Truth Is Left Up to Interpretation
I am in the process of reading Coming Clean by Seth Haines (https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25910321-coming-clean). He writes about his battle with alcoholism, fed in part by his pain over his toddler son who is unable to ingest food. Doctors can't seem to help the little boy and so he probably is dying.
The author also describes unresolved pains from his own childhood, and does so through analogies and metaphors that help me see what has led him to alcohol abuse and the detox process. In my drinking days, I too anguished over truth and lies and my history that left me with only positive memories.
"What is the truth about truth? If it is absolute, if it is not subject to interpretation, why can I not perceive it? Where does it hide? Behind the eyes and between the ears? Is is secreting away in the nooks and crannies of my brain; does it burrow down somewhere between the folds where it waits to be germinated? Is it a seed? Does the soil sometimes turn on it, refuse to give the truth a place to root down? Do synaptic thorns choke it, kill it young?
"Yes, I think that's it.
"Or maybe not."
I remember someone once saying that history is a little bit truth, a little bit fiction, but mostly it is interpretation.
How do I interpret my history before I abused alcohol as a middle-aged adult? I still seek truth as I explore me, as I get to know myself. It was my addiction that led me to this healthy trek through my past.
Haines goes on to write, "Addiction is a jealous lover. She whispers lies straight past the inner ear, straight to the auditory cortex.... Addiction is a flattering lover who distracts us from the pains of the day. Yes, maybe that's it."
Seth, I think you are right -- as I interpret truth.
The author also describes unresolved pains from his own childhood, and does so through analogies and metaphors that help me see what has led him to alcohol abuse and the detox process. In my drinking days, I too anguished over truth and lies and my history that left me with only positive memories."What is the truth about truth? If it is absolute, if it is not subject to interpretation, why can I not perceive it? Where does it hide? Behind the eyes and between the ears? Is is secreting away in the nooks and crannies of my brain; does it burrow down somewhere between the folds where it waits to be germinated? Is it a seed? Does the soil sometimes turn on it, refuse to give the truth a place to root down? Do synaptic thorns choke it, kill it young?
"Yes, I think that's it.
"Or maybe not."
I remember someone once saying that history is a little bit truth, a little bit fiction, but mostly it is interpretation.
How do I interpret my history before I abused alcohol as a middle-aged adult? I still seek truth as I explore me, as I get to know myself. It was my addiction that led me to this healthy trek through my past.
Haines goes on to write, "Addiction is a jealous lover. She whispers lies straight past the inner ear, straight to the auditory cortex.... Addiction is a flattering lover who distracts us from the pains of the day. Yes, maybe that's it."
Seth, I think you are right -- as I interpret truth.
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