124,002
WORDS
Finally,
it's finished. And it's 124,002 words. No, not this blog post
(breathe with relief!), but my book. My beautiful book about my
beautiful relationship with an “Angel”.
At more than 450 pages, it is nevertheless an unfinished story.
It
took 3 years of my life to write Torture: Broken Foot,
Shattered Soul.
It takes time to tell a story like that. And it took ALL my time. It
stole my sleep, exacerbated exercise efforts, stifled social life,
toyed with my self-awareness, and manipulated me like a puppet with a
pen. Nearly every moment of every day surrendered and spent writing,
thinking about writing, reading about writing, or chastising myself
for not writing.
The
monster grew until it materialized as a big
book. A very big book. Unbelievably, only the beginning of an even
bigger subject matter.
My
intentions were clear from the start. Firstly, I wrote Torture
for the “Angel”.
“He” changed my life in every way and in extraordinary ways.
He
changed me.
I
needed the “Angel” to know the meta-psychology, the why behind
the “why” and beneath the “why”. I wanted him to know the
truth. About me ... and about those around him. I owed him that much.
I
owed him more.
Catharsis
stood as reason number two.
"Many
patients keep a journal as they recover, for catharsis,” the
“Angel” had told
me.
Though
a cathartic intent rests soundly in logic, that intention didn't
work. Research supports a different view. Running through events over
and over, reviewing them endlessly through an astonished mind, only
buries them deeper and indelibly, offering little relief in the form
of Letting Go.
Catharsis
should be an understanding, a release.
It
didn't work.
My
last reason for writing Torture
was to get answers.
Answers
to questions I had yet to conceive. Answers to questions I had asked
endlessly without sufficient clarity to understand. Answers to
questions I was scared to give voice to.
I
wanted to heal, but most assuredly lacked the knowledge or experience
to cope with such a wide swath of wound, which wound tightly
throughout my every exhalation. If I couldn't relieve, how would I
breathe?
Only
the “Angel” holds the power to heal my hurt. He has that power
because I gave it to him. How do I get that back? More questions …
I can't answer.
People
have suggested that I am allowed to be angry, that I should be angry.
Too
late. I promised myself when I started my story that the “Angel”
never deserved anger.
I
still choose to bless rather than blame.
"He" didn't know any better than I knew.
And
what I knew from moment one was that ours was never a random chance
encounter.
Random
stars collide. Sometimes a brighter star results, sometimes a star
explodes, sometimes an uncharted orbit expands both stars via a
celestial gate, into a new and unknown galaxy. The collision,
however, originates from a place of predetermination.
The
stars don't select. They surrender.
I
wrote. I'm still writing. I still need to sort it all out, all the
while realizing I may never accomplish that alignment intention.
I
wrote only for the “Angel”.
"He" doesn't think he's an “Angel”. So far, he's been unable to grasp
the metaphorical aspect – that though he is a man, he's an “Angel”
for me.
Is
it possible God picked “him” purposely, knowing “him” quite
well, and knowing “he” would be exactly the right intercession
for me at precisely that moment? What if God recognized that this
“Angel” was the one and only one who would reach me and rearrange
my potentiality. The perfect fit of imperfect personalities. Is it
imaginable that God specifically put us on the same path at the same
time because the journey we needed to take together, through the
layer of spiritual substructure, would forever alter us in unknowable
ways?
I
only ask, what if?
How
scared I was … when I finally finished Torture
and went to deliver the “Angel” the first printed copy.
Stunned,
“he” told me he would read it.
"I'll read it ... and I'll let you know what I think ...”, the “Angel”
assured my scared spirit self. Relieved, I sighed.
I
trusted him. Still.
I
believed him, even after so many letdowns. I believed him when he
promised he'd read the book I wrote for him
and let me know --- something. Any thing.
I believed him.
I
had the renewed innocence of hope. I believed him once again and once
again he fooled me. And I fell for it. My unwavering trust and
vulnerability vanquished, yet undiminished.
I
expected my “Angel” might have questions of his own after reading
my story.
I
have answers. I am ready.
How
should I interpret “his” silence?
A
kindness is missing. A validation. An understanding that “he”
acknowledges and affirms me. That “he” hears me. We may listen
with ears, but we hear
with hearts. That “he” realizes the part “he” played in the
damaging demise, the ruins of what was real for me. His disregard is
deafening.
My
favorite priest, who read and enjoyed Torture,
said to me, “If he's a sensible man, I think he'll be awed.”
Apparently,
my “Angel” is not a sensible man after all. On the face of it,
my “Angel” appears to be odd … rather than awed.
I
wrote 124,002 words for an “Angel”....
From
“him” … I heard … not one word.
Just
Another Lori Story
