My God

I’m overhearing lunch conversations turn from football to breast cancer – sends my feelers up.  I start at one point and always come round to cancer.  My brain is a slug today, slow moving, sticky, leaving slime trails.  You would think more sleep would do me good, but all it does is wear me down all the more.  Like potent and addictive drugs, of which I have no firsthand experience, sleep has me hooked, wanting for more.  Instead of feeling revived, I feel groggy, as if I am peering through fingerprinted lenses.  I think sometimes I need to burn my candle at both ends, fatigue and chaos convenient devices to camouflage my feelings.  It’s hard to feel angry, depressed, lonely, anxious when you’re too exhausted to feel much else but tired.  Although it’s winter, it’s not winter-white.  It’s winter-brown, winter-gray, overcast, threatening rain not snow, everything cold mud like very early upper East coast Spring.  It’s a lousy feeling.

I am mad at him again – too drunk to see his son, playing cat and mouse games with us.  He does what he pleases, but I have to do the worry about our son, the bills, the future, court appointments and lawyer’s consultations.  Spend my time worrying about what could be perceived of our actions, our statements, because the legal system protects his kind.  We arrange, rearrange busy schedules so he can see his son, and he’s too drunk to bother, slurring last minute voice message cancellations, not exactly sure what day it is.  I’m glad I can’t have direct contact with him.  I don’t think I could be civil anymore.  I hate that this burdens my family, but I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him directly.  I was feeling guilty, feeling sorry for him, although I know this is not my fault – I tried.  Now I would love to hurl the pack of beer I know he bought the other day at his face, but I’m sure he drank those and another 1 or 2 packs by now.

Why does God keep an eye out for drunks and vagrants?  I know that Jesus love us equally, but I doubt I can do the same.  My poor son crying Daddy in the doorway refuses to surrender his coat, thinks they’re going to see Daddy, pleading to leave, while my mother has to say “not today after all.”  I want to cry.  I want to yell, tear out hair, kick, stomp, and bite, throw things, throw a temper tantrum.  Yet I can’t, I won’t.  I turned on the radio today to an Alanon ad.  Is that a hint or a shot to the face?