Companion of Circumstance

Chapter 1

         

                       He thought his life was over. Everything he had desired and believed was important was falling apart. Miles was a young man, in his twenties, with his whole life ahead of him. Many have admired his many traits and talents – being a marvelous painter and sculptor, able to create backdrops and blend colors that brought tears to the eyes of bewildered onlookers. He kept his work private, mostly because of his incredible fear of rejection – and the things he held dear to his heart he guarded with intensity. People were a frustrating enigma to Miles. Through his hurt and pain he learned to hide his accomplishments to keep negative feedback away. Yet others encouraged him to share his work, which embarrassed him since he felt nothing he did was worthy of sharing. He considered his artistic journey’s beginning when he was fourteen – but he had long dreamed and aspired to be the artist he now was since childhood. His accomplishments were large, but small compared to his inspirations – Van Gough, Michelangelo, DeVinci. They had all achieved greatness and his paintings were only well known in his mind and to those who were closest to him. Miles could only paint on the weekends, as he held several jobs and often lost them due to his depressive nature and inability to make a living doing what he loved. This frustrated Miles and often he grew resentful of every occupation that wasn’t painting. He worked in an art studio for awhile and helped other artists with their work – but even though he was surrounded by his passions, the people he worked under drove him to fierce anxiety and heavy negative introspection. Often he would shake as he entered the building as he was never sure what his contemporaries thought of him. This drove him to break out in rashes and hate himself as he felt he was failing not only at this job, but he was failing his passion, or at least something close to it. The position of his dreams got to be too much and Miles quit, as there was talk of finding a new studio assistant – perhaps one who could look the part and be, well…less emotional.



         Miles was a guarded gentleman – in that he was incredibly sincere but his heart had been broken and his emotions had been run ragged by angry and insensitive critics and jealous artists who could not match his style and ambiance. He was unique – and he knew it. Miles could tell people about his artwork and explain the reasons and the methods he used to achieve he final outcome – but artists around him just sneered and made remarks about his pride and insensitivity. As if being proud of your work was a shameful thing. They also belittled him and made fun of his appearance. He was not GQ material; short, stocky, but handsome with blue eyes and sandy brown hair. He knew he would never be on the cover of a magazine but his artwork revealed a much more beautiful person inside. The haters were always so loud in his mind, as if it were an evil force trying to kill him slowly. He tried to brush off the hateful remarks but because of his sensitive and melancholy nature he found it hard to ignore the harsh words. Sometimes it drove him into deep depressions, often attempting to end his life, sometimes failing vainly or giving up courage at the last moment. This created strain on his family life and his family resented him for trying to end it all. Miles knew they’d never been there, because they would understand if they had. But Miles never wished his condition on other people. His mental instability was a gift but a curse at the same time. What bothered Miles was that no one could understand why he felt so strongly about the opinions of others. This furthered the festering wounds of bitterness and self-hatred. The rejection was like a fire that just burned hotter the more people misunderstood him. It was something of utmost importance to him for whatever reason, and he didn’t understand it himself but perhaps it was the artist in him that desired positive feedback. It flooded into every area of his life, even political views and spiritual views. Things he often mentioned were swatted down without any hesitation. Miles felt he was never right about his opinions because people were always telling him how wrong his thoughts and views were, perhaps even providing “proof”, or half-hearted facts which drove the nails deeper. His introspective nature took data into consideration, and often if there was data to support the opposing argument, he easily accepted defeat and became depressed. His attempts to end his life were never simply for attention, they were an escape maneuver. His retreat into pessimism was all too familiar to those around him. However, he felt as if there were an unseen force watching over him, guarding him, pushing him forward through all of his struggles. He looked at the challenges as an impossible pit, but this unseen force made him feel like it was mountain, with an ultimate prize on the other side. There was just no way to climb the mountain to catch a glimpse.





         “...Perhaps at the end of my life”, he would say. “and perhaps I can speed up the process”, he joked with his dark wit. The black bile that ran rampant through his body seemed to be his lifeblood - his temperament and dry humor...often his outlook offended others around him. He couldn't help it, he was like an analytic computer programmed to laugh at things that would normally make him cry. Of course he couldn't any more, that was something he dammed up in his heart. God could talk to Him and bring those dams down all too quickly - but Miles built up dams against God. His great and far-fetched expectations of himself and others and what God thought of him led him to withdraw and live in failure and solitude. Sickeningly this fired his passion to paint more, unless his ability to paint fell under his perception of failure. When that flame was gone all in his life was dull and useless. He would not go to work leading him to lose employment, and his failed romantic relationships led him to believe he was no good at them either, as he would quickly grow angry when the other person disappointed him. It was a vicious circle with no known beginning or end. He had strong convictions but could not meet any of them. Thus began the circle of descent.



