Some thoughts on thinking too much

I don't know that I've ever been so disappointed with myself as I am right now. I can no longer hide from my actions, what I've done to someone so precious to me. The changes I've brought to her life have been many, and hurtful.

When before there was a perfect family union – one girl and one boy, two parents who loved them – now there is a rift and brokenness and an unholy hole in everyone's hearts. This is my legacy. This is my torment.

Love doesn't always look like what we think it should. Sometimes love is keeping your distance and minding your own business. I love the animals I see when I take my walks in the forest, but I do not try to touch them or take them home. I should have treated the woman I love the same way: look but don't touch.

My eyes are red in the mirror as I start my day. My day ends the same way. I've been crying, but not for my own sake. I can see her, walking through the wasteland of her world, just trying to carry on with everything she has. Instead of bringing life and health into her world, I brought carpet-bombing and napalm. I can see the destruction I've wrought; as the flames rose up, the tears fell down in her perfect world. I can see her children huddled close to her for assurance. I can see they've been crying too. And there's nothing I can do, nothing I can say. I keep my distance this time, but it's too late.

I can't face them anyway. I can't face the awful destructiveness of my influence on their lives. It's best that I go about my life as a mole. Under the surface. Away from prying eyes. I would disappear if I could. And some days, I get really close.

Disgusted, I move on through my day. I pray for them my pitiful prayers, as prayers are all I have. With a heart full of repentance and regret, I look to the future and I look to my God. If anything can be fixed, it will not be through me. I am done trying. I will sit on my bed and water it with my tears. I will pray my prayers. But I will not try. Trying is over.

If I could peek behind the curtain, if there as a portal to peer into, I would. I'm blinded by my remorse. I'm blanketed in my grief. I can't unsee or unface what I know. There is only the Great Ending to look forward to. And I am ready for it to take me, to wash me away, to erase me, send me out to sea.

Oh, but you will hold my feet to the fire, won't you? You will punish me until there's nothing left. You will strike me down every time I rise, squeeze my chest every time I breathe, look me in the eyes everywhere I look, bleed me every time my heart beats, shake me awake every time I try to dream of escape. I understand you've won. Now please let me be. I am Jonah under the gourd leaves, tired of running, just waiting for the end.

I want to hold her, comfort her, love her, be her shoulder to cry on. Instead, I am so far away, breathing this stale air and wondering if I will ever see her again.

I move. My ribs crack, and I exhale, feeling my chest sink. There is a virulent self-awareness in being alone sometimes. Little noises and ancillary thoughts become bigger and louder than in the noise of life. Pacing becomes commonplace; memorizing the ceiling becomes second nature. Sometimes I laugh at my own insecurities and neuroses. Sometimes I laugh at nothing at all and cry at everything. Sometimes I imagine her here with me. Sometimes I imagine I'm somewhere else or someone else. Sometimes I try to expunge all of my thoughts because they crowd in on me and I just need to breathe the air and feel the bed beneath me and nothing else.

I know what it's like to start over. This isn't my first time. But, that doesn't make it any easier. It's something I have to do alone. It's something I have to struggle through and fail at and try again until it's done and I'm able to face more days than not with some sort of confidence. I'm not worried about myself. I'm distraught about the carnage I've left around me in those I love. I'm terrified for them. I'm beside myself with grief, torn apart as if by wild animals. I would die and bake in the sun for them if they could only have their lives back. I'd sacrifice myself upon a thousand hills in a thousand different ways if they could rise out of these ashes better than before.

There is an arrogance in this, though. We imagine ourselves too big, too important sometimes. Have I brought all of this about? Have I really wrought all of this? Surely, I think too highly of myself. Human relationships are complex. I haven't imagined the awful state of affairs my lovely girl and her family are in. But, I may have imagined my role in it to be too big.

I think I'll go back to imagining her by my side, me looking deeply into her eyes. Until the next wave of self-flagellation comes over me.