So she sent me a 2-page letter about our conversation, radically misquoting me back to me, making some stuff up completely, wanting an apology for what I never said. The thing is, I would willingly own — without hesitation — what I actually said, but I won’t take responsibility for what I never said. Because I need my sanity. Desperately. I am selfish about that.
Honestly, I just don’t even know this place she inhabits. I don’t recognize it. I mean, I see it, see that she’s there in this … this elsewhere, but I can’t find it. If that even makes any sense. I think that once, years ago, our souls must have inhabited the same place or a similar place or even neighboring places, back when I was little and she was free, back when I was her daughter and she was my mom, but now, now … I don’t know her place anymore. And it scares me. For her. For me. Where is she? And where will I be someday?
When she tells me in the letter:
“May God judge you for what you said for He knows the truth.”
Or
“God will and is judging between you and me right now. He knows me and He can read my heart, so He will judge, whether in this world or in our life to come.”
Or
“You’re also ripping apart our marriage and this family.”
Or
“If your goal was to rip my heart apart and have me weeping every time I think of you — Good job!”
Or
“God forgive me for anything I did to inspire such ugliness.”
Or
“The great one on this earth (ed.: she means Satan) is very powerful, but I know the one that I worship.”
When she says these things ….. where is she? Where? Where?? I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear this. Not your problem. And it’s nothing new, actually. Many years of this, stretching back to when I was a teenager. But these are all complete thoughts, complete sentences, from her letter. I haven’t cut and pasted thoughts together. They’re just there.
I just feel so so so tired, peeps. I’m sorry. Forgive the dumping. The totally pointless rambling. I just needed to write …. oh, something … here, because I don’t have any words for there. How can I?
I think I like Anne Lamott’s idea: When she can’t think what to pray anymore … what to say … there are just no more human words … she writes the situation or the person’s name or whatever on a piece of paper and puts it in her God box. Basically saying, “God, you take it. I’m done. I am DONE.”
And I am. I am done.