Lost

I lost it. In church on Sunday, after the service had ended the pastor prayed for the congregation and, as he always does, invited individuals to seek personal prayer at the front of the church. I had rested my forehead in my hands to the back of the seat in front of me and I was praying silently for my mother, who starts chemo on Thursday, and I started to cry quietly. As the hot tears slid down my face I felt someone hug me from behind and sobs shook my body until I was no longer crying inaudibly. The weight of the world fell upon me and I felt such pain and fear – it was like a big black hole opened inside of me and claws reached out to drag me down. I feared being left alone and begged to the person stroking my head and rubbing my back to not leave me, although I doubt she could hear me through my gasping sobs. Where did this fear come from? It was a moment of weakness, a momentary slipping of the armor that I held tightly in place to shield me from the pain of the world. I took deep breaths to purge this fear from my body and soon I was able to hear more than just my own ragged breaths. I heard the kid, who had come down from Sunday school upstairs, asking me if I was ok, laying his hand on my shoulder to comfort me. The tears subsided and I could breathe again, the fear had left me. And it was then that I realized what it was – loss. Perhaps I spend too much time recounting the things I have lost over the past five years or maybe it’s just the great fear of losing my mother, but that was the fear that rose to claim me, to gobble me whole. “Don’t leave me.” Because so much has gone from my life and I don’t want my mother to be another loss. But, as the kid patted my arm and crouched beside me, I realized it was also the constant loss in foster care that reminded me again and again how quickly things and people can come and go – I was reminded then, that he too shall leave me. After the episode I felt abashed at my behavior, especially in front of the kid, and I apologized to him. He didn’t seem put off by it, he just shrugged and gave me a hug. I felt hallow, like my insides had been scooped out, as we left church and went about our day. My reaction was in exact contrast to what happened during the church service. The pastor was joking about there being a holy happy hour and encouraging the congregation to drink the living water, which had many people in stitches as the Holy Spirit dumped joyful merriment into their souls. The best I could manage was a lukewarm smile until I lost it after the service. True joy eludes me right now. I have moments of levity but that feeling of lightheartedness is always fleeting. The carefree feeling of true joy and contentment are distant memories to me, something I experienced as a child and perhaps a teenager but not as an adult. In the grown-up world there is always something to worry about and when the first cracks began to show on my façade, any semblance of carefree abandon fell away as the pain rushed in to claim it’s space. Infertility ate away at me, like rust slowly and steadily weakening even the strongest metal. Then Flaco left, stealing the very heart from my chest and quickly followed by the loss of my first child (legally, he was never mine, but in my heart he was). Subsequent losses of other placements, beautiful children I could only love for a short time, reinforced the theme of tepid happiness followed by gripping pain. Like Pavlov’s dog, I have been conditioned to expect happiness to be fleeting, followed by gut-wrenching pain. I don’t want to think this way, but it seems like every time I choose to believe things are finally on an up-ward swing, a new horror arises and I plummet back to the bottom of the pit once again. Sometimes I think I will close my eyes and wake up in my childhood bed, relieved this was all a very bad dream. Instead, I wake up to realize I’ve gotta put on my big girl panties and get on with it.