Sunday afternoon walk (Conversation with God)

  Sunday, February 27, 2011. 1:15 p.m. My middle son is in the tub, my little son is in the crib, asleep. I have to get out of the house. The weather is unseasonably warm, near 70 degrees, but that's not why I must escape.
 I have to get out.
 I have to run. I don't like to run. I walk to the right. I turn about face, because neighbor's are home. I go the other way, past my house. My feet begin to run. My voice screams. Angry, anguished. Tears. Hot. Chest heaves. Heavy heart. Angry words, eyes lifted up at the parting clouds, asking.

 Ver batim (at the top of my lungs): "How dare You take my wife away... She's my wife! She's mine! How dare you do that! Don't you know what that's going to do to my kids? Don't you care about their lives?"
 There's more, but it makes less of a coherent passage from my lips as my legs give out. My head hurts.
 I reach a burned out house, a brick exterior still stands, mocked by the gutted out trailer house it failed to protect. It's a metaphor for my marriage. Everyone sees the brick exterior today, but this week, a sheriff's deputy is scheduled to hand me divorce papers that I'm not supposed to know exist.
 My brick exterior will soon reveal a charred trailer house interior to the world. My body and my mind are in shock. I return from the house to my intact house. It looks peaceful, solid, serene. How deceiving looks can be. I re-enter my house, tears dried, just in time for my 10-year-old son to get out of the bathtub.
 He never missed me.
 He never heard me.
I myself took a shower just before my walk, trying to let the sound of running water stifle my grotesque sobs. My 18-month-old son sometimes thinks I'm laughing as my gasps and cries come out in great gales, wracking my sides and splitting my head and reddening my eyes.
 When my shower stopped the tears kept streaming. Towel in mouth to stop the screaming. God, where are You? I feel You watching but unwilling to stop my bleeding.
 Why must this go on?

I'm being followed

  I look over my shoulder, and I'm sure I see it. But when I look straight at it, it isn't there.
 A sudden flash goes by in a mirror; my reflection, or its?
 No. There it is. I'm sure I see it, staring me down. I want to ask my friends if they see it, too. Perhaps they'd think me egotistical to assume I'm being followed. Being watched. Pursued.
 I can't shake it, I can't leave it. I tried. Believe me, I've tried. Singing, yelling, praying, crying, laughing, cursing. Being in a crowd. Being alone.
 Nothing works.
 It's still there. I don't know if it's getting better or worse. How are these things measured? I feel okay, until I look for it. Then it's like my skin is falling off and my organs are dissolving. I can't breathe and I can't see. I panic. I don't like that feeling, so I go back to listening and looking over my shoulder, but acting as if it isn't there.
 I don't like living in denial; I like to face things head on. That's how I've always dealt with challenges; no need to skirt around them or talk about them. Confront them, head on, sword raised, shield in place, armored to the gills... the "Knight in Shining Armor to save the day" approach.
 I tried that this time, but it got bigger and meaner. I got burned and that was worse than before. Arms on fire, face scorched, I lept back and licked my wounds.
 The stinging blinded me, caught me off guard. Reeling, I retreated. I stayed away from everyone and everything until the pain subsided. But it didn't. It got worse. I needed attention from a professional.
 I sought help. Proud, but humiliated, I opened myself up and underwent a thorough examination. I found several people closest to me and revealed my wounds to them. They all basically said the same thing: "I've never experienced wounds like that before. But don't ignore them, whatever you do. Keep trying to let them heal and don't give up."
 I followed their advice, but the wounds didn't heal. I tried bandages, salve, stitches, cosmetic coverups, herbal remedies, traditional medicine,  the works. Nothing would make these wounds inflicted by it go away. I was followed by it, it lived with me. In me? I couldn't tell.
 I decided after awhile to befriend it. My Wounder and me made friends. Now it's consumed me and I don't feel free, but I am at peace with it. I live with it. It hurts me and cripples me, and diminishes who I am. But if I cut it loose, I die.
 So I exist in a new way with it and let it guide me and control how I think and who I am. I play a masquerade charade facade role in an award winning screenplay written by it.
 It makes me convince everyone I don't see it or feel it, but those who know I see and feel it can't relate and can't help.
 It's desperate, but it's the only thing I know to do to keep from suffocating and drowning. Survival is the absence of death, but unfortunately, not the absence of pain.