Just breathe

I don't know why I'm awake at 1:30 in the morning, listening to my husband's peaceful breathing as he sleeps this night away.

I don't know why I was awake at 1:30 yesterday morning.

Or 3:30.

Or 5:30.

But I was. And I am. And the only explanation that I can think of is that I'm thinking of too much. Verily, I say unto you, I have a lot on my mind.

Basically, I ache. My body aches, my mind aches. My psyche and my ego and my spirit all ache. And the completely sucky thing about it is that I don't feel that I can really write it all down publicly, that I can tick each thing off, one by one, and explain it so that it makes sense. It doesn't make sense. Instead, I just sit here feeling discouraged, disillusioned and confused. As far as I can figure, I'm sitting here trying to dull the ache that keeps stabbing at me by avoiding everything. Even sleep.

Which is kind of ironic, because for the past two days, I've seen very little reason to even get out of bed. Yesterday, I stayed in my room until 3 o'clock in the afternoon, shuffling back and forth between computer, pillow and blanky, potty, pillow and blanky and computer. At 1 o'clock, my seven-year-old delivered two hot dogs on too-big sub sandwich buns after I begged my sixteen-year-old to make me something. Anything. I wolfed them down greedily and returned to my mind-numbing non-activities.

At 3, I dragged myself out of bed to go to my children's choral concert. I wanted to be there, but I didn't want to go. Fortunately, I dressed. I didn't shower. I didn't really care. I made a lame attempt at straightening my hair, which made me even more depressed. Several times during the evening, I was angered, insulted, offended and hurt. But did I say anything? No. I just ingested it. I think I'll just keep sucking it all down until it boils out of me, exploding like a faulty pressure-cooker, scalding everyone within range. Thank God for my husband, who listened sympathicially to my intolerant snobbery. How did I end up with such a gem? Why did he get such a raw deal?

Today, I stayed in bed until almost 2. I spent a lot of time crying and questioning God. Questioning the very existence of God. If there is a God, and I somehow still think there is, even though I don't think He exists the way we think He exists, I don't think He operates the way we think He operates. He doesn't listen to prayers. Or at least He doesn't answer them. Not mine, anyway. That's coming from me. The eternal optimist. Miss "there-has-to-be-a-way." From the time I was a tadpole, I believed that God would answer my prayers, that He saw the little-girl me kneeling by the window and gazing up at the stars, praying fervently, looking for a sign, even though her own parents never taught her how to pray.

But I never got a pony. And my mother never quit being abusive. And my parents did divorce. And my body still aches. And people still depress me. And...

And I'm thinking a lot of other awful things that I can't say right now. But I can say that I've spent the past couple of weeks feeling pretty discouraged. And I can't even write about it. But I just need to say this one thing aloud.

I'm very unhappy right now.

So if you happened to stumble upon this unhappy piece of writing, and you're very unhappy, too, I can do for you want I can't do for myself. I can hope. And I can pray for you. And I can believe that things are going to get better for you. I really can. Isn't that just certifiably insane? Maybe that's what this whole human-interaction thing is all about, that the very people that you desperately need to lift you up and hold you close against them simply can't do that. They just don't have it in them. But some person, sitting in front of a glowing computer screen on some other contininent, or maybe just in a different house minutes down the road from you, or out in the middle of an African jungle, can pray for your desires, can breath hope into those oxygen-deprived corners of your life. And maybe you'll feel new life, and you won't even know why. But tonight, it's because I'm here, praying for you when I don't know how to pray for myself.

And maybe someone can do the same for me. Maybe tomorrow (today), I'll wake up refreshed, ready to run three miles. Ready to decorate for Christmas. Ready to make cookies, and do laundry, and cook meals, and have conversations with my kids. Maybe, for a moment or two, I'll feel attractive, and I'll feel worthy, and I'll feel like my problems aren't as bad as all that, even though nothing else will have changed. I'll just have fresh oxygen, fresh air in my lungs, from out of nowhere.

All we have to do is keep breathing.

So take a deep breath, my friend. I'm breathing, too.