Revealing "Forgotten's" Ugly, Despicable Face
Forgotten: The true definition
What is Hell, in definitive, sensible-terms? Forgotten. Being forgotten by friends, loved ones and even one’s enemies is a living, breathing Hell vomiting its guts all over a good soul. Forgotten is not associated, or to be related to depression in any level. Forgotten is far from depression. Not to put depression in a cushy, bearable area, but when you are forgotten, a moment turns to an eternity while you wait to be remembered by a much-more popular friend who will nauseate you and themselves by apologizing to you when they finally remember you.
Preachers since Jesus was born, lived, was crucified and rose on the third day have mastered that “one” comfortable side of “forgotten” because they use God to validate their sermon---“Yes, brothers and sisters, fear not. God will forget your sins and cast them into the sea of forgetfulness,” and not to be a comic, the preceding “is” a real scripture.
Forgotten is a living, breathing demon
Forgetting and being forgotten happens every day. Even now someone is being forgotten in our vast living quarters called Earth. Didn’t you hear the shattering sound of their spirit being broken? Do not think for a forgotten moment that I take this topic lightly. I do not know which is worse. Forgetting or being forgotten. I have been guilty for one and experienced the other, and I tell you, the latter is worse than being stabbed in the back. Actually, I had rather be stabbed in the back. I can heal (in time) from the stabbing, while the wound of being forgotten takes longer to heal. Being forgotten hurts and hurts deeply and badly. Being forgotten is deadly. More deadly than a Judas-type betrayal with a kiss.
Forgotten has an identity crisis. Did you know that? Yes. When anniversaries, birthdays, and dental appointments are forgotten, it’s forgiven because these are “things,” not people’s hearts. But when forgotten shows its unfeeling side, people are hurt and in some worst-cast scenarios, they never recover. It’s more than being embarrassed by a friendly prank. It’s having your feelings and will stripped from your spirit and you instantly-digress from being a productive human being to a near-lifeless “being” in the same category as a Macy’s store-front mannequin.
Warning: Reading these two paragraphs can lead to sadness
Let me give you my scripted example of forgotten just so you will be able to be seethe with hatred just like me when I know of anyone who is suffering from being forgotten.
You are out with friends. You recall those days before your life began as a caring wife, husband, parent and neighbor. Let’s say, in your mid-twenties. Yes, those turbulent, expectant, happy as any lark days are over, or as you would think. But just like a stroke, which is worse, there it is. You and your handful of close-friends are goofing-off in a neighborhood mall on any given Saturday—having a good time, recalling who did what to whom in high school and college, and suddenly, “Mitzi (Nee Collins) Bloomfield,” chirps, “Hey, let’s hit that Starbucks. I could just a pick-me-up,” so everyone agrees with “Mitz,” in blinding-speed fashion leaving you standing in front of a GameStop peering at some gaming system by yourself.
You are trodding down a dark path, my friend
Welcome, my once-popular, accepted friend, to the agony of being forgotten. Nothing like it, pal. Even the blood-thirsty pirates who pillaged the merchant ships on the seven seas were not as evil as forgotten, the silent enemy, almost as lethal as high blood pressure, which has hit you blind-sided and you are now stunned and without words to express just how low-down and pure, unadulterated dejected you feel at this moment. You are suddenly as paranoid as you were in your college and weed-smoking days. You swear that that customers and those milling around in the mall are staring at you and laughing to themselves. I hate to say it, but some “are” laughing at you standing there with that yearning look on your face.
To make your situation worse sending you to “the” bottom of the barrel, you see your other friends sitting in Starbucks sipping their expensive java’s, laughing like mindless jackasses, high-fiving each other and having, to your eyes, the best time ever.
You could pretend this isn’t happening and just bounce into Starbucks and say, “Heyyyy, what gives? Why did you run off and leave me?” But this question would send your friends into another laughing frenzy and the other customers upon learning what is so funny, would roll in the floor with hilarity and all at your expense.
You are now more-mature than let this hurt you
But you are now older and above what you call crawling to your friends just so you can be accepted as the lovable doofus your friends called you way back in your teen years when your inner-self was seeking maturity. So you, after dissecting the hurtful situation, just slowly start walking away and hoping that one, just one of your friends will yell, “Frank! Hey, Frank! Where are you going?” You even look back to see if they miss you and you knew the answer before you looked. No. These people have not even discovered that you are not at their booth.
Seriously? You think as you put one foot in front of the other—almost ramming into an elderly couple just enjoying life outside their home. At least they have each other, you continue to think. Then you soothe your crushed feelings by allowing this thought to lodge in your grief: My friends love to prank each other and all this can be is an innocent prank.
But just to make sure, you pull your cap down almost over your eyes going incognito back to the window at Starbucks to just absolutely be sure that you are right in thinking that this was only a harmless joke. But as soon as you take your last peek, you see your friends now having a serious talk—still drinking their java’s, Irish Mocca’s and staring intently at each other as they say intelligent things that people in their mid-20’s say. You might as well get to accepting the insensitive fact: You have been forgotten.
It's rough coming back from "forgotten"
And again, the temptation for you to laugh it off and burst in to where your friends are sitting and now you do not even let this thought materialize for you know for you to even think this is ignorant, childish and futile. So what if you have been left standing back at the GameStop? The world isn’t exploding. Maybe it was . . .no. It was not an accident for you and your four friends have known each other since grade school, stayed tight in high school and even in college. You five were inseparable. Until now.
But why did it have to be you who was forgotten? Why could it not have been “Jim “Jimbo” Larson, who is now with his second wife and paying a huge alimony? You have no answer. You can go through the rest of your days and still not get an answer, and on top of that, no answer or sincere apology from your . . .you can hardly form your mouth to say the prefix, “Ex” friends will ever make you get past this.
So now you are just a casualty. A forgotten (pardon the pun) statistic in a dusty office filing cabinet on some report that a city clerk filed almost as hit happened. He was happy to have the work since his brother-in-law the mayor got him this job as a favor to his wife.
I feel torn-up by not having any good news for you
You are tired of walking, so you just plop down on a cedar bench the city’s Civitan Club donated to the mall and think about this cruel act over and over again and start learning how to live with it. It gonna be tough. Let no one kid you. Now I just wish that you had had the foresight to move down from the GameStop and just maybe the base time continuum and pre-destined events would have included you in the invitation of “Let’s grab some coffee in that Starbucks.”
But do you know another equally or possibly more scary scenario, a “tenacle of truth,” that should have already sprung from this social debacle? I hate to tell you, but no matter what happens now or in the next few weeks, months or maybe up to one year, be it your four friends suddenly realizing how selfish, heartless and narcissistic they were and sincerely apologizing to you for days, or you giving into your primal nature and break every stick of furniture in your home . . .not anything will or anyone can erase that one absolute moment when you were forgotten.
Oh, and since you are a decent man, and if you were to suddenly let go with violent cursing in hopes that “this” profane action would cause universe to miraculously be at balance once again, I can tell you . . .
There just isn’t enough curse words in mortal use to ever erase “the” spirit-breaking act of being forgotten.
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