Tag Archives: raise a white flag

When Is It Time to Leave the Party?

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“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”  —Sylvia Plath (The Bell Jar)

Freedom. Free will. Agency over our own journey. Personal preference. Knowing when to say when. 

Why are the fundamental, core decisions about how and when we choose to exit our experience on this planet restricted by laws, moral codes, religious beliefs, or societal pressure?

We never seem to shut up about liberty, independence, and the right to live as we choose. Yet, when the topic of dictating how and when we finally raise that white flag and throw our towel into the center of the ring arises, we are met with nothing but restrictions, moral shaming, and attempts at obstruction. Where’s the autonomy?

It doesn’t feel very tolerant or compassionate to prevent someone in pain from trying to end their agony. 

Medical vs mental. Is one more precious or protected? I have suffered debilitating effects from both sides of that coin. But differentiating physical torture endured during sleepless days and nights (feeling like your head will literally explode, locked in the vice-like grip of unabating pressure) from the runaway, insomniac thoughts leading you down abandoned psychological train tracks into some nightmarish wasteland of fabricated conjecture and endlessly cycling projection is nearly impossible when you’re in the grips of either scenario…and your body and mind can’t distinguish between the two varieties of distress.

Dr. Kevorkian was a goddamn saint…and even he faced unceasing ire and interminable scrutiny from a population (and legal system) unwilling to accept that sometimes people are at the very end of their frayed rope. They should not be forced to tolerate unyielding torment simply because archaic laws are chaining them to the walls of their pain. 

So what does that say about psychological or emotional duress? Since the misery we can clearly see is met with scrutiny and a reluctance to permit any justifiable attempts at cessation, there is an exponential level of resistance to suicide and someone’s personal choice to dismount the merry-go-round of heartache and trauma. For some reason, the deterioration of the body does not hold the same weight or importance as the degeneration of the mind.

So, when do we leave the party? If we want to close the chapter on our own terms, we need to be okay with the roadblocks, objections, and disapproval. This world doesn’t want to end our pain. It wants to control our actions. If there is no fear of what’s waiting on the other side, then there is no reason not to proceed.

When that pot of hurt finally boils over, and there’s no way to clean the mess, an Irish goodbye doesn’t seem like the worst exit strategy.

Adolescence Interrupted

A Grind Against the Grain

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“Get your money in when you have the best of it. Protect it when you don’t. Don’t give anything away. That’s how I paid my way through half of law school. A true grinder. You see, I learned how to win a little at a time. But finally, I’ve learned this: if you’re too careful, your whole life can become a fuckin’ grind.”  —Rounders (1998)

The daily grind vs effortless ease.

Push against the grain or go with the flow?

We are constantly confronted by the question of which path will ultimately lead to some semblance of peace and happiness. Play it safe or swing for the fences? Security or scintillation? Gravity or grandeur?

As a creative person who lived for a long time among a sea of artists, performers, and divergent thinkers, I watched the exhilaration born from imaginative achievement as often as I witnessed the crushing weight of defeat when those targets missed their marks.

There is an inherent “survivor hardwiring” in the bones of those who are willing to literally lay everything on the line for the chance to blaze their own path and express what’s simmering at the core of their soul. The idea of any looming extinguisher rarely factors into their plans or motivations. If those inevitable roadblocks were visible at the starting line, the meritocratic marathon would never begin.

But there comes a time when those ruby slippers are sent back to a black-and-white closet to live out their remaining years far from the Technicolor glory day glow of center-stage spotlights and endless applause.

Is it white flag acquiescence? Dour defeatism? Or is there a certain level of relief knowing that some steady predictability can often fill a void we may not have known even existed?

There is a consistent comfort in certainty, even if the adrenaline rush of diving into the dark without any knowledge of the depth pales in comparison.

At least there’s less chance of impact when we realize the pool has been drained.

Adolescence Interrupted

Twelve Years

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12years212 years. 144 months. 624 weeks. 4,380 days.

105,120 hours. 6,307,200 minutes.

These are much more than numbers. With each rotation around the sun, I’m reminded of my station. Every year is a bookmark in a story I never want to finish. These tallies are visual representations of the time spent away from risk, pain, and peril. They are universal stamps of approval, affirming that I made the right decision to carry on with this crazy experiment called life.

It would have been easy to wave that white flag during the downpour. When every ounce of optimism was depleted, when every cell screamed at me to stop, and when the self-inflicted psychological torture far exceeded any physical pain, I could have stepped off the train. I didn’t have to subject my body and brain to an uncertain future on a path laden with land mines.

The impetus to fight instinct came from those hidden recesses we haven’t quite been able to classify. It’s grit and gumption mixed with tireless tenacity, and the sum total of those efforts is twelve years of health, hope, and possibility.

Perspective is a funny thing. A life-or-death seesaw frames the simplest joys as monumental, celebratory occasions. Laughable moments of triumph—like walking unassisted in a hallway or finishing a full meal—demand a chorus of applause. Existence reverts to its most basic form. There is an appreciation for every waking second without pain.

The further we travel from that precarious road, the more comfortable we become taking everything for granted. Health becomes something expected, and pain takes its residence in layers of memory. Stress is assigned to daily worry, future projections, or mundane tasks on infinite checklists. The brain is designed to recover from previous trauma, so it feels easy to forget what is truly important…until we are reminded again.

I rode that boomerang for a long time. As difficult as things have been in this carnivorous city, and as much as my time is occupied by the weight of wonder, there is no comparison to the very real and immediate threat of losing everything.

So I am grateful for all twelve of those planetary revolutions, and I will continue my search for greater peace of mind inside that perspective.

Adolescence Interrupted