So, being the raging insomniac I am (you remember me mentioning that about thirty thousand times, right?), I spent a while tonight going through some old emails. Ostensibly it was to refresh my memory about a long past relationship but, as is my custom, I took a few side roads along the journey. And it seems to me that some people are impossible to get rid of, some are more searing than they know, and some don’t want to be found.

I’ve tried to be honest in the past year or so, to move to a place where what I say is what I mean. I’ve tried to say what is, with all its backbending weight, with all its airy weighlessness. I’ve tried to say what I mean even when a question hasn’t been asked. I’ve tried to be transparent.

And so it becomes even more dismaying when I come face to font with the way  that I used to be. I tried to keep my hands clean. I was purposely vague in the hopes of not having a confrontation. I was vague and wanted to be misconstrued in a way that would undermine my virtue while letting me retain my innocence in the whole matter. I’m really very embarrassed about the whole thing.

But God creates value in the valueless, and so He can use these things that never should have been to create something wonderful.

It’s nine in the morning and I haven’t slept yet. I can’t seem to sleep for anything lately. I know what the reason is. It’s that even though I’m trying not to pay attention, even though I put it out of my head, somehow my body is recognizing that this . . . is coming up on a year since it happened.

My body is making me think about my mother.

I look around me and see all these nice, kind people who are certainly as entitled as anyone would be to their families and suddenly it all seems so grossly unfair. It feels grossly unfair that some people get to have grandchildren. It feels grossly unfair that some people get to have parents. It feels grossly unfair that my daughter will never get to know my mother. It all just seems so terribly unfair.

I know it isn’t. The Lord is sovereign. I know that. And part of me can look at this and be pleased that she isn’t suffering anymore, not only in her illness but with any of the discomforts of just being human. She’s never tired anymore, or achy, she’s never hungry or cold-that makes me grateful. But sometimes I feel awful and rebellious and broken wondering why she had to be sick at all, and for it to be then, and to have to die that way. I know there’s purpose in it. I take comfort in that. To trust the Lord in one thing requires trusting Him in all things and I do, really. I just have these moments sometimes.I am having quite a few lately.

I keep thinking that these rushing feelings of loss will dissipate. And they have in some ways-in frequency if not in form. Sometimes I feel so sorry for myself it’s pathetic. And the Lord is patient in that, which is so gracious. He has yet to give me the supernatural talking to that Job got, although reading through it I see that it still applies.

I feel like a cavern. I feel like empty space. My heart aches.

And so I did something foolish. I reached out to someone in an inappropriate way because I wanted to heal my heart too quickly and with the wrong medicine. In the blush of morning, I am blushing myself. The truth is a boy can’t fix this. The truth is I already knew that, though part of me still wants to be held.

It’s an awkward thing to admit, but there it is. The truth is also that I don’t know how to be interested in anyone anymore. These things, the adoption, the death of my mom, the loss of my friendship with Simon, they’ve all taken a toll on me and have apparently manifested in simply not being able to have my head turned by anyone. I’m disappointed about it. But at this moment, perhaps the cavern is too deep to be filled no matter who might try. Perhaps the Lord is telling me to let Him heal this first.

I am sighing with the breeze. The morning is growing stale. I will try my hand at sleep once more.

I fall asleep.

I take a long drag of tobacco. I drink diet soda. I order take out. I fall asleep.

I drive all night. I see a hundred stars in the sky in this place devoid of streetlights. The moon hangs halved and red above the horizon. I call my father. I fall asleep.

I wake up in the afternoon. I’m still tired. I take my dog outside. She comes in and lays down. She looks comfortable. I fall asleep.

I read till four in the morning. I toss and turn. I pray. I pull out my Bible and open it to Romans 10. I have a hard time concentrating. I fall asleep.

I watch the British news on channel 14. I grapple with things I don’t know that I will ever understand. I remember my daughter’s birthday is coming up. I fall asleep.

I take a bath. I wash my hair. I go out.

Or, I take a bath, I wash my hair, I lay down.

Either way, I fall asleep.

