5:30 a.m. I awake to a horrible ringing in my ears. It takes a while for me to realize that it is only the chiming of the alarm clock. The shower feels so good I don’t want to leave it. I finally step into my day realizing that it isn’t the big things that will destroy me. It’s the devastation of the day-to-day that will be my undoing.
The contrast of the freedom of vacation with the servitude of the day does not escape me. I work less hours for less pay and the money is never enough. I see my future wiping trays in McDonalds or as a greeter at the doors of a Wal-mart. It’s hard to get excited about what lies ahead. This line of thinking is like dipping myself in acid. It eats away at me. Time to write. I’m looking for salvation. Maybe the words will take me there.
I grew up in a land in which happiness was highly suspect. Pessimism was a birthright. Sarcasm intersected almost every conversation. Those who chose optimism as a way to cope with the challenges of life were dissected by our critical natures. So much of this nature nourished by our status quo–the ethos of the empty glass.
Around 9 p.m. the dog woke from her usual evening slumber and danced and scratched at the door. She had to go outside. She can never be expected to go alone. She requires the presence of the “potty coach.” At first, this need irritated me. No creature should need a potty coach.
In time, I gave in to the coaching. I realized that for what ever reason, that is what my dog needs and I can give it to her. It’s not hard really. In the act of encouragement, I find a certain comfort and peace but this was only found under layers of resistance. I had to stop thinking about what “should” happen and simply accept what was happening. This last sentence is easy to write but very difficult to live.
My personal relationship with God and my faith is something I usually keep secret. I’m not comfortable discussing my lifeline to the Divine. Spiritual abuse victims often act this way. I am one.
Yet, the truth remains. God matters to me. Faith matters. Some days it is all I have. And, despite all that has happened to me, to victims of religion everywhere, to the vulnerable, to the weak, I can’t deny that I believe.
I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.