September 22, Third Age 3020
I deserve some self-pity, damn it
If, as I have realized, a part of me is dead, then why should not the rest of me go with it? Why is a part of me still alive? How could it ever leave off its grieving to smile, and laugh, and make jokes about its pain?
These questions have run ceaselessly through my head since last I opened this book more than six months past. Suddenly, I could not bear to read my lighthearted earlier entries, knowing that there was no justification for the relief I felt back then – that whether or not it was my struggle that enabled it, what I had fought for had been won, and that my ordeal must be over. Did I force myself to laugh then, I with my long-standing contempt of people who are shamelessly sorry for themselves? Did I shy away from my own pain because I did not want to acknowledge that I shouldn't begrudge myself a bit of self-pity, and that I was the only one who did begrudge it? I mocked the fear of my nightmares, I laughed about my difficulties with the finger that was bitten from my hand, I wrote of my own half-death with good humor half a year ago, and why? Because I felt that I needed to be stoical about the maiming of my soul as well? I have never stopped feeling the pain of my memories, and I allowed the Shire to become another casualty in this war – though it has begun to mend and will heal quickly, thanks to Sam and Lady Galadriel.
But I am a casualty that now I fear will not be mended. My ordeal is not over, despite my initial feeling of relief; perhaps that was only a wish. I thought, when I felt a twinge of my old wound last October, that only memory, triggered by the nearness of the place where I sustained that wound, brought it on. But on March 13, nowhere near to the pass of Cirith Ungol, I was more than pained by the scar of the spider's sting on the back of my neck; I fell into present memories of my torment – of Mordor. Fever fit, hallucination, whatever it was – it felt too real. I could feel the weight of the Ring around my neck, burning in a wheel of fire on my breastbone, and I reached for it – I wanted it, wanted to know it was there – but instead Queen Arwen's gem met my grasp, cool and intricately crafted, so unlike the smooth, simple band I fully expected and fully desired to find. I should have been reassured and relieved to find that it was only a fever dream that caused me to feel the Ring there, but I was disappointed: the corrupted part of my soul grieved that it was gone; my own heart grieved to find that even in its death, I still wanted it. It was not there to force me to desire it, to preserve it, but the desire had not gone. And that may be the worst unmended wound of all, for if not the desire, then the grief pains me even when my shoulder, neck, and hand are quiet.
And so I closed this book, and locked it away from my sight, my hopes of healing to live out a peaceful, joy-rich life in the Shire – hopes that had already suffered irreparable damage when I returned to find my homeland no longer untouched by the Shadow – all but dead, along with what in me still had the strength to give her, my home, all the love I owe her. I did not know what I had left to give; I was sure that all my love and ardor and spirit had been destroyed when the Ring fell, or when I claimed it there on Mount Doom, or perhaps when I first took on the burden and it began to eat at my heart. The first deluge of utter despair subsided, of course, and I took care to appear as normal and cheerful as ever to Sam and Rose. But in my mind, the memory of the thoughtless optimism in the earlier pages of my 'Random Musings' grew out of proportion to leer at me, to laugh mockingly at me because it laughed at all.
Half a year went by, and I told myself not to be oppressed by the relentlessly vital summer sun; not to resent the laughter and liveliness of children; not to begrudge Sam the peace and completeness I could see in his smile when he tended his garden, his back aching, his fingers crusted with dirt, and all of him drenched in sweat. Whenever I tried to divert myself by helping Sam in the garden, I could feel flowers flinching away from my hands, however I wanted to believe it was only my pessimistic imagination. They sensed the brooding darkness in me; they sensed that I did not love them as I ought, or could not love them, just for a simple delight in growing things, the delight that lends gentleness to Sam's touch. Of course, it is equally likely that the flowers simply sensed that I didn't know what I was doing.
And it just slipped out again, that elusive sense of humor that has no right to exist.
The days have grown shorter and cooler; twilight, the time for reflection, comes sooner with every day. And October nears as well, when I fear I shall have to face the pain again. If I do, I wish to face it with a clearer mind, having achieved some sort of resignation out of my bitterness, if never acceptance or peace. So I opened this book again – on my birthday, interestingly enough – and faced my fear of its laughter, and laughed. Yes, I suppose I still do find myself amusing.
How can I still laugh? I must ask myself, and for once answer unflinchingly. In part, of course, it is because the Shadow is fled and the King has returned, because the war was fought and won in the end, because valor has been rewarded with joy in life or honor in death. Even Gandalf laughed for pure mirth after the darkness departed; how could one not laugh? Although the great Shadow must cast a smaller shadow that will fade in time but never truly flee, the light that may shine when the dark has passed is "like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!" (an apt description that only Samwise could be wise enough to compose). And, in part, I still laugh because I am not a pessimist. I am not as optimistic as I once was, but I think that out of the ashes of the half of my soul that was burned away, I have begun to build a new sense of joy – a graver joy, but no less true.
