May 15th 2022
I, I, I (perhaps this is the problem)
I wish sometimes, with sinful envy, that I could do things as easily as other people. I wish that I could get places five minutes early; that I could manage my money, or at least have the business strengths to get a job that pays well or work two without falling apart, without wondering if I enjoy it.
I wish sometimes that I didn’t function so much off of emotion—that I could excel working at something that I do not love, but I know it’s nearly impossible, if possible at all.
How is it that some people can do things for the first time and not be anxious? How is it that people can function well?
I wish that I could go to the airport’s off-site parking and not be anxious about being lost on my way to the terminal.
I canceled my trip to LA because I was afraid bad things would happen again. Was I really searching for God’s will, or was I afraid?
My heart races before the thought of getting on a bus because any time I did, I couldn’t get to a destination without getting lost in the middle of nowhere. I now live in terror that I will be on a train that I have no idea where it’s headed and that I’ll be stopped by an older man who knows everywhere in the city who will tag around me to keep me safe, like the several times it has happened before, and I was too scared to make them angry.
Now I avoid even private shuttles, even if that’s the best I can afford.
Why can’t I just learn the first time?
Why can’t I just do “normal” things?
I wish I could say “no.”
I wish that when I’m alarmed, my ears wouldn’t clog up with hot air so that the people outside of me sound like they were screaming through underground tunnels of soaking wet clouds.
I wish I wouldn’t tighten and cry when I’m in a loud room dancing with people.
I wish that I wouldn’t always fall in love with people who cannot love me back and that I’d stop writing and gift-giving to those who don’t love me.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to sleep every night, instead of tossing and turning and thinking someone else is in the room, watching me by the window?
I wish I could talk about things besides other worlds. I wish I wasn’t envious of those who have a much more objective thing to show for success. Sometimes, I wonder what it’s like to have friends that aren’t the nerdy art kids that need to be taken care of, but cool kids that are emotionally stable and like to do more things than read a book and drink tea. Do I wish for this, though?
I am angry about the things I cannot do. I cannot make my mother less lonely; I cannot put my sister through school. I cannot ease both my brothers’ tumultuous souls. I cannot make time stop.
I wish I could walk into a room and be completely invisible, but like everything else I’ve listed, I can’t. And honestly, with most everything, if I really wanted it, I would get it. I think all that I really can wish is that I wanted the things that other people wanted—but God made me, who is whining now to God, asking Him why.
Dear Lord, I’m like the guy always pushing a rock up a hill, just to watch it fall again. Why am I an artist? It sounds irreverent to ask. You yourself are an artist, Who fashioned the world out of your hands. BUT today I saw a blood moon and remembered why you made me different. And am I really different at all?