Methodist Church; 2015
Week after week, as she nervously entered the room, Ginny would follow the same routine: a quick motion of hellos around the room with minimal eye contact; but with the intention of making a quick beeline towards the sofa. As she nestled into her own self-created womb, her confession would begin:
“Over the last twenty years, I’ve done everything I could for this marriage; I don’t think I can do much more.”
“I waited for him to be a better father to our kids.”
“Now that he’s sober, he’s dedicated his life to the program…when will it be time for me?”
“When is it going to be my turn?”
As I sat across the room, a breeze from her depleted soul wisped right past me. The air pocket of hope that stood the test of time, for better or worse, through thick and thin…was released and set free from pure exhaustion. All that was left was an emptiness that needed to be felt…and felt…and felt.
Although Ginny and I were two different people, we shared a connection. I remember what it’s like to hold onto something so tightly; unaware of an outside perspective. I’ve wrestled with the understanding that if I decided to stay in a situation, it was by choice and my responsibility to do the work. But I couldn’t expect the same in return from someone other than myself. I’ve sat with the frustration of knowing no matter what measures I took, I didn’t have the power to change an event or a person.
As I wait for the next step of inspiration, I’d like to set an intention for my blog: to make connections with those who’ve had to rise from the center of their own depleted soul.