adam_r_stephens

This is what my Monday, May 10, 2010 felt like:

"For three and a half hours I stared at the wall, curled in a ball, rocking. My mind went around in circles, trying to come up with some way out of this nightmare. There was no escape, no reprieve. I could see only one possible end looming darkly in my future. The only question was how many other people would be hurt before I reached it." - Excerpt from Twilight by Stephenie Meyer, Page 425

Yeah, pretty much. Unfortunately, that feeling still slightly lingers. I don't understand what the hell's happening to me. It's as though I'm slowly detiorating from within. Half of me still yearns to die, but my more sensible, perhaps caring half bids me think of the three small threads to life that remain. "Brian, Brandy, Griffin," it whispers menacingly in my ear. Even writing has become blase for me.

Every night, I ache. Only a stuffed lion keeps me from crying myself to sleep. Fucking stuffed lion; precious stuffed lion. Why do you mean so much to me? What the hell does life mean for me? Why, after having found such pure satisfaction with the events seizing control of my life, has this stark depression suddenly invaded?

If I don't kill myself swiftly, I will slowly and painfully perish. I just don't know which option feels better right now.

Children know life best, I think.

            Why do we convolute life as we get older? Is it because we view life more honestly? Is it, perhaps, because life actually becomes more complex as we take on more responsibility? Or maybe, it is a combination of the two. However honest I believe this to be, I also think the reason life becomes stuffier as we age is because we make it so.

            Let me explain. As humans, we have a single rudimentary flaw. Imperfection. And yet, all of us, in some capacity or another desire the opposite. Despite what anyone says, the reason we work is not as simple as “I need a paycheck.” This may be the fundamental reason; it is not the principal reason. Something within us all, whether minute or weighty, stirs like disturbed waters, begging us to choose a profession we enjoy. Why is this? Why is emphasis put on “joyful” occupation, especially if all we need is “a paycheck?” Comment on how much sense that makes. I dare you.

            Perfection is the key. It’s what we strive for, it’s why we live, it’s the basis of religion, philosophy, and even disbelief. It’s why psychologists remain employed, it’s why we cry ourselves to sleep at night, it’s the foundation of all disharmony and unhappiness. Why, then, do we long for something so profoundly moving and irritating? Something so cold, but so necessary? It is murder, it is agony, it is excellence—it is stupid. And yet, we need it.

            Why?

            We yearn for perfection, I think, because it is the only thing we cannot achieve on our own. This is where the belief in otherworldly creatures and beings comes from. Be it Krishna, Allah, or Christ, humans never cease to be inspired by the belief in a “higher power.” Who can deny it? Even atheists must believe in God to deny Him, yes? Or at least a form of a god. These gods, whether their deeds be dastardly or not, have what we want. Regardless of their actions, gods are perfect. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect age—or at least a younger appearance; less wrinkles—perfect knowledge, perfect wisdom. This is what gives these gods their power—or at least, the power we ascribe to them.

            Our admiration of their perfection varies. Perfection wets some people’s whistles. For others, it drives them. Hitler was a man searching for perfection, as was Julius Caesar. Both led hideous lives—as well as hideous deaths. Moses desired perfection, as did Judas. One loved Christ, the other betrayed Him. Perfectionists come in all different shapes, sizes, and colors. So do humans.

            Because the two are inseparable.

            Children understand this. So what do they do? They, too, strive for perfection. Though I seem to condemn perfection, it is not my purpose. What I’m saying is that children understand the method to living life—the method to striving for perfection. Unlike us, a child refuses to struggle for perfection. If they get it right, they get it right. And they are very proud of their work. If it is wrong, then it is wrong. What, then, is their attitude? Better luck next time? No. Their minds stray far from it—the imperfection of it and all—until the next time they confront the issue. How many of us do the same? Not I, certainly. And many of you I could name offhand who don’t proceed this way either.

