a hard time being still. It’s sort of like the feeling when the semi truck impacts, but you don’t perish, but kind of wish ya did. You lie there for a while waiting for someone to hopefully rescue you. But no one shows up. No one saves us from trauma, we have got to save ourselves. Or succumb deep into the darkness of it. Sometimes, saving ourselves can be doing nothing but facing the reality of our situations. Maybe being paralyzed from the hit is where the inaction comes from. You might not be able to move, hell you might not even be able to sleep. Or maybe all you want to do is sleep. You might be dead. We all face shit hits differently. The only way we are going to get through, is to face it. We can't hit pause, just as bad as we want to out run the giant bowling ball rolling one hundred miles per hour straight towards our peaceful bowling pin town. Peace and chaos will always meet and greet. Or in my experiences, get steam rolled. Like a shitty fucking virus, some things we just got to let run its course. We really have no control over the uncontrollable. But I can see how it can make us never want to be happy again. Sometimes treading that awful river current in the same place forever seems ideally logical enough. Rather than the fanciful vision of what we would like to spend forever in. Or even worse, actually finding it, but living so scared that you wrap it up in bubble wrap cautiously contriving every single step forward. Hoping to evade each and every type of possible wreckage. Living in denial for the sake of all fucks.
Give me a break, trauma is a part of life. Welcome it or not, we can only wish we held the holy grail to change future outcomes. If only we were as holy as holy water. I still put that shit on everything. Our purpose on this planet is to live, learn and grow. So, grow so damn tall that your tower is so solid, not even a 12.0 earthquake could knock it down. Sometimes even the most luxurious places have to be rebuilt multiple times prior to perfection. Even Barbie has flaws. Duhhh Ken. Hell, even flawless Tom Brady, ain’t perfect by no means. Yet he still managed to win seven out of ten Super-bowls. Tiff math would consider that score a seventy percent. Which is only average. But he isn’t named the GOAT for nothing. Just like the weird backwardisms of sports and Tiff math, that's life. Nothing is as it seems. All the stats you really need to succeed, is to just never fucking give up. That's life. Keep failing, keep fucking up, cause one day you will have that aha moment of success. Your ratings may even be a solid seven out of ten, but you know what? You can NEVER fail by trial and erroring your way through the finish line. That's all that really counts anyway. Cause the only real way out, is through. So, choose your very own version of perfection, and fucking be that.