I find that the shower is a great place for reflection. I mean, what else is there to do. The talk of cleaning oneself has become autopilot by now so I can turn my mind to other thoughts.
It's pretty amazing that wherever I go, I find a new person with a new story to tell. I have my own mixed feelings about being down at the Commission but this story affirms for me that I'm supposed to be there right now.
At the Commission, all of us blind folk have time to spend with one another, a lot of time. And some of the topics of discussion range from where you're from to the pivotal question, "so, how did you lose your vision?"
Everyone's story is different and I have to say in my twenty-four years of life, I've never heard a story like this one.
Last week early in the week, I asked one of the folks the question. His response was, "It's complicated". I thought nothing of it as some reasons for losing vision are indeed complicated. I think it was Wednesday that I found myself in the Resource Room sitting on the sofa with this man who can often be found sitting there during a free period, or just waiting for the next class to start.
I sat down and said my customary 'good morning' and asked how classes were going. His response was surprising. He apologized. I had no idea why he had done this so I said, "Whare are you apologizing for?" He said that he felt bad for not answering my question. I said that no apology was needed and I understood that it may have been something he didn't want to talk about.
Then he started telling me his story. He told a story of such anguish and pain that I can still feel it down in my soul. He told of how he hadn't slept for a few days, of praying, running naked through the woods, waking up there the next morning, then the next night hearing and feeling screams of pain and suffering. And he felt that these screams were because of him. He evidently had had this thought before, as he said later. But he offered up to the voices, "should I take out my eyes". The voices said yes.
He walked outside that night under the moonlight and ripped his eyes from his sockets...
At this point in his story, I'm stunned. I don't even remember breathing. He went on because I think I asked him whether his eyes were prosthetics like my right eye is, and he said that no, the doctor had been able to put them back in, then he said something that brought the world back into sharp focus.
"Go ahead, and tell me I'm crazy, lots of people have."
At that moment, such an overflowing wave of hurt and compassion on his behalf, and love for him swept over me. I said to him. "No, I'm not going to. I can't tell you that you don't believe what you heard. The only one who can know something like that is you."
I had this overwhelming urge to give him a hug, but I refrained. For a while, I'd wondered why, but this morning in the whoser, I think I figured out why. Sometimes when I'm in high anxiety, and if I don't see it coming, I can sometimes lash out. I think part of my reasoning for not giving him a hug at that point, was that I was trying to protect myself. Not so much from him, but more from his physical reaction. What I did do, because I had to go to class was as I passed the end of the sofa, I put my hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
I know he took a great risk in sharing his story with me, leaving himself bare for my scorn and I feel bad that I didn't give him a hug, but in my words and other actions, I'm going to try to convey my love and compassion for him. He's someone who went through mental and physical anguish and evidently has been scorned for it. I hope I'm on the list of those that care for him, because I do.
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I had thought I was going to write more about my thoughts and feelings of being at the Commission in this post, but his story deserves to stand alone.
Much love to you all
Nancy
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