Leaving Mass...

Dear Hearts,

In Bar Harbor, a man’s wife went out on the ocean and did not come back. Two days later the Harbor Masters arrived at the man’s door.

He knew something must have gone terribly wrong if the Harbor Masters came to his house.

“We have bad news, good news, and great news.”

The man, fearing the worst, asked for the bad news first.

“We have found your wife’s body in the bay.”

“Oh, Jesus, help me!” The man cried in grief. “What good news could you possibly bring me?”

“Well, when we pulled her out of the Harbor she had 12 of the biggest Lobsters attached to her. We haven’t seen lobsters that size since the 1960s! And we figure we out to share at least half of the catch with you.”

“What could possibly be great news?”

“We will pull her body up again tomorrow.”

The congregation laughed. They did. I heard it. I don’t know if anyone heard me say, “That’s not funny at all.”

The priest at Mass last night thought we would all be “steeped” in seafood so a seafood joke would in good fun.

Shortly thereafter I had a massive panic attack—the kind where my mind is going full tilt around the hamster wheel.

“Danger! Danger! You’re going crazy! That old lady keeps opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water gasping for air. That man next to me looks dirty and he’s gonna want to touch me during the “Peace” sharing! You can’t take communion from this guy.”

The shaking had begun in earnest. This was a bad one despite the two Xanax I took before Mass. I dug around in my purse for two more. I must be going crazy. Everyone else was acting so normal.

“GET OUT! DANGER! DANGER! DANGER! GET OUT NOW! BEFORE SOMEONE ASKS YOU WHAT IS WRONG! GET OUT NOW!”

“Let us offer a sign of peace.”

I pulled myself up from genuflection and ran out the side door. I didn’t want to stay in the parking lot, because then people would ask me questions and want to touch me.

“Are you okay?”

They would touch me. They’d want to help me.

Thanks be to God there was a graveyard nearby. With my rosary in one hand and the seat belt sign dinging, I drove far enough into the graveyard where no one could obviously see me from the church.

“I’m crazy. I am going crazy. I am over-reacting. I am crazy.”

But from the moment that substitute priest walked in—I just had a bad feeling. His whole attitude and demeanor seemed so perfunctory and irreverent. He didn’t even read the right Creed.

“Was He the Devil? Was he really bad? Who am I to judge? I was just inspired by this amazing Bible study I am taking about how the Mass is a connection—a direct line—between Earth and Heaven. I could opt of communion…but I had to get out. I am going crazy. They will lock me up.”

(The only solace to be had when I think I’m going crazy, is that I know that crazy people do not question their own sanity.)

Despite my best efforts I called Mom and Dad. I was beginning to hyperventilate.

I remember what the nurse told me when Pop died and I started hyperventilating.

“Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth…repeat…”

I tried. I knew I couldn’t drive.

I hate having to call my parents because I am having a panic attack and can’t deal. They shouldn’t have to deal with that when I am 39.

Before Mass, I prayed with Mother Mary. I looked the Leaving of The House directly in the face.

I would be at the House packing and I would be having a cigarette in the Spring Room or on the couch. I would sleep in my bed in the bedroom Mom and I painted. It’s like making love knowing that this will be the last time. I remember my last kiss with T. I don’t remember the last time we made love. I don’t remember either with Asshole.

I do not want to fall apart when I go Home. I do not want to fall apart and have Mom and Dad picking up the pieces. I need to do what I need to do and then I can fall apart. If I start facing the worst of the Loss, Sorrow, and Pain right now, then I can be prepared when I get there…

That’s not working so well.

The Sunday Gospel was about Christ, with spit and clay, giving the blind man his sight.

Did I see something in that priest that others didn’t? His fucking homily was about a boy being lost in the woods during a storm and using the lightning to find his way home. The plausibility of this I doubt.

But, I know storms. And I haven’t given up on the Light yet. Even that pinprick has tethered me to Life.

Look for God in the ordinary. No fucking duh, asshole.

I know a boy who drowned years ago when I was in junior high. I doubt his family would have found that joke funny. My dear Gram died fives years ago tomorrow. I don’t find that joke funny. Mom, Dad, Aunt Faerie, and G-Pa did not find that joke funny. And, I can have a black sense of humor.

Maybe I am expecting too much from myself. Aunt Faerie says when I get back, she'll check in with me (on the House subject) and she suspects I will feel better. She said that I used to not even be able to refer to leaving the House, I could only write X. 

“You can’t do anything until you get there,” she said.

I just don’t want this whole overwhelming packing thing to be my parents’ responsibility. But…but…I can’t do it alone. I don’t think I can or should stay overnight in the House alone. I can’t do this on my own.

From the beginning of all of this, I have always maintained, “if I lose the House I will kill myself.”

I am not losing The House. I am leaving The House. But, it still hurts a lot. So much.

I can’t do it alone and I’m so sorry Mommy and Daddy. I can’t do this alone. I want to, but I can’t. I want all my precious things packed before my 40^th birthday in July. That doesn’t mean the house has to be empty—but I want MY THINGS that I care so deeply about out of the House.

That’s my goal.

But, I can’t do it by myself. I can’t. I admit it.

I woke up this morning teaching The Crucible to Angel. I was talking out-loud and teaching answering a question.

“Miss? Why do we read more plays in class than books? How do you know we’re even paying attention?”

I was giving my answer.

I actually think I woke up twice teaching the play.

Research papers. That’s what I’d be doing right now with the seniors…with the juniors maybe Raisin in the Sun.

“While I am in the world, I am the light of the world."

When he had said this, he spat on the ground

and made clay with the saliva,

and smeared the clay on his eyes,

and said to him,

"Go wash in the Pool of Siloam" —which means Sent—.

So he went and washed, and came back able to see.” John 9

I want to See. I want to See with His Light. The Light.

Amazing Grace…

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: I am going to email the regular Priest and ask for a time to meet with Him and confess. But, I also want him to know that what that guy said yesterday in God’s House…Not funny. Not okay. Jesus would have been like, “WTF?” and bitch-slapped him.

PPS: I will not ignore my intuition about people. My first impression sense...Thank you, for it, God.

PPPS: God, Mother Mary, Christ—help me get through this week.

PPPPS: THANK YOU SAINT ANTHONY FOR MY GLASSES! I GET THE MESSAGE!

Grateful For:

Health

Pizza

Angel

Saturday night movies

Being Here

Family

Drawing