When I was very young, I wanted something to fight for, a cause. Growing up in a basically single parent household, I saw the jerk my father was and how oppressive our culture has been to women. Growing up in the South in the midst of the Civil Rights movement, I came to see the unbelievable injustices to African Americans. Schools were integrating in the small city where I lived, and this caused new tensions. There was much I did not understand, but at least I knew there was much I did not understand.
Growing up, I wanted to be a hero, have a cause to fight for, be the underdog who fought the good fight, always on the side of truth and justice. I just wanted to be the good guy. It looked easy in the movies, in books, even scripture. Inspiring, uplifting, etc. And, it looked easy enough on TV – everything got settled within an hour, and there were commercial breaks to go pee.
Hokey, eh? But that was me. Always the pleaser and the caretaker, I wanted to do the “right thing.” Look, I’m no hero, no good guy, no crusader for truth and justice.
So, my “cause celebre” is a fight for my life. Not some one else’s cause I can join in on as I feel like it. Not some distant goal to help others along, but me. And yet I am stuck in a closet that does not let out the sound of screaming. The frustration is draining and killing. But that’s what holding out and holding on are about, aren’t they?
One should be quite careful what one prays for, eh? I think I got what I wanted, just not what I expected.