Just two days after I’ve made my first post I found myself in an awkward position. Asking myself was this the right choice to be made? Writing about yourself can’t be that easy, can it? Worrying about how this blog is going to look like if I make one post about me, and another about some random thing I came across that day. In the end, I think it doesn’t really matter at all, because for sure this thing is not going to have any readers. For sure I hate reading about other people’s lives because then you get the chance to see that there are worse or better lives than your own.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there are people who enjoy reading about other lives. Some find joy and comfort, some are looking for compassion, and others are there for well written story. No matter how you think your life is boring, it’s a unique story. You wouldn’t believe how a story can be made. Even with a single walk in the park, or riverside you can stumble on someone you know, have a small chat, sit on a bench look at the sun, or maybe feed some pigeons. I personally discovered about my anxiety pretty late. Untill then I thought it was something strange that I can’t really explain. But the things were pretty clear. I was afraid of space full of people who I don’t know. I mostly don’t give a F about other people’s opinion or what someone’s going to say about my clothes, hair etc. It’s just that goddamn feeling. Breaking ice. I get upset when I have to call someone I don’t know, or when I have to go to someone for the first time.
Wow. I haven’t even noticed how I made that smooth transition from talking about life stories to my problem. With that being said, I have one story about yesterday, not really sure if its going to be interesting or not but still.
17 April 2017
It’s the day after Easter. My father is on that small holiday vacation. So we decided that we need to do a quick inspection of plumbing pipes. Just a standard routine, winter here was pretty rough for this region and pipes are not that good. Problem emerged and we decided to fix that by tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about how we crushed a wall, and almost made a flood. This is a story about my neighbour. We went to grab materials needed for our fixing mission, and as we passed through neighbourhood, we noticed quite amount of cars on street in front of that mans house. I made a comment about how I’ve never seen that much cars in front of his house, to which father replied that they must be celebrating something. My next comment was supposed to be in comic sense about how this amount of cars can be seen only when someone dies. Now I feel bad about it. Later that night, when we sat for dinner, my grandma said the bad news. Our neighbour passed away in early 50’s. I won’t mention his name to avoid any further pain. Just a note, what I’m about to tell is my point of view. It could be truth but also I could be wrong.
A lot of things and stories can be said about him. Since we were kids, like everyone else, we played outside and everybody was kind of afraid of him. There were rumors that he was abusing drugs and alcohol. It was more than obvious that something was happening with him. Everybody knew that. He was scary looking too. He was married and had a daughter that, if memory serves me, was just two years younger than me. We never talked, and she was in her own world. Which I totally understand. Being raised in that kind of family must be hard. I heard stories that he was a total badass, and great looking guy back in highschool days. But then one girl introduced him with drugs and it all started back then. He was battling hard. He attended those rehab programs several times, but unfortunately it seemed like it wasn’t a long-term option. One day friend came to me and told me about how neighbour entered the bus with a scythe placed on his shoulder and swinging unconsciously, not trying to hurt anyone but still that’s scary if you ask me. When I used to get up early for school, I used to pass by his house, and I would often see him sitting down with an axe by his side, I would politely say “Good morning”, and get a pleasant “Good morning, son” back. One could say that something was hitting this human being without remorse. Destiny or something else. I still remember hot summer days when road was getting extra layer, and in the middle of a night neighbour would take his basketball and tapped it on the fresh concrete. The sound that ball made was annoying, yet if you try to see everything from a different perspective you could say that in that sound all his problems echoed. Going back and forth from his hands to the ground.. Funny how it could be metaphorically seen as his attempts in rehab. Every time he would go back to his vices. His wife left him and took a daughter with her. He wasn’t alone.
Mother. His mother was there. If someone asked me to describe a figure of mother, I would definitely describe her. A woman who fights for her son with such a passion and faith that he will be like everyone else. I hate saying normal, because we are all mad here. She has a problem with her hip and she’s moving slowly. You could often see her collecting snails, and all kind of herbs for tea, just to sell them so they could have some extra money. Such a kind and humble person. Everyone would wish to have mother like that, not everyone is lucky tho.
He made it. After years and years of failed attempts to get rid of drugs once and for all, finally he was clean and sober. Totally different person. He started getting weight, looking good and everything. All of us felt happy for him in a way. Imagine how happy was his mother, knowing that she succeeded in her life saving mission. But, he wasn’t seen outside anymore. I forgot about him in a way. We all did. Life continued. Strange how it all becomes boring when everything is all right. Humans are just like that. When you are good, no one remembers, when you’re bad, no one forgets. Since you couldn’t see him outside, you would assume that everything is going well for him and his mother.
Time passed. He passed away. Night before yesterday. In his sleep. As my only source of information, good ol’ rumors, told me that he whispered to his mother how he felt the cold, asking for a blanket. Next morning when his mother went to wake him up for their morning coffee hour, he didn’t respond. There it all stopped. For him, for her. Today I heard that he wasn’t a drug addict, or he was, but later he was conditioned with schizophrenia, and that the doctors ruined him. He abused medicine. I’m not quite sure if that was his condition all untill death or not but still made me feel bad. Either way, I always felt sorry for him, that he never actually got the opportunity he deserved.
Awkwardness. I think that is the word that describes how I feel now. Thinking that you know someone, when in fact you have no clue what’s happening in others lives. I feel sad too. No parent should live to bury his child. That is the real pain there.
The end. So it ends the story and my depiction of him, the neighbour. Now as I said before it may, or may not be the truth, its written from my perspective. It’s on you to decide how to feel, sorry, angry, or whatever you feel like. I made this long post and I’m not really sure what’s coming next, but I promise that I will keep writing.