I hesitate to write this post because I know how it's going to sound.
For the record, I'm not suicidal.
I'm simply homesick, homesick for the eternal home that awaits me. This world, aside from the ones I love, holds no attraction for me. I'm tired. Physically and in every possible way, I'm tired and flat out weary.
When I see on the news that another monster has stolen a child's innocence, I'm weary.
When I awaken with an argument inside my head with the mother I don't even have a relationship with, I'm weary.
Abuse and its aftermath will do this to you, it will make your very bones tired. While dealing with yet another loved one's addiction (for the hundredth time) I feel as if I can't take it one more day. I can't get my hopes up one more time that this person will break free from the bloodsucking leech of addiction, and live out the rest of his life with hope and stability. But I can't allow myself to go to the opposite extreme either of giving up, of shrugging my shoulders and telling myself, "There's nothing I can do about it. I might as well accept that he's going to lose his life to drugs."
"There's a land that is fairer than day, and by faith we can see it afar . . ."
Old-fashioned words from an old fashioned hymn. Some will think this hymn, and the faith of those who can sing it sincerely, pathethically simple and out of touch with reality. I don't care. I've been longing for my eternal home since I was a child. I'm drawn to it, I long for it. I live in this world; I have a body which takes up space in it. Everything I do sets something in motion, like ripples in a pond. I breathe, I eat, I sleep, I move my body, I wash it, I take it with me everywhere I go.
What a responsibility it is to own a body!
Standing on my head against the living room wall while my family stares blank-faced at TV sitcoms, I see The King of the Mountain leering at my body. Were it not for the fact of my mother and siblings in the room with us, he would pounce on me. I know this vaguely and the knowing causes me to allow my body to fall into a heap on the floor where it is not so much on display. It is because of my body that he is able to do such despicable things to me, and yet I must carry around the burden of this body for the rest of my life.
Once upon a time I knew the luxury of giving my body little thought. It was nothing more than the vehicle through which I lived my life. If one's body can become such a burden, how much more of a burden is the self-consciousness that comes from having it gawked and leered at night and day. And more of a burden to have it preyed upon, crushed, contorted into awkward and sometimes painful angles by careless hands.
And so I'm tired, weary of this life through which I propel my aged body. Nobody leers at it anymore, so there's some compensation for having lived this long. I want....oh, I want so much more than what this world ever offered me.
I want to not feel the shame of my flesh.
I want to not hear of another child ravaged by unrestrained evil.
I want to not have every memory sullied.
I want to be free in a way that this world has never allowed.
Dorothy said it well in The Wizard of Oz: "There's no place like home."
She was right; and when I get to my eternal home I will, at long last, be free of earthly constraints and know the luxury of having my existence never again depend upon this earthly, traitorous body.