A couple weeks ago I realized that I don't pray very much.
That realization in itself didn't really bother me. Prayer wasn't a big deal, you know, it was just a conversation that I'd have on an almost constant basis. So constant it was like breathing and I didn't know I was doing it.
What bothered me was that the realization was accompanied by a feeling of discomfort. Awkwardness that I didn't know how to handle overcame me, accompanied by this vague sensation of incredulity at the very existence of a God to Whom I used to feel so close. That was followed by guilt. Guilt for my doubt, guilt for my sin, guilt for my distance. So much guilt. So, of course, I just sort of ignored it.
Now I'm having borderline anxiety attacks. Because I'm older, because I'm afraid of hurting my patients, because life is so freaking huge and I am so pitifully small. Because I'm fat when I want to be thin and I seem to be determinedly complacent in changing that. Because.....because of so much that I am incapable of expressing - especially since I don't really write anymore.
Writing used to be a way of expressing myself when all else failed. Now it seems more like vomiting. Painful, burning, explosive and disgusting. Sometimes I feel better when it's all out there, but there's always this vague sense of residual mental nausea. Appealing, huh?
Add to the pile of randomness the fact that I always get homesick in the fall, and, well, I am basically a mess right now. A mess who is applying to jobs less than two months into what she thought was her dream job. A mess who is suspicious of the God she knows has the answers somewhere. And a mess who feels too tired to really try to de-mess any of this.
I swear I don't want to depress anyone, and I'm not *really* depressed beyond all hope. That's another reason I don't write much, actually. The thought of anyone getting dragged down by my crap bothers me more than the crap itself.
