poor mother

Last night, I received a phone call from mother. As soon as she began speaking, I knew something was amiss. A hoarseness in her quivering voice told me she had been crying, and I prepared to hear the worst. I immediately thought sister was in trouble but such was not the case. Mother was simply overwhelmed by current -- and rather frivolous -- events in her life. I calmed her nerves, helping her realize that the source of her stress and anxiety was mostly trivial.

I found myself speaking as a nihilist, telling her to "let go" of the conflicts and frustration that have encompassed her mind because we have no choice, no control over the events that occur in our lives.

A digression . . .

And what -- or who -- defines the meanings to such events? The answer is obvious: we do. But before we define these occurrences, we must make the choice (a subconscious decision) to do so. What is it in the human psyche that obligates us to apply value, meaning to virtually everything in our lives? Are we afraid to face the mirror as a naked being stripped of reason and truth? Are we afraid to face the stark reality that our lives are essentially meaningless?

Before we said our goodbyes, mother thanked me for offering a fresh and soothing perspective on her troubles. "I knew if I called you, you would calm my nerves," she told me. (Ever since "The Sister Situation" years ago, I've been an invaluable support system for mother.)

Hearing her speak those words saddened me greatly. If I were to commit an act of self-annihilation, I fear what would become of mother.

During our conversation, she asked me how I was doing . . . was everything OK? After a brief pause, I lied and said things were fine. Poor mother, she knows nothing of my desolate state . . . no idea of the thoughts . . . the fatalistic desires that constantly consume my consciousness.

And once again, I find myself existing not for my own sake but for the welfare of mother, father and sister.

xx