Never as much of a journal writer as I always wanted to be, I nevertheless have become one in the past week, writing beautiful entries as accounts of the way I want my life to be, to activate the Secret and bring my spirit to actually make the Secret work for me. And they are lovely accounts of that life, liberating in ways I could not have imagined. I always had in my head the picture of the future I wanted, but – though I was doubtful in the beginning – I have begun to see just how much more powerful it is to put it into words, to phrase it into reality.
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But this entry, my heart is full – full to the brim with misery and dread and dreadful unhappiness, and I must make a plea that for a time, I be allowed to feel my present in the midst of my concentrated efforts to bring about my future.
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I am breaking apart. I am dying inside. The whole of my waking hours is oppressed by the horrible circumstances that press down on my sore head. I wake every morning with a headache, and I have devolved to finding comfort in the tiniest things. I have always found pleasure and happiness, joy and satisfaction in the small pleasures of life, always believing that they are the only ones guaranteed you. But in this fraught time I have become a person of small things. I carry around my makeup just to know it’s there. I use my emollient hand cream to excess because the scent is one I associate with my books and music. I must read every night – not because, as before, it has become habit – but because it is my chief pleasure now. My eyes seek out the moon on my nightly runs because it soothes my throbbing soul. I keep my music on all day at work to be in a way a subtle escape, that sense of escape that comes from the mere promise of it.
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I have fallen to weeping at night, crying in the bathroom at school, not smiling at work. People come up when I think I’m doing an admirable job of acting normal, and just hug me. I am unable to escape this brooding, unbending sense of being trapped. And all the words I write to refocus my mind on my future, in the end, become again mere words, squiggles on the page that won’t stand still as I frantically scrabble for serenity because I’ve lost the focus it takes to simply rise into it.
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I have found myself relying on my “God” distinction of the Secret rather than “the universe,” my trials cutting through the baggage I kept lugging around toward God. Thinking of the Secret as “God” often felt too confusing, and everything became clearer when I simply thought of it as “the universe.” It has certainly occurred to me that the reason I must endure this valley of shadows that seems destined never to end is so that I could see God more clearly and depend up on him again. That’s fine. I don’t fight it. I recall as I write these words – I’d forgotten – that before all hell broke loose, before I could see my breaking point within whispering distance, I had thought with quiet resignation that if I could use the Secret for anything, it would be to find God and have a true, unwavering relationship with him. As I spoke those words, I could not fathom how that could happen, and even now as I write these words with new knowledge and possible understanding, I wonder if – should this indeed be the purpose of this misery – it can ever even last. How many times in my life has God been the glue holding me together or has God showered me with blessings and the soft heart that follows, only to find that the way grows cold beneath my feet and I can no longer find him? No, I don’t know that this newfound dependence on God – desperately powerful – will yield a permanent sense of intimacy. Yes, emotions change, and I understand that, but the distance between us historically has always been filled with more silence than that. Too, I’ve often thought in the past few days, as this possible purpose of this time has occurred to me, that God could be breaking me apart so I will be drawn closer to him in preparation for meeting my mate. God, how many times have I interpreted a truth or an experience of my life as preparing me for an immediate meeting with my future? The words all but drag out of me. But the indisputable fact remains that I feel that blessed event is closer than ever because of the Secret. But be that as it may: I can’t know the purpose yet of this time of darkness and pain, misery and tears.
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What I do know is that I don’t fight it, whatever the purpose may be. I rail against God when it seems like too much, then the next morning I wake with thanks for my blessings, too few but precious, on my lips. I bow my head before him and a few hours later, plead with all my heart for him to rush, to hurry to save me. I am a puzzle of contradictions, and I bear the pieces honestly and openly. My analysis has been stymied somehow, I’ve noticed, over the last weeks, and I don’t mind it. I think in slow, hazy abstraction of the whys and wherefores of this unhappiness, but my hands hang loose by my sides, free from their fists. Let him have his purposes. I don’t care what they may be or where they take me, as long as he comes quickly to save me, as David prayed.
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For I am breaking apart and my eyes are clouded over with sadness. I have no joy left and feel the sweetness of showing others my vulnerability. I stand here among the shards of my life, the myriad pieces of my dreams and my happiness, and mutely survey the damage done. What pieces can be put back together and what pieces are to be discarded forever, I can’t say. I am lonely, and cold all the time. I stand here with nothing to say that will make any difference but burn with the words that won’t be said. I am here. I must be rescued or I will break. I am here.
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