Surviving The Fall, 9

Gentle Reader, I have done a huge declutter in my little subsidized apartment and the only bit of detritus I still have to sort through is my journals, all handwritten in at least a couple of dozen notebooks and writing pads. I am transcribing a lot of them onto Word on my computer and they are certainly providing a window onto some rather challenging periods in my life. Here is one of my entries, written about sixteen years ago, in June, 2002, when I was a tender 46 years old. I was on social assistance and had been living since March the same year in social housing. I was just a month and days from moving to where I am living now. In these writings I have been reexamining my two months in Europe in 1991, just on the heels of my mother's death, and also about my complex relationship with my family. Here it is: "I have just been reading my journal entries from my time in Europe. These are my findings: a vulnerable, insecure person, emotionally immature, and quite self-involved, but simultaneously aware of the people around him. A person with a strong faith and genuine humility and integrity. What particularly stands out is my desire to serve God, to be real and totally transparent. I was very needy emotionally, and I think a bit unstable. A gentle, caring and loving person. Somewhat pretentious, and pompous. And vulnerable. So vulnerable. Honest and open, Acutely aware of those around me. I think, much as I am now, but a bit maturer, a little wiser where people are concerned. And somewhat burnt-out. What has changed the most is entering a vocation as a visual artist, and learning to speak Spanish fluently. I am more political now, and much more aware of global socio-economic realities and how they connect to my personal life. I’m particularly unconcerned about the approval and good opinion of others. I’m a lot more cautious with people than I used to be. I am much older now. Wisdom? Perhaps. I don’t think that I’m as self consciously Christian as I used to be. God is everywhere, and totally, if implicitly, present for me. This is a matter of knowing. The sense that I would much rather speak to God than about Him, that I would rather be with Him than theorize about Him. I try to be a lot more careful now with my words. I have been on social assistance for more than three years now. The realities of my age, lack of training and consistent work experience has converged with the harsh realities of the new job market. Add to this burnout from everything I have just lived through and survived over the last two decades and I think you have here a good prospect for disability. At least my paintings sell, even though it still isn’t enough to live on. I am much happier alone now. It’s taken a while to get here. At times I am still vulnerable to others’ neediness, but I seem to shake those people off a lot better than I used to. Besides, no one can really offer me anything that I haven’t already got. People are very limited, particularly in what one can do or be for others. Human interactions are always interesting. Like today when D put her foot in her mouth again (I don’t think she’s aware of how often). And I overreacted. I know that I do this often. I didn’t like having to snap at her, but it seemed the only effective way of dealing with the situation. She’s a dear soul, but clumsy. I dropped in unannounced with the Globe and Mail. The deal is, if she’s busy, or doesn’t want to visit, then I leave. Her friend, L, was there, another artist. So, she introduced us as artists. Fine. But, then, as I was borrowing her phone to check for messages she went a step further, telling L that I have the DERA voice mail. I abruptly said, “I will give that information.” I could see the embarrassment on D’s face, because she knew she’d overstepped. And I felt bad about it. But I also know that had I let it go, I’d have felt worse and it would have gnawed at me the rest of the day." D was one of the members of my Christian community. After we disbanded, she moved into a social housing apartment attached to her church and I lived in a building connected to the same church but a block away. She was the same age of my father, and died about eight years ago. If the situation of being outed as a poor person needing the services of the DERA voice mail (I still have this voice mail) were to happen to day, I certainly would have handled things differently. I likely would smile, make a joke of it, and say, now your friend is going to know beyond any shadow of a doubt that I am a poor, marginalized loser! and laugh, and get them laughing. I also still read the Globe and Mail, but only on weekends. It is huge and expensive. Otherwise I feel little resemblance to the person I was sixteen years ago, though of course I am the same person. I just feel stronger and better about things, is all, and feel a lot freer from the kind of baggage I was then writing about. Maybe the wisdom of age? Let's hope so!