My Life Before God...

The Crosswalk

Perhaps it was the weekly clanging of the 40-ounce bottles in my recycling bin.  Perhaps it was the six-inch hole splintering my bedroom door.  It might have been the forever ashtray odor, or the f__  yous reverberating in my ears, the bruises on my arms, the puke rimmed-toilet, or the constant worry that I would someday find his body a corpse.  Whatever it was, it caught me in the middle of the crosswalk one day, and begged the SUV to come and bring my death. 

But something made me keep walking.

Looking back, I see that I was locked into a bad situation (which, by the way, merits no description.) A season of my life I could refer to as my death.  I know I am not alone.  So many souls get locked into their death, never realizing that they are trapped.  They are so comfortable that they will never change, never meet any potential, but instead will die moment by moment as their could-bes change to nevers.  I was trapped because I couldn’t believe I deserved anything better than a man who used me, abused me, and enabled me to become my own enemy.

***

I remember the first time that he asked me to drink.  I was adamantly against it, but that sweet smile convinced me that it was okay, and even if it wasn’t, at least we were wrong together and would suffer the consequences hand in hand.  I woke up the next day with a purple spot the size of a golf ball as a trophy on my neck, and parent-teacher conferences as the pageant.  Thank goodness for long hair.

I think that moment was the catalyst of my decadence, and looked at by itself could explain the entire path to my destruction.  I was a teacher.  Thus, my naïve and idealistic purpose in life was to save humans from their own destruction.  I thought I was strong at the time, that nothing could deter me from my path in life, from my success and my goals.  I was wrong.  Inside of me were unseen weaknesses, like a path in the woods you run down, without realizing its covered in thistles.

I was confident and sure of my skills, well liked by students and faculty, praised by administration, but hated by myself.  I didn’t see that I hated myself at the time, but looking back, I know I did. I hated myself to the point that I allowed myself to fall into dangerous patterns for the sake of one man who (I believed) loved me.  And that was worth everything to me, even if it meant I lost everything.

After that first drinking-fest, things went rapidly downhill and I lost control. I could tell you about the abuse, the verbal put downs, or the physical kicks to the head.  I could explain how he manipulated me into saying sorry when he spilled the soda, or stole my money.  I could describe the ups and downs, the “I love you” followed by the “I hate you.” I could cry about how I couldn’t live my own life for months because I was too involved with his despair.  But details would make the truth seem less immaculate, and, as I said before, the consequential events merit no detailed explanation. In essence, I did the things I did not want to do, and I paid the price.  But I survived. 

***

It probably sounds like my life fell apart, but believe me, it didn’t seem like it from the outside.  I went to school everyday, prepared, organized, and ready to teach.  And teach I did.  I was able to pull off the day impeccably; no one would have known that my nights were filled with anguish.  How I did this makes sense when I tell you that it was a pattern I set in middle school.  That’s when my dad died of cancer. That is when I learned to hide pain because no one wanted to see it, and to be successful because people needed me.  People needed me, and that was my driving force.  My mom needed me, and my students needed me, and now he needed me.  My own needs went unmet.

I knew what was going on, don’t think I was in denial and therefore have some sort of excuse.  I knew that I was letting myself go, but I didn’t know how to stop it.  All I knew was that he needed me, and I would sacrifice everything to give myself to him. I wish I could have helped him without such sacrifice, but all I can say is that I felt the need to be at his level.  If I was too “good” or too “successful” he wouldn’t believe I could relate to him or care for him because, in his eyes, I would be too full of myself to understand that there are people in this world who weren’t as “well off” as I was.  (I don’t think he really understood that I had fought for my success and for my sanity). 

So yes, I knew what was happening, but thought I would never stop the maniacal ride.  I honestly believed that there would be no end, that I would have no courage to stop myself from this façade.   At least, not until pretense fell one day to reveal that this was indeed infecting me.

