the monkey

Hurt wakes me up in tears in the middle of the night. She waits on me, picks into my flesh, claws at my sanity after the sun sets. The hurt is my mother leaving me. She left last April, for death; as if it were a horrific appointment she was late for. And ever since then I have been remnants of my former self. I just never manage to get it all together. I’m distracted, I make poor judgments, I speak from the position of victim, each word coming out like it hurt a little more than the one before. I’m grieving, I know. But I’m so broken that I often feel it’s beyond repair.

Maybe I cannot be fixed. This is my confession. I think that God, in his infinite splendor, can or will not (re)member the mangled parts of me that were torn to shreds by this hurt that pulls me out of sleep at night. And I cover it up. I lie about it. I dare not confess to anyone of this pain that I sleep next to, this stranger… will not leave. He is not depression. I know that guy too… hurt is different. He makes words that come out of the throat flow from the vulnerable places in my heart. I absolutely hate him.

I imagine this is my lot. I look successful. Some days I’m so together people envy me, yet I pack the bag for my monkey and he comes along with me… quietly most of the time. He makes me pensive at work, hostile. I can only imagine what a joy I am to work with. Luckily, I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal, so I also carry him with me to church. As the ladies discuss how to be attentive to the members of the body of Christ, the monkey chimes in… be present and attentive at your own house, for your husband... he says you neglect him. I walk away from the coarse comments unscathed. Many of them are laced with so much truth, one cannot manage a response. Their come back decides to stay back and I rebuff more and more people from my restless nights.