I, alone, cannot solve the problems I have, today. The resources and relationships required, I do not possess. Specific to relationships, I do not have any with anyone who is both sufficiently invested in the outcome of my life and in the position to suffer ‘being hungry as the dog’ confidently.
Those things I would provide myself, I cannot. Not even the most base needs did I satisfy for many more months than I want to acknowledge, here.
So, it is at this point therefore that I must decide when it is reasonable to recognize that nothing noble is hoped for in suffering, longer, still, and make a demand on behalf of whatever personal dignity remain. A demand of self-agency should I come to that moment of recognition that, if not in living, then in dying, I will have mastered something–anything–other than abject failure.
The feeling of grief is profound, conceding that I have drifted to the bottom of an unfathomable world. One, I would never completely sense I belonged at any time.
I cannot think thoughts of never touching or beholding my children, again. That may very well be my fate should I live longer than the stones I kick in the road.
If I pray for one thing, only, it will be mercy. My entire life I have asked for and received God’s mercy. Death, I hope, will not withhold the mercy my suffering begs out to be greeted, in the truest sense, silence from the living. At least the living that offer sacrifice to their gods at the altar of scarcity.
God was not unclear that ours was meant to be a life lived abundant. No belief of abundance creates a merciless world. One I would not survive under any circumstance. Mercy is, to me, the love we bring and the love we are brought.
I am not a soldier. I am not a deserter. I am a fighter that remains until my fight is done and I step down and out of the ring and into something softer, more forgiving, more true.
But God knows I will fight until I am absolutely beaten. With everything I have. So it goes with me. So it goes.
But, how long should it go? Really?