It's All Fun and Games Until Somebody Gets Hurt

It’s me. I’m somebody. At least that’s what my mom never told me when I was growing up, ba-dum-bump. Is my story a comedic tragedy or a tragic comedy? You pick. Either way, it’s one of trauma and resilience. I share my traumas with others to let them know that whatever shitstorm they’re weathering, they’re not alone and they can make something better than the worst they’ve endured. Chances are, I’ve been there. It’s not about finding someone with your exact trauma who has survived and thrived. Much less about the trauma itself, but rather it’s how you pull through and transcend it. If you’ve suffered, you can guarantee you’re not alone. The Buddhists believe the first truth is that everyone in life is suffering in some way. So, my friend, you’re not special just because you are a living, breathing human. What you decide to do with the shitstorm of your humanity, is what truly defines your character.

When I was eleven years old, I saw a sixteen-year-old on TV that had published their first novel. I had already fallen in love with the written word, and I was inspired. If they can do it, so can I, I thought. Sitting myself down in front of my parents’ electric typewriter, I began. With enormous feelings and nuance inside my childish frame, I thought I might explode if I didn’t share them. When all that stared back at me was a blank page, I realized I needed context. Because I hadn’t done much living yet, I didn’t possess the ability to frame what I felt into contextual storytelling. I was deeply discouraged.

That night, alone in the darkness of my bedroom, I fell to my knees and prayed to the energy that I knew watched over me. The one my parents didn’t believe in. I asked that I could experience everything in life, so that I may become a writer. The universe delivered. I’ve found it usually does with ironic flavour. Some of what I experienced was teenage domestic abuse, addiction of a loved one, my mother fighting cancer, divorce of my parents, homelessness, loss of loved ones, marital domestic abuse, loss of a child, loss of my mother and father-in-law, divorce, and grave financial hardship.

These are negatives that can be categorized. They are my battle scars. The scars aren’t what matters. What they represent is how I’ve survived. My personal power, authenticity, compassion, and strength are what I’ve gained. There have been times I wished I would have been more specific in what I asked to experience in life. Maybe a little more wins than losses. Now, I wouldn’t change a thing. There is no shortage of experiences for me to draw from as a writer. I’m proud of the person I’ve become despite having many reasons to wallow and blame others for my failures. Unfortunately, many people get stuck inside their trauma. Instead of growing, they remain where they can elicit sympathy. However, sympathy doesn’t help you heal. Laughter heals. Responsibility heals. Forgiveness heals. Gratitude heals.

What I’ve earned, is the ability to truly savour life. I know how bad it can be, so I relish the sweet moments. I choose my power by making choices that lead me in the direction I want to go. I’ve accepted that terrible things can happen, and they are usually far beyond my control. Tragedy has shown me that fear is irrelevant. What you fear may never happen, but something bad most likely will. Fearing any one of the multitudes of negative scenarios that could erupt in your life is a complete waste of time. Fearing it won’t stop it from happening, but it will steal the sweet moments. It will lead you the wrong way. I no longer make choices out of fear. I choose love. Naturally impatient, I have slowed my tempo to the rhythm of life itself and accepted what will come. I’ll deal with it when it does, but for now, I’ll seek out joy. Daily, I feel gratitude. I feel gratitude for feeling gratitude. Fuck, I’m lucky.

My advice to you is to have all the fun and games. So, what if someone gets hurt? It’s a surety. That’s how it works. You’ll be going along, laughing at the absurdities, toasting the good life with your friends, taking simple luxuries for granted, and -boom- someone gets hurt. It’ll probably be you. Like that time, I was at Riot Fest in Chicago, rocking out to Blink-182, and I slipped on a poster and snapped all the tendons in my ankle in front of 50,000 people waiting for the porta-potties. Or when I woke up on a Thursday thinking it was going to be a regular day and instead, I drove home that night after holding my mother’s hand as she passed into the next world.

Defining myself not by my trauma, but by my resilience, is how I live now. I am my enduring compassion and caring for humanity. My laughter in the face of shitstorms. My laughter at myself. Bring it on, I say, I’m fucking bulletproof. Not because I can’t get hurt, but because I know I will. And I’m going to live it up anyway.

I love how Said The Whale put it in their song “Honey Lungs” –

“You can find the joy in every agonizing moment of existence on this planet.”

Leah Marguerite