Being Good is a Deliberate Decision, Not a Consequence

Following my previous post, When Have We Lost the Power of Discernment?, here I am doing my best to elucidate what exactly do I mean with "Being Good is a Deliberate Decision, Not a Consequence." 

Why do I need to do that? 
Because allegations have been made and I was asked to expand my statement.

As I said many times, I am passionate about human behaviour. I have been studying since I was a child.
I have several recollections from when I was 2 (yes, 2 years old. Perhaps I was younger.):

  • The first one is when I was watching my mother breastfeeding my beloved brother, Sebastian. My head was full of questions and I used to observe them all the time. 

What does my brother feel? 
What about my mom? 
Where does the milk come from? 
Why is my brother still crying after eating? 
What does he want? 
Is he in pain? 
Is anyone capable of interpreting his sighs? 

I felt my brother's pain... it wasn't physical. It was overwhelming. So heavy, so intense.
I had no idea what I was feeling and I didn't know how to cope with that. And I suffered with and for him. For them.

  • I remember sitting in the corner of the bed watching my dear sister, Petronela, writing. 
I so much wanted to know how did she know what to write. I couldn't speak clearly and I don't think I ever dared to ask anything. Ever. 
It seemed a miracle to me. A supernatural power and I was incredibly craving for that power.

What does it feel holding the fountain pen in hand?
Where are the letters coming from? 
How could anyone master writing? 
How long does it take? 
Would I be able to do it too? 
When? 
Why can't I do it now?

I felt so unlucky. I wanted to go to school. I couldn't wait. I didn't want to wait. I wanted to put words on paper... words from inside my head. No, not voices, just countless words, phrases and stories. 

  • Then I remember watching my mother weaving, in the corner of a different bed. 
Her concentration was unbelievable. She used to shut the world out and live in that moment only. 
She was transfigured. 

What is that? 
How can anyone make such amazing things? 
Why does she always chose bright colours over dark ones? Is it because everything is so gloomy around here?
How does she know to match these bright colours to such perfection? 
What does she feel when she waves? 
Where is she now? 
Is she happy? 
What is happiness? 
Does she expect me to learn how to make these pieces of art too? 
Is that implied? 
What if I want to do something else? 

  • But most of all I remember observing my mother, on her knees, crying in despair when the communists used to threaten to take the piece of land from her. Every spring for many years. 
"I beg you, please, I have 10 children. I need to feed them. What I have is not enough. It's my parents' land. It's everything I have left of them. Don't take it away. Please...!"

Mama, please don't cry. It breaks my heart to see you like that. Please stand up, mama, you are not a slave. You are not less important than them. 
Mama, mama... can you hear me? 
Papa, where are you? Please help my mother. Defend her. She's your wife and the mother of all your children. Can't you see they are humiliating her? Why won't you fight these monsters?

No, they never heard me. You couldn't fight. Fighting meant death. 
My mother's pain was too great and the fear was paralysing all her other senses. 

Then, I grew up and I went to school where everybody was so different than me. 

Am I an alien? What are aliens? Do they exist?
What do I feel so much? 
Is it even real what I feel? 
Is it normal? 
What is "normal"?
Why am I so reflective? 
Why can't I see my future? 
Why can't I have the same desires as the girls of my age? 
Am I alive? 
Is this a dream or a nightmare? 
Do I belong here? 
Was I born in the right country, in the right era? 
What is my purpose? 
Does God exist? 
Why is He so cruel? 
Is He dead maybe? 
Have we killed Him with our ingratitude? 
Have I contributed to His death? 
Should I be punished? 
Am I a good or a bad person? 

Then I started reading... every book I could put my hands on. 

Why is Cosette so unlucky? 
How can the world be okay with abusing children? 
Who invented slavery and why? That person should have never been born.
Why is Madame Bovary so unhappy? She's got everything.
Why has Anna Karenina abandoned her children? 
How could she not love them more than a man? She should love them! They are blood from her blood. She made them!

Then I watched people who didn't know me hating my guts for no reason... In my opinion, of course. 

How is this possible? 
I always follow the rules, I respect every thing and every creature. I never offend or insult anyone. Yes, it's true that I think badly of them. But how can I not think badly of them? They are humiliating me every day. I haven't done anything to hurt them. I am a good person. 
Why are they punishing me? 
Is it because I am different? 
In which way am I different? 
Was I born this way? 
If I chose to be this way, when have I taken this decision? I was only a child when I realised I was not like others... I was different from my siblings too. 
What is wrong with me? 
Is it my fault that they hate me? 
Should I learn not to care too? 
Is this world the wrong world to live in? 
What if  was born a slave? 
What if I had witnessed a war and hear the bombs dropping all around me like my mother did? 
Would I still feel what I feel?


And once again, I have consciously chosen over, and over, and over again to be good. 
Despite the pain inflicted upon me by creatures who refuse to see that I am good. 
Despite the abuse, the exploitations, the countless injustices, the endless mockery... 
I have chosen to share the love. 
Not for the fear of a punishment from someone above, but because I want to care. 
And because I feel what I should feel when they hurt me and decide to love humanity anyway. 

But I pay a very high price for this Deliberate Decision. 
I am afraid of everything and everyone. 
If I send an email, I am terrified of the reply. 
If I write a post, I fear that you'll disagree with everything. 
If I publish a book, I am afraid that nobody will like it. 
If I give you a hug, I am afraid that you'll reject me.
Still, I do these things because I have to. I push myself and I tremble while working on my dream without a break.

Will I ever find anyone in this world to see me for who and what I truly am? 
Will anyone give me a chance? 
Will God cut me some slack? 

A dearest friend of mine tells me that people refuse to treat me right because they are afraid of me.
"Why would they be afraid of me? I am no danger to anyone." 
"It's your aura. You shine too much. You raise the bar too high. They can't keep up with you." 

"My aura" brought me only trouble. I don't want it. I never did.

And I do know why people fear me. I've always known. It's the same motive I fear them: incompatibility.
How ironic.
Isn't it?

I cannot take all the injustices. I am only human after all. I deserve better, but as I said, it is too late to give up. 
I will keep fighting, but to keep sharing the love, I have to live in almost utter solitude.

Being Good is not the consequence of the good that it was done unto me. Nor is the result of the countless wrongs. It is merely... a decision. My decision. 
Sometimes I think that monks have a richer social life than me.
I have reason to believe that secluded nuns interact with humans more often than I do. 

But I speak to God with every breathe I take. 
Whomever that God might be.

This is my choice.
Hate me if you like.
Disregard my work if it makes you feel proud of yourself.
Destroy me if you want.
I don't invite you to do so.
I am not happy if you do any of these things to me or to others.
But I cannot stop you.
It is... your choice.


Love,
Cristina G. 
Image from Pixabay

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