Chapter 38: VOID

BOOM!

I am surrounded by lightning.

It is everywhere…near, far, beautiful flashes off in the distance, spidery webs from cloud to cloud; bold, blinding streaks of electricity connecting to the ground.

I adore storms. I am one of those people who will be racing up the stairs as you’re on your way to the basement during a storm warning, headed outside to watch Mother Nature’s brew of magic unfold in the heavens. And she is really throwing it down tonight, limbs out and hair flying free, the main event dead center on the dance floor, a spectacularly brilliant display of light and sound.

I am perched on the roof of my Chevy van on a hill in the center of this massive electrical storm begging God to take me out. Crying out loud, just end this already. I am more than prepared to check out, I’ve had enough.

BOOM! a close strike, but not close enough.

And wouldn’t it be poetic, justice served to a spiritual leader gone rotten?

The lightning is everywhere, each streak a juror ready to cast their guilty vote and sentence me to an electrical death.

Struck by lightning, a life ended by a cliche. It’s almost too perfect. And it’s exactly what I deserve for my failure to make this work.

I’m not sure when exactly I started contemplating taking myself out, but once I had made the commitment to the congregation that I would fix my marriage, I felt destroyed. For over twenty years now, Monica has been systematically and daily dismantled, as I tried to make pastors, churches, everyone around me satisfied that I was living my life correctly. I have nothing left in me, there is no longer a Monica. It feels like all of my interior has been scraped out and I am just an ambulatory shell of skin, a gutted Jack-O-Lantern having served its purpose left to rot on the front porch. I am completely void. I feel hollow, I have no idea who I am anymore. All I am is a product of what everyone around me wanted.

The day I made the public statement to the church, I sat on a too-tall stool on the platform, microphone in hand in front of the entire congregation, and as the necessary words fell from my mouth, I could almost see dark bars sliding, hear the creak of metal against metal, smell the iron of the doors as they slammed shut…

and all of Tiny Town is watching to see how I navigate my imprisonment.

It is not going well.

I consider pills, but I could wind up brain damaged, thus forcing someone to take care of me. I don’t own a gun, and I’ve never been a cutter. And I wouldn’t want someone finding me and being traumatized. So, even on that stormy night, I eventually give up my rantings to the god somewhere over the black flickering clouds above and head inside.

There are two main reasons I am alive today, one is sleeping in her bedroom twenty feet away as I write, and the other is sleeping in his apartment forty miles away.

When people tell me how strong I am for surviving it all, I’m not sure they realize how close I was to ending it all. But I have a beautiful beloved brother who chose this kind of exit, and having lived through the ensuing damage, I absolutely could not do this to my kids, much less my family, although only my one sister is aware of what’s going on with me.

Somewhere around this time, I start to run. I’m mentally running away from everything. I run for hours. I’m running ten miles at a time, I run, and think, and think, and run. I’m literally trying to outrun my life. It’s not working. It catches up with me every time, although I am down to a size zero by now. Women I know want to know my secret to how I got this thin. Heyyyy, try Monica’s diet plan! Make your life so miserable you can barely eat, smoke a lot and attempt to run away from everything.

And I go though cigarettes like a three-toothed carny, the great irony being that I’m teaching a rather intense workout class at the gym several days a week. After this murder workout, I cower in a niche outside the gym and smoke, and think, and cry. If those gym ladies only knew.

And I have pain. Chronic abdominal pain that is getting more severe with each passing day. I go to the doctor seeking answers. He sends me to see a pelvic physical therapist. What the hell is that? I get a second opinion, he sends me to the same pelvic physical therapist. Fine. I’ll go, already.

At times in my story, I come up to parts of the tale that are incredibly difficult to tell. I hesitate here, but in the end, I need to confess what can happen when you’re living a lie.

I drive to a neighboring larger city, not a whole lot of specialists in Tiny Town, as you might imagine. I pull into the parking lot, park my car, and enter the building. I weave through a labyrinth of corridors, finally locate the correct office, and fill out the ensuing cascade of paperwork. And I sit on a table in a tiny room, somewhat bent over from what doctors invariably call discomfort. Liars.

She enters the room, a dark-haired intense looking woman. She has a head of unruly curls, and a no-bullshit demeanor. She introduces herself, and has me lie back, and I unfold onto the padded table. I miraculously retain all of my clothing for this first exam. She presses her hands into my abdomen, feeling ligaments, tendons, muscles, and whatever the hell else resides in my lower quadrant.

She sits back in her chair, looks me straight in the eye, and delivers a bombshell.