The Art of Falling Apart

This post was written a year ago, on August 2, 2008. I'm not falling apart anymore, which is, you know, nice. For those who are new here, I had some nerve damage in my ankles, which took many months to diagnose. My ankles continue to feel better. I continue to feel better.

I have learned a thing or two in the past month. For one, I’ve learned what my priorities are. The shape of my ass falls very far down on the list.

I’ve learned that I can hide at my mother’s for about a day. Then she’ll force me to get up and eat half an egg before she drives me back to my family.

I’ve learned about forgiveness. Somehow I’ve always forgiven the big stuff but not the small. Somehow I’ve always compared myself to others and come up short. I’ve wasted time thinking about myself in the most useless and trivial ways, nursing paltry annoyances, fabricating elaborate needs, clinging to emotional hurts and petty disappointments. Much of my world has revolved around me and much of THAT has played itself out inside the walls of my own head.

I have been reacquainted with depression. I’d forgotten the hopelessness of finding yourself adrift in that bottomless pool of tears, treading water, no ladder or edge to swim to.

I’ve gotten to know other emotional realities too. Fear, lack of control, desperation, frustration. Have you ever seen a 38-year-old woman have a full-fledged temper tantrum? My husband has, about once a week for the past several months. To spare him, as well as my mom, my father-in-law, and my kids, I've started leaving the house, driving to park at the pond behind the library, so I can sob. I never knew how much snot my nose could generate. It’s an amazing instrument, truly. Too bad there’s no good use for snot, except perhaps for preventing a nose bleed.

I’ve never clung to God like this before. I never knew prayer could be a constant conversation, a never-ending source of strength. And hope.

My neurologist called one week ago and said things I didn’t expect her to. Things that resembled possible solutions rather than a life sentence to pain.

We have an awesome priest at my church. He’s in his seventies and recites Shakespeare, latin, art history and scripture with equal verve. Ten years ago, when we buried my Dad, he came to the cemetery. He baptized Ben, my first baby, calling him a “contemplative.” I’m always disappointed when I go to mass and he’s not presiding.

As I sat in his office, admiring the art-lined walls and cradling his box of Kleenex, he kept hopping up to run to his library and bring another book for me to read, endorsing each with Oprah-like enthusiasm. He asked for only one of the books back, and if you know me at all you know that’s one way to cheer me up. Give me an armful of books. He anointed me with oil and he told me the thing that I most needed to hear: that I am not crazy to believe that God will heal me completely. That I must keep believing and expecting God to answer my prayers.

And so I will.