         Miles was always looking for purpose, and he thought that perhaps he was put on this earth to paint and be a shadow behind the greatness that potentially lay within the edges of his landscapes. He accepted the fact continually that he may never see his own work achieve greatness in this life, but perhaps after he was gone. Problem was, he required credit to feel good, and mostly received only harsh words. As a child he dreamt up a legacy, and this legacy, though sometimes fickle, fuels his desire to paint. He imagines himself being a famous painter with a career and legacy to back it up. But as the years pass and the skin gets older Miles realizes that life will not always be around to wait for him. Will he simply fall in line like the rest of society or will he take charge somehow and break through the cement that was poured on him keeping him stuck in place? His desires of importance and talent lead other people to believe he is presumptious. How far from the truth that was. Miles felt his mission was to do what he was gifted with, and do it with the best gusto and feeling he could. For that reason Miles grew up creatively and fleshed his feelings out in his work.



                   “What a beautiful day”, Miles said as he stepped out into the hot sun and spring breeze for the first time that day. “Too bad I can’t lay here and enjoy it. I’ve got to work today.” His disposition caused him to travel several miles to his managerial job where he did nothing but try and sell network services to elderly people. “Welcome to TeleCom Cable Services for the hearing impaired. Would you like to start up service today? For the first six months, it’s only $9.95.” was his mantra day in and day out. He rarely got any sales, as the product was bogus, with loopholes galore, and there were unruly commitments involved to the potential buyer. As far as Miles was concerned, they could go belly up any moment…but something was keeping them afloat. “Oh well, I get paid fifteen bucks an hour to stand here and yap while I study art on my phone”, he said to Brandi, a worker for an outsourcing company that shared floor space with him in the office building. Brandi was attractive but was deeply troubled, in ways that Miles found abhorrent. She carried a lot of baggage, and that was indicative her life may be more messed up than his. Miles was often lonely because he traveled so much, but he had a girl he was seeing for quite some time now. She was beautiful, short, and sweet. Her name was Moxie. She seemed to handle the bullshit Miles made her put up with, as he was extremely temperamental, and he knew this… so he treated her exceptionally well to hang on to her. Sometimes his insecurities pushed him to use people just to satisfy his empty urges for importance. It was one thing he vowed to work on.

         

         As 4 ‘o clock rolled around Miles yawned and leaned back in his chair, studied the wallpaper border, the horses jumping through fences, over hurdles, and across the finish line. Often Miles wondered how majestic it would be to be free like a wild horse. His wandering mind was always disrupted as his gaze followed along, leftwards, and finally seeing once again the corners of the border – lightly peeling and ever so distracting. Miles hated disorder; it was one thing he could not stand. His perfectionist nature could not let things stay out of place for very long, for his eye would twitch and he had an insatiable need to correct it. He was too shy to complain about what may seem to others as a trivial issue, but perhaps if he had more confidence he would convince them the peeling paper was a sign of weakness and unprofessionalism in such a stern and serious office environment. After all, he was a manager. He didn’t feel like one, though. And Miles was not the type to usurp authority over others, it just was not comfortable to him. So even though many judged him as being a condescending critical self-centered jerk, he never really meant to be that way. Often because of his rushing thoughts and social phobias he developed panic attacks and they were especially frightening in public places. There were customers he would have to frantically hang up on, simply to get out of his chair and pace or hide in the supply room. He would often “snap” his fingers or clap loudly to keep himself from losing his mind…to distract himself with sounds and feelings. People looked at him strangely and he felt mentally retarded, but it was the only thing sometimes that would ward off an all out panic seizure.

         

         Moxie was often a good companion for Miles. She understood him but at times felt as if he wasn’t trying his hardest. This upset Miles considerably. Moxie was very outgoing and positive; while Miles was stuck in a rut. This was a typical opposites relationship…sanguine Moxie and melancholy Miles. But somehow it worked. And it worked really well. Moxie was a Christian and Miles was devout once, but somehow fell through the cracks once life got in the way. Miles always desired to crawl back to the big Guy, but his mental conditions  have kept him from connecting out of fear and insecurity. Plus he was just plain busy. It’s easy to forget God when you’ve got so much packed into a tiny 24 hour period. But sometimes that’s how Miles stayed busy and kept himself away from idle thoughts of pain and rejection. Moxie was an assistant director on an Indian reservation for the poor and homeless. She helped starving and needy kids find shelter and food. Often times she would open up her own home to the native kids and have movie and popcorn parties. Miles admired this trait in Moxie but never understood her total compassion for a society that embraced and promoted poverty so much. Miles felt he had found a good partner yet was afraid of commitment because he still felt he failed at every relationship in his life. He knew that if he could make this work, he would be changing the course of his life and perhaps charter a new path.