But I suppose another part of the answer is that I do not suffer as much as I might if I clearly remembered all of what passed in Mordor. I remember fire, and thirst, and weariness, and pain, but little more than this general impression of torment. I suppose it must be because I was hardly even thinking anymore, let alone thinking in words; my mind simply stopped working, trying to shield itself from the darkness by retreating into its own darkness. Images have begun to return, and I to piece them together, but little else. But I remember that Sam was my light – the only light that shone into my benighted soul.
My truly clear memories stop…sometime in the Tower of Cirith Ungol and start again when Gollum attacked Sam and me on the slopes of Mount Doom…everything after that is perfectly lucid. And I wish I could truly say that the Ring had fully possessed my unwilling consciousness and commanded my unwitting body to put it on when I gave into it; but it merely spoke to the ever-growing part of my heart that wanted to give in. No one – not even I – could blame me if my whole heart had been struggling against it even as I gave myself up; but the Ring was clever. So clever that at the end, I hardly knew it was my enemy; all I knew was that when I obeyed it and put it on, there was no more pain. That I remember because – and it shames me even now to admit it to this page, to myself – my mind was awake again, or thought it was. I did not choose to put on the Ring, perhaps, but what I had become did.
I think it almost surprising, now, that after I returned to Minas Tirith, my first question about the parts of the War of the Ring of which I myself could not give a firsthand account was to ask Sam about the journey through Mordor that I could not remember. I suppose that I felt – or wanted to be – ready to confront what I should not have had to ask someone else about at all. I felt that I had to face it before I could call myself worthy to face anything else. And he told me that in the heart of the Land of Shadow, I could not remember the rabbit stew that Sam made for us in Ithilien. I can hardly believe it of a memory that is so dear to me now. And I think it wounded Sam deeply to learn that I could not remember, though he never blamed me; it wounded him more deeply than the loss of his beloved pots and pans. Dear Sam.
But to return to my question – how can I laugh? How, if I have any memory at all of the pain? How, if I know what it took from me? How, if I know that I failed, and that only by chance did the earth and I survive?
Because I'd go mad if I didn't. I have to laugh and love and find joy in what joy is left to me, so I do. I could not live, else.
There. I've faced it and answered as unflinchingly as I could. Did I flinch? Yes, I did. My clear memories stop after I was stripped and shamed and beaten in the tower of Cirith Ungol, all the time saying over and over to myself that the Ring was gone, Sauron would soon have it, and all the world would fall. But what selfishly concerned me the most at the time was that my whole life, or what remained of it, would be torture and slavery and pain and shame – and there would be no end to the shame of knowing that I was not strong enough to carry the burden that was mine.
Now I've answered unflinchingly, and now I'm going to have a good, long cry and a better, longer nap.
…and there's that unreasonable sense of humor again.
Author's Note: Well, this is just my interpretation. I've read angst wherein Frodo remembers everything perfectly clearly and is a lot more screwed up than my Frodo. I'm writing one that fights to be able to live happily in Middle-earth for longer, but nonetheless has a lurking and sometimes surfacing suspicion all along that he can't.
OK, since I've now seen The Return of the King twice since my last post, here's my assessment: WTF? What was with Denethor flying in a flaming ball off the cliff? And Gandalf beating him up? And the who-stole-the-lembas-from-the-cookie-jar crap with Gollum, Sam, and Frodo? And Frodo the Spider Web Mummy (God, that was undignified!)? And the Arwen-dying-somehow-because-of-Sauron randomness? I knew Saruman's demise and the Houses of Healing were going to be missing and are going to be on the extended DVD, but it still bugged me. I adore the Éowyn and Faramir love story! But otherwise, it was great. The scene where Faramir's suicide charge and Pippin's song were intertwined was wonderfully artistic; the interweaving of the desperate stand at the Black Gate and Frodo and Sam's struggle up Mount Doom was heartbreaking (two lines that really get to me: Sam's "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you" and Aragorn's "For Frodo"); and the Grey Havens scene made me cry in the book, so they'd really have to have screwed it up for it not to make me cry in the movie.
Keeping the rant short. Next entry may or may not be written. Foreseeing about…twenty entries total? Some of the last ones are probably going to be very short, not because I'm rushing to get it over with or feeling uninspired, but because Frodo's thoughts are becoming desultory and brevity is the soul of profundity, as I said in chapter 3.