Unwrapping A Suspect Package
I truly believe that each of us are given gifts and talents when we arrive here for our journey here on earth. For over 50 years, I wondered what my gift might possibly be, because from my perspective, I certainly didn’t see one. I didn’t have a penchant for watercolor paintings or charcoal drawings, etc., so I thought my ‘gift’ might simply be organizing tasks, cleaning up work processes, etc.—things I successfully parlayed into a ‘career’ with a benefit of a steady paycheck that supported my addiction to food, clothing, and shelter.
It wasn’t until my husband left me out of the clear blue sky [after 29 years of what I thought was a happy marriage] that my true ‘gift’ began to emerge. A ‘gift’ that arrived on my doorstep wrapped in a box of deep despair, intractable grief, and tied up with a huge red bow of major hopelessness and depression. That gift was a robust sense of self-effacing humor.
Most people who had the opportunity to observe me through my horrible despair and hopelessness phase [i.e., people who haven’t seen me in a while], might certainly furrow their brows and scratch their heads about that statement. I’ll explain.
Over the past few years, I’ve written a plethora of essays in other blogs about the intricate and sordid details of the circumstances causing my depression and hopelessness. It was profound. So profound in fact, that most people did not think I’d survive it alive. Many people thought that I’d literally die of a broken heart—if such a thing is even possible. My point here is not to rehash/revisit those details, but to provide a frame of reference regarding my subsequent ‘gifting’.
The Cliff Notes
The point I want to make here is that once the idiocy of my grieving over someone who cared nothing for me became such an in-my-face revelation, it became wildly humorous to me in it’s ridiculousness. That fact then set off a series of mental processes, sending every creative process within my being into hyperdrive.
It was on! My latent humor gene had been activated. It guzzled two Red Bulls, jumped astraddle The Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse and began riding bareback across my keyboard.
With fresh inspiration and a new light-hearted outlook, I wrote furiously—spitting out essays like a Heidelberg printing press before a magazine deadline. With the help of all that supercharged energy, I freely expressed my humorous sarcasm and pent up feelings about my husband, ‘the other woman’, and all ‘those people‘.
Snarks poured out of me—spilling all over the floor like marbles rolling off a tilted table. The no-holds-barred ferocity with which I penned my satire not only made me laugh but it embarrassed me quite a bit as well. What would my dear late mother think of what I was writing and saying about my ex? No doubt she’d tell me in her southern drawl, ‘Now, honey, that’s not nice.”
My mind then went back to a comment made to me by one of my last employers’ professional advisors. She was a CPA who’d been cc’d on some of the the documentation I had to put together for the doctors for whom I worked at the time. She quipped to me that should I ever find myself unemployed, I might want to consider starting my own business writing poison pen letters for other people because I really singed eyebrows and called a spade and spade when I documented what I really thought.
I had a chuckle as I recalled my ex husband once telling me: “I hope you never write me a letter, because once you get behind the keyboard and start saying what you would never say to my face, you scare me—and I’m fearless”.
[Eye roll.] Ha! That statement is funny in and of itself. My ex was anything but fearless. Fearless people do not act like cowards. Fearless people do not ghost long term relationships. But I digress …
I do have to admit that a number of my essays came pretty close to being poison pen letters on first pass. I have long since turned down the vitriol. I have since taken all those essays down from the internet—opting to write humor from a better, more good natured fun-loving place. It all comes down to this … At the end of the day, “It is what it is” as they say.
So, I had to cry, snot, and blow for a while to see it. My husband and the people that once caused me such angst, really did me a favor—they helped me find my gift. The Bard said that we all suffer ‘slings and arrows’ … so why not laugh about it and go on?
Besides, we need something to justify those gray hairs that we all get as we age, right? I know I’ve earned mine. And you?
Ah, it’s all good. I’m a firm believer that even the adversities in our lives eventually work out for our good.