Tuesdays with Morrie

Disturbed by ignorance- agh, I myself harbor it;
It doesn't serve me as it does them; I know just enough to eat me alive..
My illness is understood just enough to entrap me, but not enough to help.


I now write to you a rambling, branching post. Prepare for a disrupted flow; a twisted and pathetic view of my own life.


Yesterday, I borrowed from Mrs. Jacob's room Tuesdays with Morrie, a memoir of sorts by Mitch Albom, to re-read (I had read it, along with another of his books, The Five People You Meet in Heaven, about four years ago).

Before I tell you of how bleak the prospect of hope was to me in that account, let me tell you of my greatest shame. Self-pity has returned, full-force, stealing from my my hope (so naive!) and giving back to me my old philosophy: I am set aside, by God, as one to live as I live- and it is a lonely life already. One I don't even want to live. One I am not even willing to face day-by-day.

Others: they are heirs to God's grace. If they do not already have it, he will give it to them. I, however, already have my grace, and it is about me always; it is the most I may desire.. And I am the one who is not content. I am Esau. (That, pastor, is why I am so interested by Jacob's inherent favor with the Lord and the rejection of Esau). I- I am Esau. It's not so much my sins or even my sinful nature that keep me from God. It is who I am.. Every fiber of my being strains against everything I see. And there will never be a change from that.

With that philosophy again within me, plus the knowledge that I had had nearly a year of naive happiness (in hindsight, how fragile it was! How silly! How naive! But if I hadn't had it, I would not be here. I would have made away with my life if salvation hadn't come), I frequently tear up at church and church-functions. I stand alone in a sea of believers, listening to their happy tales and wondering why mine alone is unable to be fixed. I wonder why in the sea of people no one cares about me. I wonder why they leave me alone in my pain when they exalt- at least verbally- that one person, above the rest of their friends, who helped them out of their pit.

Because of my disease- invisibility and insignificance to the average man, invisible to those who are both average and my age- I receive no such comfort. I suppose that is best. What would I say to them? If I broke into tears about my relative losses (none of which are even death) of two loved ones, my parents, and my illusion of hope and happiness, they would take it all at face value and render me a hormonal fool.

That, I swear to you, I am not. And none of you know me. It's a solace of sorts- if you knew me and still treated me as you do, I would have to kill myself. After all, if one person calls you a donkey.. Discredit it. Two, look for a tail. Three, you better move into a manger...

Moving on, moving on..

I finished Tuesdays with Morrie today (I spent the entire school day reading in our school's media center. It was a read-a-thon), and though my immediate reaction was to think of ways to reconcile my desires- not my material ones, but the innate, deeper ones- that soon led to despair. I am sixteen and caught in a mundane Hell. Were I eighteen, I could strike it out somewhere else, away, at least for a bit, from the pressures and loneliness I internalize that poison me in the night and when alone and when surrounded.

Hell. Hell. It is both a place and frame of mind.

I don't want to be there. Certainly not again.

And all the while: who could I be saving from this hell? Who could I, were I able? But I am not able any longer. I am ruining God's image and for that alone I deserve anything which befalls me. I am not Job. I have no hope for anything larger than what I have now- after all, Job had riches and friends and family before his trials and tribulations. I have had no such taste of paradise; never have I come close to feeling accepted by more than one person at a time for only a short amount of time and never have I felt loved. Never have I not been abandoned- even when looking for the simpler things that ought, apparently, never be denied to a mortal. I have always been left in the dark and powerless. Powerless. No wonder I am passive. I have never been given a chance to escape.

Tuesdays with Morrie. God bless those of you who can make your life worth living. God bless you for being loved. You're ever so lucky.