            What is remarkable about this? Simple—there is no connectivity between perfection and imperfection. In a child’s mind, the two are polar opposites. Whatever is perfect is perfect, whatever is imperfect is imperfect. And this, I wager, is how it should be. The reason adults are capable of making even the simplest situations complicated is because we bring to them every imperfection we’ve ever encountered before, and then attempt to render them all perfect with one simple act of perfection. That’s like writing ten imperfect sentences, but making the final sentence so perfect, it renders the others’ imperfection void. How silly is that?

            Each event should be individualized. Let the imperfections of your life remain. Make perfection of that which can be perfected—one mistake at a time.

            It is this blending of imperfection with perfection that nearly cost me my life yesterday morning. Something I did—something that’s followed me throughout my ENTIRE life (this is no exaggeration)—and the supposed repercussions of that event forced me to consider suicide. More than consider, I would say. The note had been written, as had my will. All I needed was a weapon, a tool—a means of escape. When most people hear of suicide attempts, I think their automatic assumption is that the person was thoroughly mistreated, a product of an inhumanly unjust life, and therefore desired removal from life.

            That had no bearing whatsoever on my thought pattern. I knew people loved me, I knew people would miss me. I envisioned my best friend, Brian Anderson, discovering my bloodied body on his kitchen floor, the weapon of choice lying somewhere close—a kitchen knife. I pictured various people who’d last seen me alive, streaming before my casket, bawling for the life they felt bore so much potential. “Cut down in the flower of his youth,” they would repeat. Cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, church members, co-workers, etc. Then I thought of my brother and my parents.

            Only then did I think, “Perhaps I should do this quickly—and alone. Like an overdose or something.” A sad truth: I wanted people to find me dead. I didn’t care how I would pain them, maybe even cripple them. I just wanted to die. I couldn’t bear to live any longer. All because I wanted to make perfect that which cannot be perfected. I wanted to perfect the past, undo all I’d done, be normal and different straightaway.

            This is impossible. I knew that—that’s why I yearned to die. So, why am I still here?

            As Griffin and Brandy already know, it is Brian who talked me out of it. The conversation went in tangles for a good while. He’d urge me against suicide, I’d push for it. There were excuses made, some with solid reasons backing them. Ultimately, though, it was a single statement that froze my thought process—and forced me to tears for probably the thousandth time that morning. He needed me—it was that simple. As my best friend, he said, I was needed in order for him to succeed in life. Imagine the power behind that statement for just a moment.

            My best friend needs me—alive, functional, and well. Call me a sissy, but every time I think of this, it nearly incapacitates me with its beauty. More modernly worded: it was EPIC!

            Did I know this? Could I not sense that I was necessary for another person’s survival (or at least, happiness)? Perhaps, maybe so. I don’t think it’s too terribly arrogant to assume someone close to you needs you. But who the hell thinks like that? I didn’t, at least not in full. So to hear it come from the person who actually needs you in the moment you’re concerned with no one but yourself and your own wellbeing—WOW!

            Honestly, there’s still a bit of rawness to the event, like the flesh hanging from a flayed carcass. The emotion rests dormant, but is strong. The best reference: think of Sauron as the Eye. I need prayer, perhaps counseling. What I definitely need is time and therapy.

            Thankfully, writing provides both. I’ve said it a million times already, but I must thank him again. Thanks, Brian Anderson. I need you too. =]

Wasted Potential n. 1. Any mass of unused talent or intelligence 2. Talent or intelligence

negatively utilized

            Last night, I spoke with my best friend about a comment he’d left on Facebook. It was a textversation, so my evening was pretty abuzz with constant phone vibrations. We were discussing a term he’d used called “wasted potential.” Further contemplation into this term forced me to realize something. Potential is only wasted upon someone’s death—because that’s the final moment potential breathes.

