In the solitude of the library, I’ve found a corner to hide in. No one is asking me to do anything. I have a window view and the sky reminds me of the last month of my days. Grey, not white, and now raining. I brought my headphones and if anyone knew how loud I’m blaring Metallica’s S & M they would look at me funny.
But I look just fine I guess. Middle aged professorial looking guy slouched in a quiet corner probably writing the next best-selling novel. Except I’m not fine. I don’t feel safe anywhere. At home Mrs M wants me to “just” stop being fucking depressed again, and wants me to work at getting the house clean, while the dear daughter and son loaf and bitch about their homework or how tired they are of always having their friends bug them on the phone or in person.
At church I don’t feel safe. I wore the mask today but I couldn’t sing and I barely paid attention. No one saw me. I wanted to say something in Bible Study and kept quiet mostly. But I’m tired of feeling Psalm 119:99a. I’m not being arrogant although it may sound that way. I’m older, I have insight, the Bible study leader can’t prounounce the words, misses huge things I know about and they never even say anything about it. I’m marginalized as a worship leader and then as a musician, with a microphone there for show but turned off, so why bother. I quit doing that because I didn’t feel safe because I wasn’t appreciated at all, maybe God is trying to tell me something and I should listen.
Then the pastor makes some idiotic jokes and we’re all squirming awkwardly because it’s not funny but he thought it would be. Or maybe that’s just me. And when he finally gets to the point it just annoys me because I’m supposed to figure out that God loves me somehow. He said the same thing that life has been telling me, that I’m not in control of anything. If I trust Him it needs to turn out a whole lot better than it is. If I were in a shred more control, I’d have a greater measure of peace, but that’s not meant to be. In the music I felt safest, but I’m not safe at all.
The people at church we talked to asked about life because they wanted to pray for us and I really didn’t have any way of expressing this in a minute or two. I just said it’s a lot of the same things it’s been for a long time and I said they could pray God actually helps us without further hurting us because I’m already broken. And that was more honesty and self-disclosure than I wanted to offer anyone. Mrs M said to pray I could find a better job. So that was OK I guess.
I don’t feel safe praying because I asked God to show me He loves me and my teeth are still broken and my car is slowly breaking, already needs new tires and repairs and I dread the next repair bill, the furnace is still not repaired and it’ll be September soon. And every time I pray that God will help me without hurting me, something else breaks, and again He has allowed something to hurt me some more and help is not on the way.
I don’t feel safely married because I want more than Mrs. M will give me, and I notice other women a little too much and sometimes wonder if they would. I’m trying to ignore that. I’m a little safer if I can pretend to not notice. When I feel unsafe and I don’t have anything to give, that’s when my wife wants to take more than she gives. It would be easier if she knew how much I really need her to help me, but when I approach the topic of the best way for her to tell me she loves me, she’s mostly dismissive.
I’m not safe at work, because it’s politics and who you know (or who you blow) and I don’t, so I can’t advance like some others have. I keep my mouth shut (there, that’s the whole problem, isn’t it) and do my work. And I don’t like that when I ask other people to do their work, they either don’t do it, they drag their heels, or they push it off on someone else (me). Every time I say anything they introduce me to a new system and tell me to do my job and theirs too, if I want it done. Friday I carried two other people but I make less than either one of them, and I need three times the money if I’m going to do three jobs.
I’m rambling, maybe I’m not even safe in here blogging.
I hope you all are in a safe happy place, maybe you can tell me how to find one.
I’d settle for feeling more loved, by God and Mrs. M., more appreciated at work, but I need to hear more than words.