So I’m here at work and it looks like I must remain so until someone comes in to replace me in the morning to watch over this little crop of sleeping survivors. Should be about 8am I’m hoping. Sorry y’all, but as soon as some poor unsuspecting car pulls into the driveway? I am outtie. I’ve been here since six last evening.

Not that I mind really. Stefanie had to go home sick, which is understandable, and by the way, if you’re reading this, this is as hate as the hate mail is going to get. The clock ticks; I fill my time. I pace. I wonder aloud (which is actually much better to do when you’re by yourself and it’s the middle of the night and everyone might, just might, think you’re on the phone or something). I read a little. I “surf the web” a lot; I should have my own techno-wetsuit.

But let’s get personal. Wait, no. Instead let’s have me write the words to a song that I like: It’s hard to remember/It’s hard to remember you’re alive for the first time/It’s hard to remember/It’s hard to remember you’re a live for the last time/It’s hard to remember/ It’s hard to remember to live before you die/It’s hard to remember/It’s hard to remember that our lives are such a short time/It’s hard to remember/It’s hard to remember when it takes such a long time. I don’t know why that’s comforting exactly but it is. This is the first shot you’ve had so you’re bound to screw up. It’s the last shot too so don’t waste time. And though it may be fleeting, it will take forever, and remembering will most likely be difficult.

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One night at Panera, while my sister was eating a fruit cup and my brother was researching the Endian Problem, I sat down at my delightful laptop to write. Type furiously,  I did, while my sister complained of being bored.

The sound of other patrons smacking their lips and sucking the very last droplet of an infinitely refillable soda made up the horn section. The sound of bagels being slid to their deaths down the slicer machine added the percussion. And finally, the tinkling of spoon to ceramic and soft taps of the keyboard, like the keyboard of a black and white instrument, were the trilling strings while a couple of loud voiced (and loud shoed) women discussed the guests at a dinner party by the trash can. Ahh, the symphony of a Tuesday night coffeeshop.

I’ve been thinking today perhaps I’m a little too self obsessed . . .

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So another long night has ended. A night spent manning four phone lines and staving off the ravages of violence from my little corner of womankind. Dawn rises as worry releases the crumpled face of this fair city. The morning breathes a sleepy sigh, knowing that there has been no cruelty this night. I’ll be honest:  I should probably be wearing a cape.

So, in the spirit of a Spirit-like self important monologue about the glorious effervescent emersion of a place, please be so kind as to allow me go on and on.
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So my old boss called me this afternoon and asked me to come in to cover the overnight shift tonight. Fine. Great. Wonderful.

And she also asked me to take the same tomorrow because the woman who usually comes in is in the hospital and no one knows when she might be released. Fabulous. Super. Happy to oblige.

And after work I have an interview at Kristen’s mom’s workplace. Fantastic. Cool. Bring it.

And when I get to work there’s a knock down drag out fight over whether or not the door should be left open in one of the rooms, futher complicated by a language barrier and stressing the already taut nerves of a group of domestic violence survivors. Manageable. Pithy. Taken care of.

And I’m sitting up in the early morning hours, chugging a 20 oz. Diet Coke and playing Text Twist on Yahoo.com, when my sister calls and asks me, So, how’s school going?

Anxiety. Panic. Disaster.

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I’ve decided to take the day off. And how, you may wonder, is this different from the last hundred days you’ve spent lounging around in your life?

Wait, lemme think . . .

No, no, it’s a valid question . . .

. . .

Anyway, today I’m taking off.

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Do you ever get that feeling like you just want to fall out the window of a nine story building onto your face?

. . .

Yeah, I guess I don’t either.

So the truth of the matter is that I should be in bed. Because I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow at nine a.m. and lately I’ve been staying up till seven in the morning and sleeping in all day. I’m on like . . . China time or something. But instead of doing that (and I WILL do it, okay? . . . yeah, in a dang minute so keep your pants on!), I logged on to LinkedIn, a networking site I have to admit I don’t really get yet. And there, believe it or not, as I’m browsing through Possible Connections in the Classmates section at Kent State University, I come across the profile of my first boyfriend.

JOLT.

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