There are just so few good things to do with the anger, I said.
And he said, I think you ought to start blogging again. Are these confessions, or just disclosures?
So here is a real confession.
Confession: On the dark days, it is often the opening lines from the breastplate of Saint Patrick that get me out of bed.
I arise today through a mighty strength,
The invocation of the Trinity
Through belief in the Threeness
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of creation.
This morning, even that failed to rouse. I lay there thinking Is there any other way? So I tried it out in the prayer. I lie here today through a mighty strength, the invocation… No, it just didn’t have the same ring. I lay longer. And then when the last moment had come, I pushed back the covers, and I rose.
This is the stage that all of Shari’s thinking blog readers have been dreading for years, when her humor and good sense desert her and she disintegrates into dramatic, navel-gazing grief for weeks on end.
Or maybe it’s the stage that only I have been dreading. But it came.
I promise myself I will not stay here. I will walk through the losses one day at a time; I will remember I am not the only girl in pain; I will push back those covers. There are so few ways to talk about unresolved pain when you’re in the middle of the story; and my personhood prefers to wait, to do my wailing privately and come out afterwards to boast about what I’ve learned, and how much stronger I am. (After I died behind the scenes.) I do a lot of public smiling and private cussing these days, trying (and failing) to find appropriate words for the hellfire unredeemedness of our situation. I confess to the Lord I am turning into a potty mouth when no one is listening, and then I do it some more. It is good his ears have thick skin. I hope.
My husband admitted today that there are moments he wants to give me a good chewing out. When I’m angry at situations and I’m taking it out on him. He finds himself starting to do it under his breath, and then he says to himself, I love that girl. He has never once chewed me out in our years of marriage. I used to wish he would, used to think his ire would be better than his quiet. Now I have seen enough of life to know I was wrong, and to count his charity my greatest gift, and to know that I don’t deserve it. Sometimes his silence is eloquent enough that I do all my confessing without prompting. Last night he walked into the kitchen and stood across the island and looked at me, waiting, and I began to say all the things I was thinking and doing, and ended by crying; and he came and gave me a long hug, and I was home again. I love that boy.
But I am angrier than I can say, at all the things I cannot change and all that is WRONG. Of course it is wrong if it is against my interests.
And I hate a few people.
I will tell you more about that
For today, at least I arose through a mighty strength, and that is something.