I stay up and wonder why.
Why the desert.
Why the hollow.
I’ve spent six weeks with my spiritual guide. My sage. My yogi. My Ace.
I’ve been inspired and taught and shaped and explored.
But my heart comes up crumbly and achy and dry.
I have no scriptures on my tongue.
No heart revelations.
No shouting from the heavens.
Not even a faint whisper.
I’m far away. Or He is. I feel like a sick cliché. The words are not enough.
Peaks and valleys?
This is a valley.
The valley smells like diapers and baby’s breath and fish cookies and rotten milk.
It is lonely.
No one can reach me here.
Nick can try all he wants. He will be greeted by my corpse.
Welcome. Take my body. Hold my hand. Dance my legs around the kitchen.
This heart is broken. These bones are dead. You cannot breathe life into me. You can’t shake it out of me either.
He will hold my flopping, fragile skeleton in his arms and ask me, beg me,
Why is this your posture towards me? Why are you so angry?
(Someone figure out the answer because I don’t want to pay for therapy.)
Why am I so angry?
Maybe angry isn’t the right word. It’s more, a lack of joy.
Lack of joy.
Sorrow. Is sorrow a better word?
Yes. That feels like the posture of my heart.
Anger and sorrow. Hand in hand. Bosom buddies. Best friends.
Does that mean I’m depressed? Do I need medicine? Do other people feel this way? Will it fade?
It’s not a can’t-get-out-of-bed problem or can’t-function-in-my-life problem. I can be a mom. I can even be a good mom. I can be a behavior analyst. I can even be a good behavior analyst. I can fill in the blank anything. I can even be a good fill in the blanker.
It feels deeper than that. Or more shallow. I’m not sure.
Something in me is off.
It’s right on the surface but I can never catch it. Never put my finger on it.
The sorrow comes out sideways. Usually on Nick. Always on Nick. I can be a pretty charming girl until you close the door to my bedroom. Then? Watch out, bitches.
The joy escapes me. And it is deep, deep, loneliness I feel. Sorrow. Anger. Empty.
When I speak, joy is a forced tone.
I want people to think I’m happy. Am I happy? Is this how happy people feel?
I want them to believe my narrative because maybe if they believe it, I’ll believe it too.
What I find most confusing is that I’m living the exact life I want. I would not change a single thing. I have it all. Nick (anyone who knows him knows it doesn’t get better.) Two healthy, happy babies. I am the 1%. I can live anywhere I want. I can work in a field that I am deeply passionate about. I can stay home with my babies and make a million more. I have everything. I even have Jesus!
Which just confuses me more.
I’m a Christian. And shouldn’t that make it better? If I was really connected to the divine flow, if I really am part of this bigger and better thing, shouldn’t I be healed? Or not sick in the first place? If I’m really saved, if I really believed, wouldn’t this sorrow go away?
So, I lie in bed or drive in my car and beg.
Jesus. I don’t want this. I want you. I want to follow you.
I don’t want sorrow to live here anymore. I don’t want it to sleep in my bed and walk with me while I take out the trash. I don’t want sorrow at my dinner table or in the laundry room or creeping in the backyard. I don’t want sorrow to lick my wounds and scratch me in the face. Please.
I don’t want sorrow to follow me into motherhood.
Into my friendships.
I don’t want sorrow to rob me of my life.
I want meaty, fleshy, blood and gutsy Shawna. I want a Shawna that is so big, she spills out the sides and leaks out the top. I want a life so full it cannot be contained in these 68 inches.
I love Glennon because she speaks over and over and over again that just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean you are doing it wrong. It’s hard because life is hard.
It is hard to be full.
Full, living, flesh and bones, ultra-meaty/bleedy/gory Shawna, wants Jesus.
She wants to be connected to The Vine. She wants to be a growing and changing part of The Movement.
Sitting down and reading the news and going to the Jump Place and to Target to buy diapers is not enough. I am dissatisfied. I am also an entitled, privileged, spoiled brat. I recognize that.
But I also want to scream because we were made for something bigger than this tiny, boxy, version of life. We were created for something bigger than this tiny, boxy, version of Jesus.
I want to scream because DOES ANYONE ELSE SEE WHAT IS GOING ON HERE? HOW ARE YOU ALL SO HAPPY? WE ARE LIVING SO SMALL.
I am so safe and comfortable that the realities of poverty and genocide and war and starvation and slavery are blocked from my view by Victoria’s Secret models and Starbucks logos and Taylor Swift’s cat. I’ve got an iPhone 6 and Abercrombie jeans on. I bathe in drinking water. I pee in drinking water. I swim in drinking water. I’ve never been hungry.
I do not risk. I do not worry. I do not think of anyone but myself. I don’t have to.
I’m bored with my weak faith.
I see no pain. I feel pain no pain. I hear no pain.
And it is literally killing me.