Legendary Poetry: In Latin we call it Dolor

In Latin we call it Dolor

I look around the masses, the groups, the cliques, the couples, the individuals and notice what appears to be their fair lives. Lives so unlike the existence that I endure. So many people. And yet I am in pain. So much time. And yet I am in pain. So many places. And yet I am in pain. So many opportunities. And yet I am in pain.

So many pains that I can't count them all. I live with pain. I die with pain. I go to sleep after succumbing at the exact time when my pain releases me from it's iron grip. I awake to the screaming alarm clock that is my pain, when it is good and ready to begin tormenting me again.

I look around and see all the happy faces enjoying their lives, having lively conversations, enjoying their time together. What a happy life they all seem to have. Seem to have, I'm told. Not me. I seem to have none of those fine things in my miserable life. Some tell me that I don't really understand that they all may be troubled like me and that I shouldn't be jealous by what I see. That they all experience just as much pain as I have. That if I truly knew these people I would get off of my high horse and stop being such a baby. After all, if you would only walk a mile in their shoes, you wouldn't be so jealous as you are.

You see, they tell me, you are the real problem here. That's why you don't have any friends, that's why you are so miserable. Let's get down to brass tacks (oh yeah, I think, if use some ancient phrase they used to say in the 1950's, I'll listen all the more carefully now that "brass tacks" are involved), everything is going to be alright. You're making a mountain out of a mole hill (yeah, keep those out-of-date phrases coming. You're really reaching me. I really dig it-should I use a 1960's phrase to show you how "hip" I am?). You're blowing things out of proportion (oh yeah, you really got me now), things aren't as bad as you think they are. I'll pray for you. Goodbye brother.

Wow, I'm a changed man now! I really had a "come to Jesus" moment. Now that I think about it, things ARE so much better you fucking hyprocrite. How dare you think that your superficial platitudes would somehow comfort me and remove all my depression, my anger, my frustration, my anxeities, that it would soothe my mental illness and help me cope with my bipolar disorder so much better. Thank you, sir, may I have another?

I don't thank you for anything! ANYTHING! I'm no better off now than I was before you talked to me. Actually, I'm worse off because now because I feel guilty for feeling bad. Great! I have another disorder to cope with. Maybe there's a pill for that. Doctor, doctor! Please help me with my new disorder. I need something to help me with the pain. No, not my regular pain. A NEW pain and I don't know what to do about it. Please, there must be some sort of medication in either your educated brain or in that book you refer to. Please, I will do anything. ANYTHING! Just give me that scrip and I'll be on my way. (For another drink, I whisper silently as I move on with the paper in my hand that will get me that drug that I never needed in the first place.)

So let's have a drink! Cheers! Now that I have a reason to drink, who am I to NOT take advantage of this wonderful occasion. Of course, any reason is a reason to drink in my book. I drink when I am happy. I drink when I'm sad. I drink when I am in pain. I drink when I am in pain. I drink when I am in pain. I drink when I am in pain. Fuck it, I am in too much pain to drink. I hate drinking anyway. Let's have a smoke. Maybe a cigarette will ease that which causes my eyes to tear, my body to tremble, my heart to ache, my mind to fail, my soul to moan.

Just chill, some say. Hang in there, others tell me. I'll pray for you, the religious encourage. While those words offer me an amount of encouragement, there are times when the sting of my pain is so great that even the wise counsel of a saint would not assuage me. Sill others, remain silent. Why is that? Are they so insensitive to my lot? I am sure that some are; surely, there are some that could care less about me unless I have some happy news that falls inline with their current perspective or outlook. Yet there are others who remain silent because they just don't care.

But I am convinced that there must be others like me who remain silent due to the fact that in revealing my own pain, the secret of their pain may potentially be revealed, that the revelation of this secret would somehow harm them in some way because sometimes it is easier to suffer in silence than to have to reveal the fact that you are in pain and have to listen to the platitudes of religious, pious, or secular well-meaning folk who offer poor advice to people in need.

And yet, people with pain like me endure, even as we smile and receive both wise and poor advice from people who care for us to one degree or another, either to a small degree or larger. But even a small degree is large if I you think about it. And talking with anyone, whether I think that they care about me or not (and chances are they care about me), is better medicine than even the best doctor could offer me.

As I consider these things my bitterness and anger evaporates into thin air and my pain seems tolerable for once in my life. A call from a good friend pleasantly interrupts me. Perhaps I will enjoy even more relief from my now declining pain and so I go on with a wide smile on my face and new found hope to give me joy anew. And I bury the pain deep within for another day.