The Mercy Blog: The Split Man Speaks

There’s always some ledge I seem to be standing on. Some ledge of extreme human possibility or capacity.

 

At times, it’s a wonderful place to stand, when I’m thoroughly engrossed in a play, or a poem, and I’m truly making that effort to connect to the writing, to the theme, to the universality of it, and ultimately, myself, right?, but there are other times, when all it does is remind me of how terrified I am of heights: literal and those of accomplishment, or rather, the fear of them.

 

I hate to admit this about myself, but I never let anything go. I never forget. Oh, I’ve certainly pushed things down, and buried them under vodka tonics or mint juleps or some other romanticized definition of alcoholism…there’s a long line of that in my family, both the Jew and the Christian sides, but it resurfaces, and often, when it does, it brings with it a vehemence of regret.

 

I obsess.  That’s my confession: I obsess. When I am wronged, or hurt, or disappointed, I obsess over the nature not just of how it came to be that I was on the receiving end of such, but that I could ever let anyone into my life that would do those things to me.  That I would attract and encourage those people to belong in my world. I always thought I knew better than that.  Pretentious, huh?

 

And so, now, though, it’s probably always been this way, I don’t enjoy being close to people, letting them belong, so to speak. I struggle with it, despite being gregarious and generous: but then again, being and meaning are so many worlds apart, it’s always amazed me how similarly they can seem, how easily they fool us, or me, at least.  It’s not that I hate people; on the contrary, I love them too deeply, even the bad ones; love doesn’t categorize, but I do. And please, I’m not trying to say I’m a martyr to any concept of love; I’ve just grown tired of trying to hide my truth behind clichés or fanciful descriptions of it, or my issue with it.

 

An issue which is actually, quite simple: in order for me to accept love, I have to believe in a thing called compromise.

 

And I don’t, not anymore. It’s not about sharing, per se. It’s about loss of power. I don’t believe compromise truly exists because one of the two involved will come away with a little more leverage than the other, and I so often sacrificed, or felt that I was, that, now, I don’t want to come away with any less than I bring. I want the table to remain upright, on all its legs, equal and open.  The minute I see someone put a sugar packet under the table leg, I’m out of there.

 

It’s been almost a year since I made a fool of myself by loving someone. I cannot wait for the moment when that click occurs, and I forget. But, and this is where it’s nearly Sartre – I will never reach that place. I’ll just allow it to become a part of myself, as if it’d only been waiting for the invitation to settle down…after, I did. After I quit fighting it because, after all, wasn’t a part of me, wasn’t something I needed to learn and know about myself, wrapped up so tightly in its pain, its mire?

 

That drives me crazy, believing that, and not wanting to.  I’m a split man. The last thing I want is to sit here and think about that time in my life, and other times – not just being in love, but not having it as a child, or not wanting it as a son, or not understanding it as a grown man – those are all bad days, when I was so oblivious to the fact that I was betraying myself, and that is unforgivable, at any age, especially when you realize it enough to name it.  

 

But here’s the other part of this dichotomy: I’ve also, as of late, been wrestling with the concept of mercy, of absolute clemency, of the opposite side of power, surrender.  Surrender is actually the greater of the two, I think. Power doesn’t require strength, only fear. Surrender needs the strength of Sampson; surrender, I suppose, fears its strength, when it truly understands what that strength belies. Perhaps, that’s why so few ever surrender; they confuse shame and pride with strength and character.

 

I’ve never had such a rebirth of struggle in my life until I started to think about mercy. The real irony is that I’ve forgiven the people I needed to, I really have, honestly; I just haven’t been able to forgive myself…that’s almost a bit too familiar, isn’t it?, but no one’s going to laugh at this particular cliché because it still rings too true to too many. I can’t seem to accept mercy…so then, can I really give it? Can I bestow it on someone else if I can’t accept it myself?

 

I’m not living yet the life I want. But, god, I’m getting closer because for once, I’m trying to get there and I’m remaining aware, and for once, I’m trying to move all the things in my way, instead of walking around them, things I see very plainly, but lack the mercy to move, for the time being. At least, perhaps, being able to see them now is a step forward. 

 

Believe me, guilt doesn’t weigh nearly as heavy as mercy.  And until I balance that out, I’m afraid I won’t be able to pick up the scales, of justice, of peace, of you name it. Who could.

 

The difference is I’m making the effort…with mercy, a bit of surrender, and a firm hand: I’m not letting go of the scales, not this time, no matter what.  

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