Monday, March 9, 2015

I'm Suffering in Prose

I’m suffering. And I’ve been suffering for weeks.

I’m suffering over an issue that has no solution except for time and its ability to heal all wounds.

Except I keep thinking: if only I could write about it, maybe I’d feel better.

Except my “issue” concerns a busted up friendship and if I write about it, I’d no doubt say something that shouldn’t be said which is the whole reason the bust up happened in the first place.

So writing is out.

Except I’m suffering.

So that’s why I told one good friend. I knew she wouldn’t talk and it would help me to vent.

And it did, for awhile.

Then it came back. The pain, the loss, the betrayal.

I don’t cope very well with this stuff. I’m not resilient.

I'm Not Resilient

I’m not resilient. I don’t bounce back from things. I just hurt at length. Sometimes for years.

And it’s not just emotional pain. It affects me physically. Because I have nowhere to put the pain, so it goes to my limbs and organs and hurts me in these places, too.

Hurts everywhere.

I have my writing and my career. I have my work on behalf of Israel and my people. I have my family. These things are good. They are my outlet.

But I’ve lost other outlets. Because when you lose a friend, you lose circles of friends. You lose activities associated with the friend, with those circles of friends.

And I can’t talk about the specifics here. Because I’m sure the whole thing happened because I wasn’t careful with speech.

Normally, you see, I stay at home and mind my own business. I don’t go anywhere that would give me occasion to gossip. So my mouth stays pretty clean on that score.

But occasionally, I break out of my shell and join something. That’s what I did last year.

I joined something. And that something led to certain friendships and the joining of other somethings. 

And I made friends fairly easy and I exulted in those friendships.

It was a high to have people like me. Because, you see, for many years, I lived in a community high up on a mountaintop where I didn’t fit in.

I had no friends. So I stayed home and read and cared for my babies.

And so I’m used to having only myself for company. And I’m used to people thinking there’s something wrong with me which is why I never come out of my home and live inside my computer.

It’s why I have virtually no real friends at all.

But when I come out, I find that people actually like me and WANT to be my friend. And I am flattered and charmed and suddenly bubbly and someone else. Not that person who lives in a shell or inside my computer.

I come out of myself and I am someone else.

And people confide in me and I think I have a rare talent for listening. And I think they think I’m indispensable, that they need my listening ear. And they tell me things they really shouldn’t tell me and I shouldn’t hear and I am flattered and I never tell them to stop. And I think I’m in their inner circles. And sometimes.

Sometimes. I even say things to them about people. Things I shouldn’t say. Because everyone knows that friendships are two-way streets involving trust and if I want them to trust me, I will have to trust them.

So I won’t be careful to hold back the words I should never say. Words that are forbidden. Words that can hurt and maim.

And I am assured that I am loved. She tells me, “I know you hate being touched, but I have to hug you. I love you.”

And then an hour later. Two hours later. Three hours later. Does it matter? She tells someone everything I told her in confidence. Things I shouldn’t have said.

And they turn on me. It’s so fast I’m left stuttering. But, but, but on my tongue.

But she’s all talk to the hand.

And here I am.


I want to blame her. But I find I must blame myself. I was not careful. I did not guard my tongue.

People got hurt. I take responsibility.

Mida kneged mida. Roughly. It means: you get punished in like measure.

But. But. But. And then I stopped my stuttering. I told her: if you do this thing, it cannot be walked back.

But. But she didn’t care and she walked.

She crossed all my red lines.

And still. I wish it were yesterday. Before it happened.

I wish she would listen. But it wouldn’t matter.

Because she crossed all my red lines.

And it can never be fixed.

And anyway, it’s all my fault.

So again I am without people. In my house, inside a computer. My computer. Without song or theater.

All that is left is my keyboard. And my struggle to keep my mouth clean. Which is not a struggle at all when one is alone for the long-term.

Maybe it’s better this way.

But I am suffering from time to time.

I am suffering now.