            Let me explain. Throughout our lives, we’re told by parents, teachers, friends, etc. we have potential to do or be anything we could possibly imagine. Don’t get me wrong, I’m gung-ho for that kind of encouragement, but that just doesn’t work for everybody. At least, not when simply spoken. Take someone age 21 with an intelligence level advanced at least ten years but with the emotional psychology of a ten-year-old. To them, this concept of potential is warping. They are lost, having no more idea than a child how they’re to achieve their wildest dream. Because to them, their wildest dream is fantasy, impossible to unearth.

            That’s where this term “wasted potential” finds birth.

            Unfortunately, humans can be quite brutal to each other. In my experience, those most cruel to you are those who should be most loving. Those same folks who encouraged you throughout rough times in your life or as you grew older suddenly turn cold. It’s an easy mistake to make; I’ve done it myself just recently. You look at a person and rationalize. “They’re adults now,” you say, “There comes a time when a person just needs to get over themselves! They need to stop letting their past control them. I’ve had a bad life, you don’t see me moping around, whining about it. What’s their excuse?”

            Understandable sentiments, true even. But can I be perfectly honest here? (Heck, it’s my blog! Why not?) There’s no notion more selfish than this. Because what it boils down to is: how much are you willing to sacrifice to ensure this person succeeds as you see that they can?

            Let’s face it: parents aren’t perfect. And unfortunately, as society worsens, so do parents. Most people you meet nowadays are devilishly scarred, scarred beyond all reason. The worst part about it is that parents don’t often recognize their own blunders—even if their own lives are just as blighted as their children’s. Therefore, we have people walking around in the flesh of an adult, with the intelligence of an adult, the experience of an adult (maybe even ten adults), and bearing all the responsibilities of an adult who’ve never matured past childhood.

            It is people like these for whom puberty becomes more awkward, high school is a nightmare, the idea of sex comes from desperation rather than pleasure, relationships with anybody (friend or mate) are ultra-convoluted. Why? Because you literally have a child living inside an adult’s body. Adding to this horror are parents, teachers, friends with this “wasted potential” attitude. “You can do better than that! What’s wrong with you? You’re 21 years old and all you wanna do is write stupid stories and play video games! Video games are for children! GROW UP!”

            Therefore, I have a counter for such disease-speaking “wasted potential” pathogens! That means you parent, teacher, friend (at least those of you who speak nothing but negativity). Note: I’m not speaking to ALL parents, teachers, and friends. I’ve got plenty of supporters among this category who’ve nothing but encouragement and positive advice for me.

            My counter is this: instead of discouraging the person, why don’t you devise a solution for them? In case you don’t get it, I’ll break it down for you. A mathematician looks at a problem that, for reasons undeterminable, confuses him. What does he do? Seeks a solution. As any rudimentary mathematician will tell you, it often takes a hell of a lot of work to solve a confusing problem. This applies seismically to the underdeveloped adult yearning for a change in life.

            Let it be known I make no excuses. Adulthood is adulthood, regardless of your emotional psychology. You’ve just got to face it. However, those of us stronger in motivation must use that to increase not just ourselves but others also. If you know someone with “wasted potential”, go to them, come to understand their life and the reasons they suffer, and seek a solution. Take them under your wing, push them to new heights, mentor them. If this person hasn’t chosen a major, pick for them that which you know will suit them well—because they’re most likely not going to do it on their own. Drag them to the office with you and sign them up for classes. Sacrifice nights of rest to study that horrific chemistry exam with them. Give of your energy and strength to aid in their cause.

            As one would raise a child, raise their “wasted potential.” It will undoubtedly require every fiber of life you’ve not dedicated to enhancing your own circumstances. But these are your fellow humans; you have duty to them, because in some sense you understand them. If not, then you’ve intentionally chosen to be a heartless monster, an animal, an ignorant villain.

            This is the duty of a Christian. This is what Christ means in Matthew 28 when He says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you…” Growing is essential for any of us to succeed, so that our potential might be unveiled.

            Some just get theirs later than others. And in my opinion, there’s no cut-off date for growth—so long as a person lives.