I was saying, "I'm not even a uselses piece of rubbish washed upon the shore. At least then I might do more than make the beach dirty. If I were wedged somewhere along the coastline, an art student might pick me up and throw me into her found still-life collage; a bum might discover some value in my material; a sea gull could, I don't know, add me to its nest.
"But I'm not even that. I'm still wandering, floating, littering the sea with absolutely no more purpose than that of a shipwrecked raft. I am polluting the water with my presence."
He didn't respond; at least, I didn't hear him, but I'm pretty sure he was glad I finally realized this.
So I asked, "Please, just show me how to wash up on shore. At least then we're getting somewhere." And after that, I was finally able to sleep.
I had been reading old school Donald Miller when the words "I am the problem," stabbed me in the heart. He writes, "I think every conscious person, every person who is awake to the functioning principles within his reality, has a moment where he stops blaming the problems in the world on group think, humanity and authority, and starts to face himself. I hate this more than anything . . . the problem is not out there; the problem is the needy beast of a thing that lives in my chest."
I know this too well. Had I been focused on rectifying my own behavior rather than contributing to the problem, I might not be wallowing in absolute shame and humility...again.
I am terrified to try to defy gravity. I keep failing at it. I deny the purpose of my existence and continually prove that I know absolutely nothing of love.
He told me that his response when people ask what happened between us is always, "Claire just isn't the girl I fell in love with," and at once I selfishly wondered what happened that finally marked me as unlovable.
I felt like American cheese. Not like a Leicestershire Stilton, whose texture and robust flavor become refined with age; but an unnatural, processed slice of Velveeta that is at home among kindergartners and others who lack taste buds. I guess that means he lost a taste for me. Or he outgrew me. Or he realized that I am a better theory than actuality. As self-centered as one such realization was, I had to ask myself how many others were disappointed in my life...and these humans don't even know the disgusting depths of my heart.
I ran home and tore through every drawer and shelf and cabinet, looking for something - anything - that might remind me of who I am. I wanted a letter from my Dad, a card from my Mom, a note from a sister...anything that might say, "you are loved." And I sobbed when I came across my Africa pictures, because the Khassonke woman preparing millet in Burkina Faso never even had a chance in life to be as despicably human as I am. And I wanted to wanted to vomit when I found a final credit card bill that had taken me years to pay off - I had saved the last statement as a reminder of a materialistic and irresponsible creature I never wanted to resemble again.
I rummaged through far too many letters of apology from friends. "I'm sorry I hurt you so bad," "please find it in your heart to forgive me," "just one more chance," and marveled at the truth - that I was most likely wrong in each of those situations but far too proud to admit it.
When I finally found the letters my parents wrote me after I was suspended from school in eighth grade, I knew I had found the indication of love I had wanted before, but it left me feeling anything but fulfilled. I remembered what someone said a few days ago about a particular man's affection for a woman: "I'm trying to understand what he sees in her," and I couldn't stop asking myself the same thing.
What use, what potential, what possible reason could my creator have found in bringing me into existence? I wanted to know, so I asked, but I'm still not certain. DM continued on his rant about whether humanity is inherently good or evil and concluded by saying, "...the soul was not designed for this. WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD."
When my mom called today, I told her everything. I cried in my car for half an hour and she said, "yes, there is much to prove. But, Claire, I'm not worried about you. You are okay. I love you."
And then I stopped crying. And then I went back to work. And now it's the weekend. And I guess, now that I'm not completely blind, I do have a chance to be okay. And I do have a valley to traverse. And beyond that valley another. And so on.
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