There was a time, not so
long ago (and forever ago, both at once), that I swore I could not feel. Did not feel.
There was a time, not so long ago (and forever ago, both at once) that my feelings
ran in a straight line between "fine" and "tired."
There was a time, not so long ago (and forever ago, both at once) that I
believed my emotions were so powerful, if I acknowledged them, if I allowed
them expression, they would be so powerful they would destroy me. I saw them as
Leviathan, a maelstrom of churning, burning energy, an endless and infinite
whirlpool that would suck me down and swallow me whole. I invested in them all
the power and capriciousness of an avenging god, who only waited in the shadows
to strike me down and smite me dead.
Talk about shut down! It took me years to admit that "tired"
is not an emotion. It took me even more time to admit that
I might have to actually learn how to feel something. Anything. As
numb as I was, that gaping hole inside-- the one that tried to keep God and the
world out, and me trapped in a tiny universe of one, the one that housed my
self-loathing and self doubt, the one that kept me enraptured with
self-destruction and addiction to more, that
blanketed me with isolation and whispered, from under rocks and dark corners
that I might as well drink, because alcohol smudged the lines of pain and left
in its wake the slow burn of abject surrender-- that hole was leaking my stiff
control into the real world and I hust couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't even
stay numb.
I had had glimpses of real love, even amidst the pain. I had allowed
myself a few moments to hope that it could be-- would be-- better. And in my
hope, the gods did not strike me down for my presumption. And thus began my
quest: to learn how to feel, how to be present and sit comfortably in my own
skin. I approached this much like I approach a still pond on a hot summer day:
toe outstretched, barely skimming the surface, delicately testing the waters. I
splashed in the shallow end for a while, water to my ankles, getting
acclimated, getting wet, venturing out in a widening circle, slowly,
hesitantly, depending upon my level of bravery on at any given moment.
And so I learned. Slowly. Hesitantly. I learned.
Mostly. I get happy and sad and mad and glad-- the basics, so I've discovered.
And I get wistful and frustrated and bored and joyful and distracted and a
thousand other things. Sometimes singly, sometimes in weird pastiches that
cycle a hundred feelings in an instant, leaving me breathless. I get to feel
all that stuff, every day. I stuck my toe in that dark and murky pool, eyes
screwed shut, until I could bear to leap. And I leaped. And I was not devoured.
So why is it, so many years
later, that just when I think my head Is just above water, that my toes have
finally found something solid upon which to stand, everything seems to have
shifted, and that solid ground Is nothing more than quicksand, sucking me
under?
When the hell did that happen?
I swear to God—I am a strong
and capable woman. I am successful, frighteningly intelligent, witty as hell.
Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m mired in a bog? The worst part—I can see
myself, holding the compass, and the road map, clearly outlined with “Here lie dragons marked
in glitter paint and arrows. I am holding the damned instruction manual in my
hands. I know I have all the tools, right there at my fingertips, and yet I
seem so incapable of navigating my way through my life.
I know a lot of things,
actually. I know that this, too, shall pass. I know that God is with me,
always. That my only job, really, is to love my son and help him find his own
path. I know that I have been whole, and sometimes feel broken. I know that I
have been caught, redeemed, loved and now feel lost. I know I still stutter and
stumble and avoid the phrases “I don’t know” and “I need help.”
I know that the longest journey
I’ve ever had to make is the one from my head to my heart. It seems like an
endless journey through a trackless and lonely desert.
I’ve been here before, In a
thousand different iterations, I have stood in this spot, lost and lonely and
afraid. And I am tired of this introspection. Tired of this interminable quest
to figure out what the hell is going on in my life, how I can feel happy in my
life, where is God in my life, on and on, ad nauseum. At some point, it becomes
self-indulgent and I come off as a pampered prima dona (feel free tp protest at
this point, that nothing I say could be further from the truth). I am so tired
of feeling like a tightly wound spring. I don’t know how to change this, so I
avoid it and go numb. I disconnect: one more piece of pain that I have to
confront, and I just can’t do it. Not today. I can only pretend to be brave for
so long.
I hate having to admit this. I am to old
to dance with these ghosts again, too old for this bout of existential angst
and self-doubt. I want to do it differently, to fix it, and it feels as if I
have slammed into a mountain of glass. I can’t find a handhold, my feet slip
and slide out from under me, leaving me prostrate and bruised.
But here’s the difference,
all impotence aside, all that quivery, fearful drowning-while-immobile, breathless
and clueless and broken-- I know one more thing: in the face of all this, act.
And so I do. In fits and
starts, sometimes with feet dragging, I act. I move. And then, I dive. Dive
inward , to find God and grace. Leap upward, light the torch, search for a hand
to hold in the darkness. I ask for help to find a soft spot upon which to land.
How much more miraculous, more holy can it get? How astounding, that in the
space between breaths, I find peace and the world changes. This is all holy
ground. It is measured in the space between you and me. It’s all there: the
sacred, the holy, surrounding us, connecting us, keeping us whole, Keeping me
whole.
If I can just commit, just
trust, just forgive, just love, then I would know I was in the presence of God.
Life is not what I
expected. Life is. That’s the deal. It’s bumpy and messy and scary and happy
and joyous and perplexing, in infinite variety and subtlety. And most of all:
changing. I get to participate in that. I get to do it well and fuck it up,
find moments of grace and spar with demons of my own devising. In the midst of
pain or doubt or joy or hope, it is not so dark: I am not so alone, as long as I
put one foot in front of the other. I get to find God, every day. I can be made
whole, every day. I can be healed, every day. None of this comes naturally to
me. It is still easier, at times, to disconnect than to willingly open up my
heart. But I have known God’s grace, and I have felt joy and love, and so I
struggle gladly to be human, every day.
God is here, in this place,
with me, and I---
Today I know it.