Burning bridges
We all know the variations on the theme: Look before; No point crying over; Don’t burn your. All the tales of caution and careful consideration. To keep silent. To pretend a normality so that the world does not fall apart. To calculate the consequences. To acknowledge that there will, inevitably, be consequences. But in this new universe I have lately found myself wandering, every instinct nudges me away from caution, to burn bridges and leap into the unknown.
And there it is. The perverse, the reverse, the inside out, the often reckless, these are the common facts in my universe. It shouldn’t surprise me at all. This unsettling, this turning away from the safe and sweet, this outpouring of rage has been coming for some time.
The first time I tested the new theory and threw caution to the winds was literally just that – a skydive from a tiny seven seater airplane, strapped to a diminutive Asterix look-alike instructor. Physical proximity and expert reassurance apart, from a few thousand feet up it felt lonely as hell. Eyes streaming, throat burning, falling too fast to think. It was an impulsive experiment – to test the limits of my physical courage. Those few minutes of free fall showed me bits and pieces of my body and my brain that could use some hard work. And there was one unexpected reward: I can’t claim it was instantaneous, but the fog in which I’d been living began to lift in the aftermath. That crack of the parachute opening, the sudden silence, 360° vision, clarity. QED.
I stumbled into another experiment from this alternate universe recently. This felt still lonelier. No rush of adrenaline, no cheeks flapping in the screaming wind. Instead of clenching my insides and praying to the gods of gravity, this second leap demanded an unfurling of memory from deep within. Letting the trauma wash one last time over me and then feeling it wash away finally. But like the first time, when the falling was done, when the parachute was unfurled, when the book was written, the story of sadness and loss transferred from the endless loop in my brain into words, there was the same quiet, the same calm I had felt watching the earth curve away on the horizon. The air is still, there is silence all around, and all I can do is give thanks for the chances that led me to this moment. And try my best not to panic. Diving out of that sorry excuse for a plane had nothing on writing this book.
All the reserves I had went into the writing. The book inside my head was safe. Out here on paper, it is dry tinder, waiting to catch a flame. It took everything to write it. And now the universe says, offer it up. Make the sacrifice. Lay your thumping, beating heart out on the line. I wrote the book, I want to whine. The answer is unequivocal and snappy: Not enough. Now you must set it all on fire.
When I sat down to write about my family and our collective trauma, I had no intention of burning the bridge of ties and relationships, bloody or not. It happened anyway. There is no going back. And this raging universe asks: why should you? The bridge was broken a lifetime ago. A bridge that promised happy endings in general turned out to lead to nowhere in particular. It spanned a sluggish life of regrets. The burning was clean, the smoke washed away along with the slush. Left behind is my story, out of my memory, relived every day inside my head. Here it is: hurting, hurtful, true and truthful.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all clarity and light at the end of the tunnel. There is doubt and frustration and often this is how the conversation inside my head goes:
‘Forgiveness and redemption are around the corner, they said. Peace of mind and ghosts laid to rest too. I wrote the book, didn’t I? I got the words out, the catchphrases, the hooks. People need to read this, they said. This is a book of hope and promise and of better things to come. I get it. I wrote the damned book.
Who will read it? A father confronted by his inaction? A brother who hides his face from the world? A mother lost to pride? A family that conspires to silence? Other lost souls? Friends and lovers?
I am a sister. I am an addict. Grief is my drug. Regret, remorse, guilt the fix. It sounds so cool. So brave, they’ll say. So fearless to confront this. I will be modest. I will thank them, I will laugh nervously. But inside, I know. This is not over. The book solves nothing. It’s back to the thirteen steps. Each day is the first one. Acknowledge the addiction. Put yourself in the care of a higher power. I wish I believed in one.’
That conversation used to be one without a resolution, turning on itself, eating its tail. In my fifth decade, I caught a break. Just when it seemed I was forever destined to whine about my old hurts, and run on an endless wheel of regret, I discovered a new universe, and we all know from popular sci-fi that a new universe means a new you. I’m not quite sure if I was pushed or sucked in but I do know I was forced to step away from all things familiar, take a chance, open my mind to the possibilities of change. In rare moments of serendipity, that chance presented itself. Twelve years ago it was a gaping hole in a tiny plane, these days it is disguised as a broken bridge. The serendipity lies in jumping out of the plane or striking a flame to burn that useless bridge down. Lucidity will follow.
In that new universe I am still discovering, I can turn back one last time to my fifteen year old self. She cannot hear my voice, urging her to take a chance, to shut her eyes for a moment and take that leap. She waits at the bridge, hoping for some temporary relief from the grief, once it is crossed. She does not know yet that it is broken. She has a way to go before the rage inside will spark a flame. Ultimately the bridge will burn but she has no inkling yet of the beautiful freedom it will bring. I watch her from a great distance, I wish each moment to come in her life to be of clarity and truth. Then I turn away and look ahead. My time to take chances is here and now. Now is my moment to wander away from the old ways. After all, not all those who wander are lost. JRR Tolkein speaks for me.
That fifteen year old girl will have to find her own path in some alternate universe. I hope there is a burning bridge, no turning back and a plane without a door to test her. I wish her serendipitous meetings and chance encounters. The rest is for her to decide.