Martyr Tape 1

(Beep. Music fades in)

I don’t know how to start this. But I mean, that’s to be expected, right? We all falter in our word choice ability from time to time. And if you think about it, language is just our child. Sometimes it obeys us, and other times it runs rampant in the home. And that seems wrong. Or so we think. We think that we--as parents--should be able to exert a constant and stronger influence over this thing we have made and brought into existence. That’s the expectation, but there’s something overly simplistic and naive about that world view. The fact remains that we can never control the things that exist outside of us. So instead of worrying or trying to do that which cannot be done, it is a better use of our time to stop, breath, and ride the wave of innocent mischief.

I think I learned that from you, but I can’t remember for sure. Over the years, you said many things. And I listened to every single one. Only to then poorly apply these things to my life and appropriate them when it wasn’t quite appropriate. Like, right now. Because, I mean, this isn’t innocent mischief. It was life-altering. For both of us.

No, it’s not fair to make that grouping. This was a mild inconvenience for me. But it was life-altering for you. What was left of your life, I should add, from then on out as marked by suffering.

Beyond that, I just… I just don’t know what to say. And now we’re right back where we started. I’m rambling, clueless on how to proceed. And I’m sorry about my rambling. For everything else, I need a much stronger word. 

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

This isn’t your fault, obviously, but I think that event forever changed me. Or the journey of my life. For the worst and this is just me being completely honest. One of two things happened. Maybe I am on a quest for absolution with all my steps defined by constant acts not merely of penance but of self-flagellation. All the while, I know this road won’t go anywhere. You offered me that forgiveness already, and in many ways, you are the only one who could give it to me. But then I refused it. And maybe the wisdom you offered me wasn’t meant as a condition that I had to adhere to for this precious gift to be mine. But as simple as the thought was, compared to all it could have been and maybe should have been, I keep coming up short. Especially when it matters the most.

And that leads to this other possibility I find myself possibly defined by. Maybe it’s not how I go through life that changed but who I am in it. Or who I know myself to be, more accurately. I guess I just know how limited or flawed I am. Some of that previous logic can go right here, but it’s more than that. I mean, when you hear about someone having this ability, don’t you think of them as a superhero of some kind? Or isn’t that what you would expect? Isn’t that what I should be? Or someone else, hypothetically, could be. 

I guess I could be that. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard. I mean I don’t have to pick who I help. I don’t have to seek the nearest burning building or do any other feat. In theory, I just dream and talk. That’s it. 

I’m no superhero. I’m just a person: a person with a weird quirk. But even still, that’s not enough, is it?

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

Whenever I have a free moment, I find myself thinking of you. It’s like the in memoriam section of the Oscars, except it’s just one person, and instead of seeing that low number as great fortune, everyone is worried that someone is going to keel over right here. It’s not that it’s all or nothing, but forces like those aren’t known for being so merciful. So when things go wrong--when the precedent is set--we’re all waiting for it to happen again. You know it can happen, so why not again? You can’t maintain a dream anymore. Delusion some would call it. I don’t know what I would call it.

So much of me is defined by your role in my life. It’s not just the many words of wisdom you gave me before the end. It’s not the tricks and tips you showed me as I grew up. Like how to straighten a burning candle wick with a key? Now sure, that doesn’t come up a lot, but I feel important just for knowing that trick. I feel like I have this great secret. Even if that’s not what this is.

The power of perspective, I guess. We are the ones who define and demarcate our world. For better or worse. I don’t think I’m very good at this. And I think you’d agree.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

There are good times to remember between us, but it’s like I don’t trust myself with those memories, so I seldom hold them. But they do come up in conversation, increasingly so now. But there’s one memory I’m more able to hold onto. The one I give myself permission to handle, and that’s the one that maybe I should let go off. After all, there’s nothing of substance there. Or not nothing. Just not what everyone would think it is.

I remember the last time I saw you. In the hospital. I was sitting by your bed before you were sent to hospice--the only place where you could get the constant care you needed. And I understood that, which is what made it seem cruel. You knew where you were going. And you remembered how serious hospice is. Everyone knows what it means to go there.

So we knew it was the last time we would see each other. And we both knew the days of laughter and little tricks were gone. It was time for a goodbye I didn’t think I could muster. 

For one, I had only gotten worse at them. And two, from looking in your eyes, it was like you were already gone. Or the spark was, at least. And that was what everyone knew you by. 

It was so hard to talk, but we had to. If we didn’t, we would hear the people in the hallway discussing your fate, and it’s one thing to know in the abstract that you are dying, but it’s another to hear it being spoken. I didn’t want to hear it. I doubted that you did either. So I tried to fill the silence, but I was rambling, wasn’t I? I felt like I had to. You didn’t have much of a voice anymore. That was gone too. And you had spent what little of it you had left saying something just moments before.  I couldn’t help but wonder how much of you was still there with me. I didn’t ask but I thought about asking. I mean, I was already grieving you or was that the guilt talking?

I don’t want to know what you think of my life now or me. Schrodinger’s cat is now a really common metaphor, even if our usage somewhat dilutes the thing it represents: the thought experiment. But honestly, as long as I don’t know what you think, I can have it both ways. I can have your acceptance when it suits me and your anger when I want to validate my tendency for self-loathing.

The irony of that is that this self-deprecation is the one thing you could, under no circumstances, accept. And I know that. I understand that. Or--I think--someone else helped me understand your point, but then I disengage from them too, and then what? No one can force me to reengage. No one can force me to do anything. It has to be my choice, which is never a good sign. And that’s what the problem.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I remember you telling me that the choices I’m able to stand behind are the only ones that matter. Personal convictions are the greatest indicator of character, you said. Actions without them are not meaningless, but they say something else entirely. But then you contradicted that later, didn’t you? You said something very different, and you meant it, but I don’t know which version of you to believe. I don’t know which is right, and I don’t know what to do know. I don’t know what side to pick.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for rambling.

(Music fades out. Beep.)