Someone posted a while a go that life is hard and they wished it was easy, like it used to be.
I’m not sure it ever was. I think we just lose our rose-colored glasses as we age. We start to see the world for what it is rather than the way we hoped or wanted it to be. Let’s face it. Life is messy. At times, really messy. And just when you think you’ve finally got everything figured out, you get an unexpected curveball thrown your way.
When you swing and miss, it’s easy to blame life for throwing it your way. But good pitches and bad have been coming our way all our lives; we just used to be better at hitting them into the stands with greater regularity.
I’ve been swinging at a few air balls as of late. Yes, life continues to mix up its throws, from an unexpected car bill to the recent news that my daughter and family are moving away.
It didn’t help that I was already down on the count. My mom’s death was a definite curveball. Oh sure, I knew it was going to get thrown at some point, but preparing for that at bat is damned near impossible. Now, with great finality, I have no living grandparents or parents in my life.
When my father died when I was 24, I thought I handled that toss well. Emphasis on “thought” here. I didn’t. I was just too busy living looking for more pitches to realize how that curve affected me. I was able to remain in denial for a long time, largely because I found lots of other shiny objects to keep me entertained and more important, distracted.
There seem to be fewer shiny objects these days. Instead, I have my eye on the ball more than I ever had. I keep swinging, but I seem to miss more than I used to.
Of course, that’s not really true. Back in the day, I just wasn’t concerned about whiffing when I was at bat because I had an endless number of at-bats ahead of me.
At some point, probably around the time that I finally admitted that my hairline was receding and it wasn’t just a bad haircut, I discovered that I had a limited number of at-bats to look forward to.
I don’t have the luxury of knowing how many more I get before I’m cut from the team, but I know somewhere out there that my playing days will be over and I won’t even have the pleasure of striking out.
Which brings me to my daughter. As I said, life is hard. It was never easy. And it’s certainly never easy to deal with some of the crap sent over the plate. Such is the news last week that my darling daughter, her husband and two kids are leaving. Hubby got a nice job promotion, which means a move to Austin, Texas in the coming weeks.
Strike! Curveball.
Strike! Abandonment Issues.
Damn! I’m two down on the count and I didn’t even notice I was supposed to be at the plate. I thought I had all those abandonment issues from my younger days under control.
And yet, they reared their ugly heads all over again this past weekend. I slipped into a bit of a funk – I would say borderline depression, though I’m not sure which side of the border I was on – and life seemed so daunting I didn’t even want to take a swing.
Not good timing. I was set to perform. But there I was, alternately stepping up to the plate and then calling a timeout as I went from one extreme to the other. I just couldn’t stand another at bat.
I finally snapped on Sunday morning. I just felt so alone. Yes, I know I have Kat. And yes, she knows all about this. It all came to a head in a few texts between us, me letting her know that I was still alive, she being tremendously glad I was. (I should mention that I wasn’t suicidal – just uncharacteristically went for an early morning walk by myself for a few hours.)
The good news is that I knew what was causing this funk. It was the old abandonment issues all over again. But the truth of the matter is, I’m not being abandoned. My daughter and family aren’t leaving because of me, but because it’s a great career opportunity.
It helps to have Kat, of course. And my son. And my very close friends. But it also helps to have a healthy dose of reality. Life is messy. Life is hard. It’s always been hard. Outside of those seemingly carefree days of my youth, it’s always been that way.
I guess I was just in better condition back then. I could swing endlessly at any pitch that came my way, including those that were so high and inside that they almost took my head off. Still I kept swinging, sending some shots into the stands, others deep right, others still, popups shallow left, an easy out.
But I never stopped swinging. When I got up this morning, I thought about swinging at some more. It’s still way too early to hit the showers. There are more balls to hit. I’m sure I can still hit a few to the fence, maybe one or two past the warning track and over the wall.
I know longer believe life was ever easy. And I don’t think it ever will be in the days to come. It’s just the game we find ourselves in. We have no control over the pitcher or the balls that are sent over the plate for us to hit. Hopefully, we’ve gotten just a bit better at knowing which balls to swing at and which ones should just pass us by. We don’t need to swing at every damned ball that comes our way. It just takes way too much energy these days, no matter how we want to show the pitcher that we’ve still got the stuff.
I think I’ll let this one go right on by.
In the Emerald City, still staring down the pitcher,
– Robb