The Witness

      We all want to feel like we're the main characters in our own lives but in truth some of us are always relegated to the role of a supporting character.  The one who is all too aware of the train wreck ahead but unable to stop it.  If we're honest with ourselves, we must admit that we are jealous of the sick brother or sister who garners all the attention and of the addicts who are oblivious to the carnage they leave in their wake.
     We resent always being stuck picking up the pieces, afraid we will freeze when called upon to rise to the challenge of the inevitable next crisis.  We know we're being petty when we demand recognition for our own little victories while our mothers, fathers, brothers or sisters are falling apart so dramatically.  So we relegate our own needs and desires to the back story, wishing we had the courage to explode in such a spectacular fashion, wondering if anyone would be there to clean up our mess or would even notice.  Witnesses to the grand ironies of life, survivors of the emotional tsunamis of others, we are desperate to play the leading role for just once in our own lives, but afraid to risk jumping without a safety net.
     I have told these stories about my sibling's mental illnesses so many times, trying to keep alive the memories of lives cut short, to find some meaning in senseless self-sacrifice.  I once asked my version of the Higher Power why I was spared the mental illnesses that have ravaged my brothers and sister's lives.  I was told that I needed to understand how the mind disintegrates.  I forgot to ask why this was so important.  What is the point of understanding something you are powerless to change?