Poke

Poke.

It's just a little thing, maybe no bigger than a gnat, perhaps a mosquito, but often times ends up being as big as an elephant. It annoys. It irritates. It eats away at the delicate lining of your soul. It can be everything to you and nothing to others. It is what jabs its finger into your side; just a little poke. But poke after poke after poke after poke and that spot on your ribs starts to really hurt.

Poke.

Usually the fingers that do the jabbing are someone else's. But sometimes you look down and realize the finger that jabs is at the end of your own hand. The incessant poking may have been started by someone other than yourself, but without even thinking about it, you take up where they left off. Self-inflicted wounds are the ones that go mostly unnoticed by both outsiders and the one doing the poking.

Poke.

I heard my son yell, "Nooo!" I had just come in from being outside and the thought of what to fix for supper was on my mind. I stepped into the living room to find him pointing at the television. A familiar face was on the screen; a face of one I'd grown up with; one that had once been an alien, an old lady, an adventurer stuck in a board game, a wise-cracking genie, a symbol of Neverending boyish youth, a spinach munching sailor, a mentally disturbed homeless man...so many faces. I saw the words at the bottom of the screen. I heard the newsman saying what I didn't want to comprehend. This familiar face was no more. We stood there in silence for a moment, taking time to let it sink in.

Poke.

I don't know the first thing about clinical depression. I know about being sad. I know about being depressed over something. I couldn't imagine it being a constant part of my life. As far as I know, I don't know anyone who is being treated for depression. But I bet there is someone. People are more adept to hiding things than to sharing things. Why? Maybe because it's easier to keep it inside; maybe because it's easier to keep it hidden from the world, than it is to let it out. And when you're good at hiding things, it's hard for others to see what kind of pain you're enduring.

Poke.

I, and a lot of my friends, lost someone we loved several years ago. I had known this friend for a while. Not as long as most of our friends, but long enough to still care for him and call him my friend. I don't know what he was going through or why he decided to remove himself from the reality of his suffering. And as real as it was, I didn't see it. I didn't see the worry, the hurt, the obstacle he couldn't get over. I never saw signs pointing to his ultimate decision.

Poke.

I can say that I've had some pretty rough times and still crack a smile. My problems seem to be short-sighted. Of course, I have ongoing problems, but their effect doesn't seem to last long, and they definitely don't last forever like I think they will. Good times will come back, and when they do, it's the bad times that define just what the good times are. I've always said that I love myself too much to hurt myself. And it's so true. Even in what I define as the lowest part of my life, I still loved myself. Now, I may not like myself at times, but I don't have to like myself to love myself.

Poke.

My daughter came out of her bedroom and asked what was going on. We pointed towards the television. It was real. We had just been talking about him the morning before on our way to her bus stop at my son's school. I believe his name came up while trying to think of another actor, but we talked about him too. My daughter looked at the television, and then came to me in the kitchen and put her arms around me, put her head on my shoulder, and we both just stood there, not saying anything. He wasn't someone who we knew personally. He wasn't a friend or family member. He wasn't in our lives. But yet, he was. He impacted us with infectious laughter; my kids for as long as they could recognize him; me for what seems my whole life.

Poke.

It was just a few weeks ago that something was poking me. The poke was hitting me about midway down the front of my left ribcage. Someone had gotten an honor that I felt should have been bestowed upon me. Something that had been mentioned to me years ago. Something that would have improved finances, albeit, not by much. It's not so much the point that it wasn't offered to me. It's not that it was offered to someone else. It is the fact that there was so much secrecy involved. That hurt. There was no reason that I could see to keep it hidden from me. That was the jab on my left side, a little to the side of my center of my chest. But the poke continued even after I had gotten over the situation. Poke, poke, poke. But I realized that it wasn't an outside force doing the poking. The poke now came from within. I knew it was unhealthy. I knew it had to stop. The only way that it would stop would be for me to accept what was done, forgive those involved, and continue loving myself. And that's just what I did.

Poke.

It's easy for me to say, "Get over it. It's not that bad." It's easy because it's not my life; it's not my pain and suffering; it's not me living with a feeling of low self-worth, or enduring an unknown source of the poking that becomes too much to bear. It's not me that feels like things would be better if I just removed myself from being someone else's source of misery. It isn't me.

And, by God, if it's you, please let someone you love know; let someone who loves you know.