I write to you as a fellow club member.
I’m your skilled colleague in the art and science of desperation.
…I’m in transition.
I’ve applied for de-registration. And club management has accepted my resignation. Soon my name would be struck off the list. I’ll be your ex-club member. I’m counting the days. I’m happy; I’m very happy.
My experience puts me in pole position to advise you against remaining in this club.
As you normally would expect, I’m writing with mixed feelings: a feeling of blitheness that you’d see my reasons to leave the club and enjoy peace and freedom that would eternally be yours thenceforth; and a feeling of melancholy that you’d discard my reasons and still remain in the club and experience ineluctable consequences.
I don’t stutter, but please accept my sincere apologies for breaking the flow as I speak with you. It’s because I’m overwhelmed with emotion. I’m sorry that you have to keep straining your ears to hear me.
Niagara falls isn’t located on my face, but it seems these tears wouldn’t just stop falling.
I cry because desperation has caused me to sell myself cheap. To lose my dignity and pride.
When you’re a desperado, you are at the beck and call of those to whom you stoop low. You are at their mercy, at their whim. I’ve been there. I tell you it isn’t a place to be. Never get there. Never live there. Experience is advising you.
Nothing devalues a person as compromise of long-held standards. Particularly when others have known you for years as a person of high values. Desperation forces you to rip-up, in a swift moment, the foundation which had taken you pains and years to build.
I bow my head in shame and guilt. I’ve been a captive of this monster.
I have traded my power of choice many times, making do with what is given me. And nothing more. Desperation turns you into a dignified slave. You lose your voice, and go with Hobson’s choice.
In desperation, people step beyond guarded boundaries they have set to protect themselves. They throw caution to the wind, and, in consequence, reap bountiful harvest of regret and remorse. Look at me; I’m contemporary Esau of Bible history.
I know the colour of regret and the smell of remorse.
I know the shape of misery and the size of melancholy.
I know the length of pain and the breath of agony.
I don’t know how Edward Snowden – the computer analyst whistleblower who leaked classified documents leading to revelations about America’s surveillance on phone and internet communications – feels right now. But however he may feel, I think Snowden’s feeling would be absolutely infinitesimal compared to the agonizing feeling desperados afterward have for revealing classified information about themselves because they wanted to attract sympathy, evoke emotions, or receive favour. I don’t know if women almost always fall more than men here. I can’t tell. I don’t know. I’m not sure. Perhaps someone could conduct this research. That would be nice. Till then.
My fellow desperado, I would have you know that this art has landed people in catastrophes of cataclysmic proportion. Travel back with me in history.
Case in point: An Israeli king lost his throne.
“Saul…(and) his soldiers…(were) scared to death. He waited seven days, the time set by Samuel. Samuel failed to show up at Gilgal, and the soldiers were slipping away, right and left. So Saul took charge…He went ahead and sacrificed the burnt offering. No sooner had he done it than Samuel showed up…Saul answered, “When I saw I was losing my army from under me, and that you hadn’t come when you said you would…So I took things into my own hands… “That was a fool thing to do,” Samuel said to Saul. “If you had kept the appointment that your God commanded, by now God would have set a firm and lasting foundation under your kingly rule over Israel. As it is, your kingly rule is already falling to pieces…”
Another case in point: A patriarch births a global warlord.
“Sarai, Abram’s wife, hadn’t yet produced a child. She had an Egyptian maid named Hagar. Sarai said to Abram, “…sleep with my maid. Maybe I can get a family from her.” Abram agreed to do what Sarai said…Abram had been living ten years in Canaan when this took place. He slept with Hagar and she got pregnant. When Hagar learned she was pregnant, she looked down on her mistress…Sarai was abusive to Hagar and Hagar ran away. An angel of God found her beside a spring in the desert; it was the spring on the road to Shur… He said, “Hagar…go back to your mistress….from this pregnancy, you’ll get a son: Name him Ishmael…He’ll be a bucking bronco of a man, a real fighter, fighting and being fought, always stirring up trouble, always at odds with his family…”
Desperation is the natural action – a foolish one – of a person who is trapped in a cage called time.
It shows in the frequency of your emails, phone calls, text messages, personal visits, unnecessary niceties, and excessive Public Relations. Once people get to know that you’re desperate, they’ll treat you less than you’re worth, less than you deserve, less than they should.
So, let me get this clear to you:
The solution to desperation is the two keys on your input device: Control and Delete.
You Control. You Delete.
So when ‘internal hurricanes’ gather momentum inside you, or external pressures mount outside you, first press Control and hold for at least thirty minutes.
Then press Delete. Keep repeating these actions in cyclic continuance. At its very best, this ‘therapy’ is for alleviation, not eradication.
Recall that I told you I’m in transition.
I applied for de-registration. Breaking news is that club management has accepted my resignation. So I’m out of the club. My name is finally off the list. Henceforth you refer to me as an ex-club member.
Dear desperado, I advise you to resign from Desperate People’s Club.
Bow out in pride. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Decide that from today, from now, you’ll live an honourable life.
With warm affection,
Your ex-club member,
These are not necessarily my experiences. I had to play the character. I had to write in the 1st person so I could effectively articulate my thoughts.