June 30, 2020

The bird kept chirping outside my window, as if in response to my hiccuping sobs. I wanted to pick up paper to write about it, this contrast between something beautiful and lively, and someone so lonely, but the thought of taking action was painful. I knew that to hold the pen would hurt my wearied, trembling fingers; to find a place to write would be inconvenient, and the whole process of looking for a pad of paper was too overwhelming to consider. Instead I was kept bowed, broken, in my chair.

After a while, my sobs cease, but the chirping of the bird increased. He had never been chirping for me in the first place. Nature was indifferent to me, as removed from me as if it could not care that I existed. But although I was removed from it, I cared very much. I wanted to be appreciative – engaging in it – but I was stuck inside, cold, lying in bed… I’m too tired to eat the food I just finished heating up.

But I knew that the longer I waited to eat, the worse I would feel.

There is a series of chapters in the Brothers Karamazov that begin with ‘lacerations at’. They talk about all the places where Alyosha receives pain to his heart - lacerations - that cut him open and tear at his sensitive soul. I would title this episode of my life: ‘lacerations at my brother’s.’

There is a desolation in the realization that a place that you considered a sanctuary is in fact a desert. That a place you thought you could escape to was really a desolate place. I want my weak body to be OK with the fact that there is no table at which to eat, no hot water to bathe in, no couch to sit on, no regular bed to lounge on. I want my body to accept that cast-iron pans are not from the devil, and that large 2 gallon jars of milk are not a cruel invention created by sadistic people.

But you see, it hurts me to hold my whole bowl of soup in my hands and I need a table to put it on. It hurts me to sit in wicker chairs and I need a couch to curl up on. My whole body is in pain all the time, and the only thing that takes it away is a bath of hot water. But the only way I can get it is to boil gallons of water on the stove and carry them across the expanse of the apartment - all the while making myself weaker and shakier, and more and more increasing my pain. The 2 gallon jar of milk is so heavy that I spill as much as I pour into my glass. And the cast iron pans are so heavy and bulky that they are impossible for me to lift and clean.

I wanted to come keep my brother company, but I did not account for all these things that bring me pain. I did not account for the fact that I would be miserable. And the bottom line is, that he does not much care about having me here. He cares more for the friend who just returned from college, with whom he spent his birthday evening, and went to lunch without me. If he really wanted me here, now or at another time, he would do his upmost to make the environment comfortable – ready for me, and for my mother. But that is not his concern. He is living his life, three hours from my home. He left, and perhaps he does not want to be with us unless he chooses to come back, which he does from time to time. Although it is impossible for me to spend quality time with him at those times, for we are surrounded by many people and conversation is not possible amongst the small children. I am alone anyway, and I need to stop being desperate to retain those people who I thought would be there for me - no matter what.

February 17, 2023

My master, I am afraid, but I know not of what. What fills me with fear? That I will experience pain? No. That I will have no way to deal with the pain, rather. That you will depart from me, and leave me destitute. How afraid I am of this! How my soul trembles. Do not depart from me. Do not leave me little and small and afraid. Oh Jesus, let me be strong. How afraid I am. How I yearn for you.

Is this the weakening? Will you weaken me by abandoning me? How afraid I am of this! Let the weakness be only physical, and may my spiritual interior remain like a giant among souls. How else can I bear the crosses you give me?

I despise everything. The yarn, the projects, the games, the people, even the idea of marriage, of praying to you, all these things fill me with disgust. I feel that nothing can again bring me happiness. All is sameness, like the texture and taste of dust. Though I hunger, I despise food, and I will not eat, although my body desires it. I feel a mighty sense of desire, but I can center on nothing which my soul desires. Even you, I feel, are only dust. That your presence is not true sweetness. Your mother, too, I feel, is just the same as she ever was.

How I hate to write these things, and I feel the most wretched of all your children. I do not desire to hurt you, but to understand. To know myself, and my sensations. I know that you are allowing these sensations, but I do not wish to acknowledge this. I hate that you are allowing this.

I have the strongest inclination to gorge myself on fine foods, though any examples that present themselves to my mind are foul. I want to throw myself into a bathtub and scrub vigorously, because I feel I must be dirty, and this is why I feel this way. Yet, my body is clean today and there is no purpose to this. If I run away, perhaps this will bring relief, my body suggests to me, but where would I go? How long would I last? I cannot even get up from this bed, nor is there anyone I desire to see. I want to stay here, yet I hate being seated. I am bored, and feel like I am failing, yet when I do things, they do not satisfy. I feel like I surround myself with ideas and inventions, and all are fruitless. There is no life in me. No benefit to my efforts. I am nothingness. Everything I do is the worst of all efforts, and everyone in the world is better than I at any pursuit.

Is this the dark night of the soul? How I abhor, of all ideas, that you will depart from me. You do not allow me to doubt your love and care, yet I despise my worthiness. I despise that you have only this to work with. It is like a great artist was given only a dirty wall as a canvas, and mud as the medium. How beautiful can he really make that? How beautiful can you really make me? I am mud. I am dirty. I am a wall. Spit upon me, this is all I deserve.

Yet I do not even know what has caused these feelings of unworthiness! I can center on no crime, no fault within me that is greater than the crimes or faults of others. I know that, on account of your grace, you have kept me from sin for so much of my life, and so it cannot be these accumulations of sins that causes this agony. Nor, even if I had before been the worst of sinners, I know that your mercy could have washed me clean, and Baptism or Confession would have made me a new child, had such a redemption been necessary. So it is not these things.

Therefore, I am so ungrateful! So destitute, because I have so much to be grateful for, and yet I hate myself, and you, and everything. When you withdraw, I am left with only miserable hatred.

I surrender this hatred to you. In fact, I gift it to you, because it is all I have right now. I do not know what benefit or pleasure you could possibly receive from this, but I offer it anyway. Perhaps your mother, who presents all my gifts before you, will wrap it so splendidly that it looks like joy. I do not know.

Praise your name forever! I will forever praise your name.