I was pleasantly surprised after I typed her name on Google Search. All it took were two clicks and I got what I was looking for.
Now, I know how the love of her life looks like, how she had a crush on some other colleague and the bucket list of his qualities that attracted her. It’s funny how she wrote about her crush at length while I already dedicated at least two posts about her. And it’s funny how we might not be worth a footnote in someone else’s life.
In some ways, she was the girlfriend I never had, but given the wretched state of my life now, I doubt even if all other males disappeared from this wee island, she would want to lower her expectations down to my level.
Whatever it is, she has left a mark in my life. I wish her well (since the prospect always remains that we’ll never cross each other’s path again).
We’re His children. I’m His child. That’s the truth, indelibly.
Assuming that I choose to ignore (for a moment) how emotionally and mentally screwed up of a wretched man that I have become. I focus on my left hand now, specifically the wrist. I see little angry red spots.
So, if I am not already screwed up bad in the mind and my emotions (some people catergorise this as “negative” energy), I have to contend with the physical manifestations of my screwed-up-ness.
Am I still His child? Or, does He still see me as His child?
The Heavens, as always, will remain silent.
Angels don’t exist.
They don’t anymore. Not in my world. Not when those red spots on my hand peer innocently back at me. They remind me about how it would be immensely difficult for someone out there to accept one of the many physical limitations that inhabit my body. Sometimes, the reminders grow to become voices. They growl loudly within my senses.
“I’m not worthy. You’re not worthy.”
In my hour of need, there is none to call on. Everyone has their negative bits to deal with.
His child… His loving arms…
It’s no longer about whether or not I believe. Not when I oscillate between trying to pick myself up (and falling again) and thinking about how much I disregard my life.
Where do I begin to look for that respect for self?
I know it’s the truth. Like I’m Someone else’s child. Like how Someone had to pay a price to redeem me.
But the need for faith feels like abandonment.
I’ve always felt abandoned.
I remember a message I received about a year ago. It was an invitation from someone who wanted to reach out to me. But I didn’t quite accept it there and then for various reasons.
A year later, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out how the invitation was for the “there and then”.
I don’t believe it was flippant. I believe it came out of genuine, good intentions.
But maybe, that someone saw those angry red spots, or that I as a person didn’t fit into that someone’s impression of me before we met.
You see, another indelible truth was how I would never be abandoned as His child.
But who could explain this pervading issue I have with being abandoned?
No one could and I stopped asking.
So, for every piece of advice that came my way about how I could only help myself or no one else could help me, I could see those little angry red spots mocking at me. They amplify with every rejected call for help (subtly or otherwise).
I know I’m His child. But can I declare now that I don’t quite like my life? Can I tell Him how much I want to start over or how much I want for Him to wave His hand and make those little angry red spots disappear once and for all?
I know for a fact that I don’t suffer from a debilitating disease. I have learnt how to conceal those little angry red spots from prying eyes. But I won’t be able to conceal from myself how they would continue to cripple me socially, mentally and emotionally.
That I have become less of a man, not worthy to be accepted and loved, because they will stay there for the rest of my life.
We’re His children. I’m His child. But until a miracle happens, I’ll have to live with that truth, indelibly