We Live in a Mad World

We Live in a Mad World
My Road Goes Ever On

Some might say that madness runs in my family, but the words would be spoken with an ironic smile and a twinkle of understanding. No one admits to madness these days. Yet, as I watch the last of the glorious multi-colored autumn leaves fall from my favorite maple tree, I must admit that the term “madness” rings as true to my ears today as ever. Perhaps more so. What haunts the human race is not a case of inherited mental illness, though that may factor in; it’s a spirit-killing grief that chains the strong and saintly as well as the weak and cruel into dark dungeons. Mad fury, justified anger perhaps, insists that things are not as they should be, therefore, life as we know it deserves to be destroyed. If I lived by that rule, I’d be dead already.

Growing up in a family where addictions ruled, I escaped the typical rinse-and-repeat pattern through the do-good notion that I could make my life better by making other lives better. It wasn’t a bad idea. I taught in various big cities and even served in the Peace Corps with the noble endeavor of “helping out.” The idea that I had to help myself first never occurred to me.

I was surprised that assisting the Dominican Sisters as a third-grade school teacher in Chicago’s south side didn’t free me from loneliness, especially when I encountered so many sad lives bravely trying to survive against terrible odds. A thirst for justice and a hope for happiness was hardly a bulwark against cultural insensitivity and generational failure to thrive.

I moved on to the Peace Corps in the Philippines, then taught at a private school on Milwaukee’s south side, and then got a job in a rough-tough neighborhood in L. A.—a city with enough weird and wild to keep daytime soap opera writers busy for eons. Still, despite my best efforts, I hardly made a dent in the troubles of the world and made very little progress on my own. Loneliness haunted me, creating a fog of soul-worn depression. The world made little logical sense, and deep down, I knew as well as anyone that things were not as they should be. Anger didn’t do much good, so exhaustion filled in the gaps.

When I started looking at the map, wondering where to go next, I realized that there was only one small problem with the move-on solution—I had to take me with me. A new location wouldn’t heal my hurt or erase old anger issues.

I went to a counselor instead.

Despite extensive traveling, I had always been a very private person. I rarely shared much about myself or my family with anyone, so seeing a counselor was the equivalent of standing naked in front of a stranger. Not a situation I was comfortable with under any circumstances.

My counselor turned out to be a middle-aged woman with three marriages behind her, a new marriage in front of her, a strong religious background jettisoned for I knew not why, a penetrating stare, and a firm grasp of the obvious. Her extra-large, self-determined nature scared the heck out of me, which ended up being the best thing in the world. I could hand my troubles on to her and never feared that she would break under the strain.

Once I started to unload my sorry burdens, my childhood traumas and constant guilt, stomach-crunching loneliness, and cyclical nightmares, she walked me through each of the significant relationships of my life and then offered a startling revelation: Crippled people can’t dance. Broken parents can’t parent. Sick kids don’t radiate health. In other words, the world wasn’t as it should be. To move beyond my pain, I had to accept that reality first.

She was right. My problem was no longer being a helpless child in an out-of-control world. My problem was thinking that I could fix an out-of-control world. I could not fix the world. But I could allow myself to heal from the wounds inflicted by an out-of-control world. That was another whole process.

Taking responsibility for my choices—where I worked, what I ate and drank, who I associated with, and how I spent my free time offered me a measure of hope. My family’s past did not have to be my future. Honest grieving did not mean I was stuck crying as an aimless wanderer forever. At some point, I could move in a healthy, chosen direction.

Some months later, I did just that. My counselor said I was the first person to graduate from her program in less than a year. Filled with gratitude, I promised myself that I would not forget the life lessons she taught me, the first being the most obvious—Life here on Earth isn’t what it ought to be.

Soon after, I met a good-looking guy at church, and after a year-long engagement, we decided to make a fresh start—move to the countryside, raise a passel of kids, and stick close to nature.

Let me say—I love chickens and possums and wild critters of all kinds as much as the next person, but hey, they aren’t all that nice if you disturb them while they are eating your garden vegetables. That was the least of my struggles.

My husband got a job teaching at a prison, and he was great at it for one excellent reason—he cared about the guys he worked with. In the meantime, I was busy reinventing myself, exchanging the world-traveling teacher for a stay-at-home mom fussing with wild things that I couldn’t even name properly.  Don’t get me started with the hens and the roosters. It became crystal clear that all was not quite right in the animal kingdom either.

And then came the kids. Eight of them, in short order. Life was full. No, take that back, life was abundant and hectic! But I loved it, even as shadows of my former life occasionally ran over my mind like a haunting specter visiting a graveyard.

I kept troublesome memories away with the inner assurance that I had made good choices. I had finally taken control of my life to the best of my ability, and my husband was doing his part. So, for a time, though challenging and tiring, life was as it ought to be.

Seven months after my eighth baby was born, my husband came down sick. He had never been seriously ill before, so I didn’t worry. Life was good. Everything would be fine.

Except it wasn’t. Cancer became the new out-of-control monster that chased us down the corridors of our days and nights. For four years. And then my husband—we’d been married nineteen years—died in an emergency room.

My eldest son was seventeen, and my youngest had just turned five. Suddenly, I was a single mom in the rural countryside with no way to make a living without leaving my traumatized kids alone. I had been homeschooling them, so leaving wasn’t an option.

My body revolted as much as my mind. I felt sick and depressed. But I remembered the promise that I had made years ago. I had to accept the obvious—Life here on Earth is not as it ought to be. In time, I could heal from trauma and move on.

Over ten years have passed since my husband passed away. In that time, my parents passed, two brothers died in tragic circumstances, and I have attended more funerals than I ever imagined possible. Life is not what it ought to be. Childhoods should not be violated. Disease should not take our bodies apart. Death should not separate us from loved ones.

As the years have passed and tragedies have accumulated, the practice of acceptance still hurts, but it has become easier. I know, as does my body, that nothing here lasts forever. But at this moment now, I have a choice. I can be mad at what isn’t right, or I can accept this particular day and make the best of it. Any good, no matter how small, is still good. Life is not as it ought to be, but the fact that I know an “ought to” exists makes all the difference. Despite woundedness, I do not have to be mad.

A. K. Frailey is the author of 21 books, a teacher for 35 years, and a homeschooling mother.
Make the most of life’s journey.
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