My mother was a harlot. My father was a charlatan. Too harsh. My mother was a vixen. My father was a viper. I was an annoyance, like a fly, mistakenly let in. I wanted love. Desperate for love, I thought I could make them love me. I don’t remember giving up. When my mother died, of course, and when my father left me. I was alone with my un-loveliness (i have never been unlovely, but even when love arrived I couldn’t pretend that I deserved it).
Love was meant for happy people, happy families. Happy was an illusion, though I was good at faking it. I remember the November afternoon I couldn’t do it anymore. Hopelessness, like cement in my stomach, drove me to despair. Giving up was a relief.
I’m sorry now, that I didn’t see any options. So tired, I wanted out. I couldn’t love my life. I couldn’t hope for happiness. I drank the wood varnish. I’m really grateful it didn’t kill me. Worse still blind me, or eat away my tongue.
I’m telling you this (albeit squeamishly) because I want the world to know that the Grace of God is real. And if you don’t believe in God, surely you know Love heals.
When you hit your bottom, there’s no place to go but up. It takes a good long time for your soul (and your body) to trust you but once they do, they will move mountains on your behalf.
I’m sorry for the friends I frightened. My dear brother, so mad at me. I’m sorry for years of resentment and disappointment, aimed like a weapon against myself. I didn’t know what to do with it. How to detonate the rage. I still get angry, but it moves through me. Doesn’t accumulate and stagnate, like a river with no outlet.
I’m not looking to lay blame. My life, and how I see it, is my responsibility. I’ve chosen to make it beautiful. Each day is a new beginning. A fresh attempt to bring wonder to the world. Each day is a miracle. A blessing. A gift. Hope is a vital spring, joyfully renewing the promise of redemption.