Sometimes stuff happens that you really don't understand. You don't understanding the timing of it. You don't understand why it happens. And you don't even really understand what exactly is happening. But stuff happens anyways- around you, to you, inside of you. About two years ago, stuff happened. Scary stuff. Confusing stuff. Stuff on top of stuff that led to other stuff.
Three years ago, this time of the year, I was depressed. I was tired, unmotivated, lonely even with my best friends, confused, irritated, and empty. I would attempt to fill up with exciting things but it was like eating air- unsatisfying, unhealthy, and leaving me with a belly-ache. I have all these sad little self-portrait-memories in my head: Me sitting on the counter and crying in front of my family; Me sitting on the coffee table crying in front of my friends; Me laying on the couch, not crying because I couldn't muster anymore tears; Me with glazed-over eyes, seeing the world through fog; Me without a smile, monotone and grey; And me, sick so often and for such long periods of time because I had no reason to want to get better. That stuff was painful. For a whole year, I dealt with that stuff. I went to counseling, I got help, I started to get better. Then stuff happened on top of that stuff.
The phone rang one day and I answered. The man laughed and I was confused. I hung up and shrugged it off until it happened again and again. Then he left me messages, then he told me what was coming, he warned me what I would get. I called the police, I carried mace, I drove laps around town before going home. I was scared. I thought, "bad things really do just happen for no reason." And just when I was starting to remember that it didn't, I was shown: life sucks.
I had good friends, and good people who took good care of me. But all that good on the outside just mocked all the bad I was feeling on the inside. I quit the job that brought that man closer to me and I hid myself away. I went from house to house, spare room to couch to spare room. I smiled a little and pretended but every time I saw a mirror I knew- there was hardly anything left inside of me. There were a lot of mirrors after a while. It seemed like every true friend was holding one up as I passed by. So I started staring deep at the little that I saw and willed myself to find something to fight for. Something glimmered and I'm not sure it was hope- maybe more the shiny gloss of an illusion. An imaged future that glows simply because it is not the dingy tinge of here and now. So I packed my things and moved west to a place I didn't really know. But my heart was never in the "dream" I was following. My heart was still scared, and empty- and now it was lonely too. I watched a lot of movies. I read ridiculous books. I went to a lot of happy hours. And pretended I could have a relationship. There were really only two good things that I did regularly in the few short months that I lived over the mountains. The first lightened my heavy spirits and the second saved my life. I watched my one and a half year old niece. We'd watch PBS together and walk to the library. She'd knock on my bedroom door after nap time and sometimes she would fall sleep in my bed while I read. I taught her some colors and pushed her on the swing until she was too worn out to hold her little head up. And the best was pretending she was my own to other moms and dads at the park. It's hard to hate everything with a little tiny person, holding on to you with their little tiny hand and telling you with their little tiny voice that she loves you. It lightened- it lifted, when I was weighed down. It prepared my heart for what would save me in the end.
The other thing of value- rather more invaluable: Every morning I woke up; put on layers of clothes and left the house when it was barely light. In the snow and in the rain, I walked two miles to church- up a horrible hill that I hated. I went to mass, prayed the rosary and read the words of the saints who loved Mary more than I knew how. Then I walked back home. Every day I did this -even though I didn't want to. I guess I didn't know what else to do. It wasn't fun. Or even very peaceful. It was hard. It was empty. My heart was as cold to the joy and consolation of prayer as the winter air that I walked through each morning. But still I walked and still I prayed.
I didn't know it at the time but stuff was happening inside of me. Each day as I journeyed I was growing stronger. I was formulating a desire. I was sparking and ever so slightly giving oxygen to a fire. A fire that would warm my cold heart and fill my empty soul. After 3 months, I moved back to town. I found a new home and job that I loved. I made some friends that took me into their hearts like a lost hungry puppy. They gave me the nourishment and affection I needed to venture wagging my tail once more. One friend in particular held me close. She asked of me and encouraged me to explore. She pointed out my new strength and helped me understand my growing desire. It was simple really. Simple yet complex. All I really wanted- all I needed- all this time- was something real. Something true. In this world of fakes- fake happiness, fake love, fake people- all I desired was something truly real.
...TO BE CONTINUED...(as soon as I can figure out a way to make a story about not pooping for 9 days sound as monumental and earth shatteringly important as it was.)