The moment came as I was crossing the street.  This act was my daily transition between my personal life and my professional one.  My short walk consisted of less than a block, and, as soon as I saw barely clad students running toward a brick building, I knew my day was about to begin.  I would pause and stare down traffic until the vehicles would wait for me.  As soon as my feet stepped off the curb, I forced myself to stop the churning worries and aches, and turned my head to the next curb in front of me: the thoughts of students, lesson plans, and handouts.  That crosswalk was my neutral zone; the place where nothing could touch me.  It was the place where one day I paused and looked up and saw an SUV baring down.  In a split second, I thought of how beautiful it would be to be hit, to die, to let go of all responsibility.  No one to depend on me, to look up to me, to look down on me, to consume me.  But I kept going.

I’m no hero.  I didn’t do it because I am noble or brave or because I wanted to live.  I kept going because (besides the fact that the SUV probably would have stopped) I felt that I had no other choice. This moment lasted in my head for only that split second, but it began to tear down the whirling mechanisms that kept my momentum to live as myself during the day and as a victim by night.  Slowly, it brought me to the surface of reality, and I was forced to look at my life…at what was really going on.  And the sight wasn’t pretty.

***

I came home that night to a normal scene.  A guy on my couch playing video games.  Dinner was made, thus his guilt was atoned for.  We ate, we talked, we laughed, and we probably went out drinking.  I probably woke up with a hangover and went to work feeling groggy and guilty; small deeds would not make up for my guilt.  I’m not being specific because, honestly, I don’t remember that particular night.  One day spilled into the other by filling up with happiness, and spilling it out…catching up the remains, and spilling them out—little by little there’s nothing left.  What matters is that I had thought about suicide.  I had thought about suicide. Whether or not I could have gone through with it is of no import.  Me, the teacher, the mentor, the saint.  I had wanted to die, and that terrified me.

Ever so slowly, I begged God to save me. I spent evenings sobbing to the point of gagging.  I spent nights of quiet tears, blood for what it felt like, hugging my pillow like a tiny freckled girl with her teddy bear. I woke with puffy eyes, and a whisper of hope.  Hope that things would change, hope that someone would save me.

Hope turned into reality; one day, he decided a cocaine-enhanced life would be better than me.  So, I bought him a ticket and he left.  He moved out of my life forever. But I didn’t rejoice.  I was heartbroken because I missed him.  Missed the torment, the pain I was used to.  People think that’s crazy if they’ve never experienced it.  But people who grow up on pain crave pain, like children who grow up with hugs need them, or babies that grow up with milk always want more.  It’s what feeds you, what molds you, what you depend on because it’s always there. 

And, in my anguish, I had to make a decision: to feed my pain with more, to accept misery as my fate, or to believe that there was more to me.  This was the colossal street that I had to cross, or give up and die.   The curb loomed in front of me, antagonizing me, saying, “You can’t change now!  It’s always been this way, and it always will.  Give up now, and accept who you are.  Accept what you deserve.”  And I did.

But this time, I chose differently.  I chose, like so few do, to take hold of my life, to take control of my life, to take care of myself, and become the woman I was destined to be, rather than the one I had portrayed myself to be.

And this is the moment I’ve lost your attention.  The moment you’ve rolled your eyes and thought, “Great, here’s some more Carpe Diem crap.  Give me something I can touch.”  You think I don’t know your situation.  You think I don’t know that you feel like you’re trapped into a formulated phrase.  Like your life has been determined and this is who you are and this is who you must be meant to be.  You think I don’t hear that voice inside saying, “There’s got to be more.”  That I don’t know you sometimes want a new life, a new journey, a new body, a new soul, but are too afraid to move.  Too satisfied to dare.

We are alive for a breath; a breath that can give life or take it away.  We matter, but only for a moment.  We may live thinking we’re immortal humans, but we are not.  We die as immortal souls.  And it’s what we do to and with our soul that counts. 

I think people like to deny eternity because it's a great defense.  If what we do doesn't really matter, we're free to waste away and live as we please, good or bad.  But what if it does matter?  What if, in the end, we will be forced to account for all of our choices? All I really know is that, at that moment, I would want to look back, smile, and say, "Thank you. Thank you for life, for hope for third tries, and for smacking me in the face with reality."

At every age, we stand in the middle of a road.  We have the opportunity to pause between past and future, between who we are and who we want to be, between our current reality and our ideals.  And all we really need is hope that there is more, the courage to move forward, and (from time to time) a vision of death.  The frightening part isn’t really moving forward, is it?  It’s the horror of pausing too long in the crosswalk.