And other things I doubt
My therapist has this way about him. Speaking gently when the voices in my head are screaming at me. You feel alone, like you have no one to be 100% honest with. Your support group, your friends, your family have no idea.
I tell him: Sylvia Plath once said, ‘I talk to God but the sky is empty.’ That’s how I feel right now, totally alone in this great big universe. I survived three suicide attempts. Maybe I got a second-third-fourth chance because of some greater cosmic purpose. Or, maybe, God made a mistake.
I don’t have a pastor when I need one the most.
It’s funny, you know. Working in a church when you don’t have a pastor. Funnier even than the fact that this writer used to want to be an Engineer. I believe in science because force always equals mass times acceleration, and density always equals mass over volume, and the force of gravity always equals mass times 9.8 meters per second per second. Maybe my mass is too big; I take up too much space.
Science is always true. Always the same. Of course, things get messed up at the quantum level, but on some level aren’t we all messed up. At least that’s what my therapist says. Maybe I’m not so alone as I think I am.
I don’t like people getting too close because I’m afraid that deep deep down, they’ll find out I’m a terrible person. Because sometimes terrible things happen, and I think I could’ve should’ve stopped it. But that’s a burden that’s not mine to carry. Believe me, I’ve tried.
Terrible people don’t worry if they’re terrible people, my therapist assures me.
There’s an exception to every rule.
As they were raping me, they told me no one would ever love me, that I deserved it, that it was all I’d ever be worth. Some nights I lie awake in bed trying to fight the voices: I know you know that they’re lying to you.
But what if they’re not?
The what if what if what ifs ring out in my head over and over again, and the things I doubt become stronger and stronger.
I’m a writer because I doubt, because I’m still trying to figure things out. The mysteries of life are too big to be quantified by some equation. I’m a writer because I have more questions than I have answers, because I doubt more than I believe.
I doubt I’ll ever be loved, I’ll ever be wanted, I’ll ever have a purpose.
I believe that the ground will stand firm beneath my feet. But on the days when my depression is bigger than my hope, the ground seems shaky at best. Still, my faith is bigger than the things I doubt, and I get up anyway.
I get up anyway because once He whispered in my ear you’ll be ok. And I was. Not every day and always. But again. I’ll be ok again.