Unarmed

The pace is frustrating. Heavy, like the rumbling, bass beat of that rattling music coming from a car that happens to stop in front of your house. Shaking your organs. Hurting your insides. You put a hand over your chest, instinctively, just to make sure that your heart is still there and still beating somewhat regularly.

The pace is killing me.

I’m tired of being yelled at, and tired of yelling over the constant, steady drone. Over the hum that never stops. The noise that never stops. The sirens, and honking, and drunken laugher on the sidewalk and car alarms and air brake on the city buses that never stop.

Earlier this week I was simply taking my time choosing what I wanted to eat at a deli in Grand Central Station; looking at quinoa and tofu and beets and cabbage and bokchoy. I wasn’t asking for help yet. I wasn’t holding up any line or in the way- I was just considering my options, enjoying food. Enjoying my time out of the office.

But I felt rushed. I felt like I was an inconvenience. I felt as if the girl behind the counter would have had a much nicer day if she never had to talk to a customer. And in times like this I almost always feel like a victim. Like I just want to sit down and cry, or punch someone in the face.

And there is nowhere to step away from any of it. Nowhere to go where it’s completely turned off. And it makes me an angry person. The worst version of myself: rude, selfish, quiet- introverted, a loner who doesn’t care about you or want to have anything to do with you. Chris says I walk around with a demeanor that says, "I carry blades."

I work so hard on my outside appearance when I feel like my inside is rotting. Even when I seek direction or pray or try sincerely to do better- I don’t ever get there. And it’s not about arriving, or any of that, but daily I feel like laying down and dying would be easier than trying any more, as melodramatic as that may sound. It’s three steps forward and one step back- that’s the only way to get there. That and prayer, Christian accountability and doing things that feed my soul.

Without believing who I am, I am lost. Without knowing the direction, I feel meaningless. And in a world where we can claim success and define ourselves by many, many things, it scares me to be so susceptible. To be unarmed.

I ask for God to speak truth to me today when I sat down to read my Anne Lamott book on my lunch break. In the short story, A Man Who Was Mean to His Dog, she said:

“Well, I am certainly not there yet. I myself am a bit more into blame and revenge; also, I’ve found that self-righteousness is very comforting. But Jesus is quite clear on this. He does not mince words. He says you even have to love the whiners, the bullies, and the people that think they‘re better than you. And you have to stick up for the innocent.”

I can relate.