Given I’m an only child, you might not think I’d be too heavy on understanding, but fact is I am. I’m guessing this came from my parents, much as my ability to read and write from a very early age did. The difference would be that my ability to understand (and make allowances) would have been not so much taught as observed and absrobed. I’m not talking about the abilty to make sense of something, rather the trait of appreciating a given situation and making allowances. A f’rinstance: in a previous relationship I’d been told from the very first day that my new partner had a medical condition that resulted in her being classed as disabled, a condition that could flare up at any moment and render her unable to do much of anything. And that happened, many, many times during the eight years we were together (and wasn’t responsible for the end of the relationship)… and yes, while it was frustrating for me to have plans cancelled, or at best delayed, at the drop of a hat, I never complained, because aside from there being no point, it wasn’t her fault: I’d been warned and in any case, I wasn’t the one wracked with sudden pain above and beyond the normal level (she had chronic pain, 24/7) and unable to move. To complain about not being able to do this or go there would have been at best churlish and more honestly selfish in the extreme, and by and large I’m not like that. The person I’m with now has much the same problem: not chronic pain, but a debilitating condition and recently a few more new ones, all of which has impacted on our already limited time together. I’m told I’m being so very understanding, and I suppose I am but fact is, I don’t see how I can be any other way. It’s how I am. I love her with all my heart and soul, and it upsets me deeply to see her like this and know there’s nothing material I can do to help.
Tolerance… ah, now that’s another matter. I have no problem with admitting I can be utterly intolerant at times, and judgemental to boot. In particular, I’ve next to no time for alcholics or drug addicts, because I’ve been there and beaten it, so if I can, so can they. Granted, I had one helluva wakeup call at twenty-six when my doctor (also a family friend) told me that if I carried on as I was – and I have to admit, my overall intake of both was something of a local legend – I’d very likely be dead within two years… so I stopped, pretty much on the spot, and since then I’ve only had one small wobble, when my father died some thirteen years later. So, when someone tells me they can’t help being an addict, or that I “don’t understand”, they get The Lecture. Mental illness is a different matter: I’ve been there too, and have endless sympathy for anyone else so afflicted. It can come out of a blue sky, as it did for me, it’s hellish scary and you’re never ever the same again. My own experience was forty-six years ago, but I don’t consider myself either “over it” or “cured”: happened once with no warning, can happen again and from the very little I recall, I don’t want to go through that again, thank you very much. What I don’t have any time for are people who play the mental health card to either get attention or escape censure. These people are beneath my contempt, and I won’t hesitate to tell them so.
So, that’s me: understanding, compassionate and intolerant. I claim the Whitman Defence:
“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.”*
Works for me.
*Walt Whitman, from “Song Of Myself” (Leaves of Grass, 1855)
