God speaks to us.
God speaks to us.
God speaks to us.
God speaks.
To.
Us.
This is it. It took me a while to understand as I laid in a pool of blood in the most battered way.
You can restart again. You can have a world again.
It’s difficult to speak to God again.
But there is nothing but an empty hollow space between you and him at that point.
Is this the end of us?
God speaks to us in the most shattered way as he imprints his mark of holiness in our battered souls as his children. His lost angels.
But I don’t want to speak to God.
Rewind back to 2005.
I picked up a knife and slit my own thigh.
I sat in the tub covered in my blood as I heard the banging knock of my anxious, disturbed mother.
I just didn’t care.
Rewind back to 2007.
I picked up a razor and cut my legs.
I just didn’t care.
I just.
Don’t
Care.
Rewind back to Sophomore year of college.
He yelled and yelled.
I picked up a pair of scissors and slit my arm.
What.
The….
Blur.
Everything blurs now to a meeting with my psychologist during my Senior year of college.
It’s all blurry.
He’s worried and I told him that I don’t feel anything.
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
I don’t want God. I want death. But God gives you death too.
I can hear the echo of my doctor’s voice. It’s all faint. It’s caring. He cares.
But who cares?
Rewind back to sitting in Bible Study in San Francisco in 2016.
She was right next to me. Her arms and wrists slit up and I smiled at her. I said, “How are you?”
Is this a reflection of my future?
So blurry.
I hear.
Nothing still.
But God speaks to us in stillness.
That’s what the Church said.
I fall back in a pool of my blood.
Why didn’t you just kill me?
Now, my memory is shattered. My mind is in pieces. They’re calling me a puzzle. I’m dizzy from this grief. I remember but I don’t. She has died. She is alive. Who is alive? Who am I? You said all this would be over and you said I could be happy. I don’t want your love. I want a memory of happiness in my psyche.
Hello?
Yes?
Is this Dr. Aurora?