Saturday, February 23, 2008

THE CATALYST, CHAPT 18: SANCTUARY
Hey. The following week passed without much event. It mostly consisted of: go to school, get hassled. Go home, get hassled. Go online, get hassled.
Yeah. All your stereo-typical teen angst bullshit. Same old, same old.
Only, now I didn’t have Cori--or any of my other friends that were taken by the attack--to rant to. I was forced to go back to spilling my guts to my diary, myself, and anyone else who cared enough to listen. I suppose I could’ve tried to branch out and make new friends to hang with, but at the time, I was still suffering from a severe case of “just dumped“ syndrome. I just wasn’t in the mood to socialize. Wasn’t in the mood to look for Cori’s “replacement” yet. After all, it was hard enough just to force myself out of the comfortable, oh-so-secure confines of my room every morning. At one point I contemplated not even getting out of bed anymore. Almost all of my friends at school had either died in the attack on Monday, been so traumatized by all the violence that they went institutional, or been transferred by concerned parents. Everyone was disappearing.
I had hit rock bottom and I wasn’t sure if it was even worth picking myself back up just to be weighed back down again. During those times, I would stare across the room into the golden crucifix nailed to my wall and think: “Yeah, I know You have Your reasons. I just haven’t the slightest idea of what they could be.” And in reply, from somewhere in my mind, would come the vivid memory of the Bible study course I took a few years ago. They were mostly a series of DVD’s hosted by a rather charismatic, loud and proud “Bible geek” named Mark Hart. He was always going on about how you couldn’t just half-heartedly tolerate/follow/obey God 50%. You couldn’t just pick and choose. No, you had to follow Him COMPLETELY. You had to become one with Him. You had to serve Him. You had to love Him. But above all, you had to trust Him.
In fact, Mark‘s exact words had been: “One of the most powerful prayers you can ever pray is: ‘Lord, I do not understand You. But I trust You.’” And that‘s it. No matter what religion you are-be it Hindu, Buddhist, Jehovah Witness, Mormon, whatever-there‘s always that question of weather or not you really, completely trust whichever deity you‘re worshipping. In every conflict, every adversity you will ever encounter in life, God’s always to be asking you that one crucial question: “Do you trust Me?”
So in those wee hours of the morning with my alarm blaring at me somewhere in the oh-so-bleak back-round to get up and face the gray, sunless, harsh, fluorescent world AGAIN, that’s what I heard. And the following is the best metaphor I can use to describe how I felt:
Jesus would just sort of appear out of nowhere, nimbly climb the letter to my loft-bed, and plop down next to me, so we were laying shoulder-to-shoulder in the limited space of my cluttered bed. He already knew I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, so He didn’t bother going the whole stern, Old Testament-style, kick-in-the-pants, “STOP SNIVELING AND GET YOUR ASS OUT OF BED!!!” route. No, instead, He would wrap His arm around my shoulders, and cuddle me close, and gently murmur: “Hey, hon, how ya doing?” even though He already knew perfectly well how I was doing.
In response, I would feign a weak smile, soak in the loving warmth and protection of being in His arms, and say: “Not so good.” I didn’t have to elaborate. He obviously already knew the details.
“Yeah, darling, I know,” He’d say with a knowing nod and an empathetic pat on my shoulder. “But you’ve got to get up.”
“Whyyyyyyyy?” I’d moan, throwing my arms around Him and clinging to His chest in a gesture that screamed “PLEASE just kill me now so I can spend the rest of eternity with You and be done with it.” Alas.
No such luck.
He‘d sigh, exasperated. He’d gently place his fore-finger on my chin. He’d gingerly tilt my head upwards so I was staring straight into His all-honest eyes. And, He‘d say: “Belinda, why would I let this happen and then tell you to get up and face it if it wasn’t for your own good? Don’t you trust Me?” See? There it is: the infamous “do you trust Me?”
“Of course! I love You!” And I would shoot up into a more upright position, so my gaze would be more level with His. He wasn‘t the only one here with total conviction. No way in Hell was He going to guilt me into feeling like the “obligated, but apathetic” disciple this time. No, I knew by now this was much more than just another tradition my parents had engraved into me. A hell of a lot more. I wouldn’t be the one asleep in Gethsemane when He‘d be off throwing himself into the convulsions of the agony in the garden. No. I’d be there until the very, very end.
And He knew that.
“I know. I know you love Me,” He’d murmur, keeping His gaze locked on mine, as He‘d sensually rise from my pillow and crawl towards me until He was but a few measly centimeters [and a couple even more measly seconds] away from being on top of me. “But do you TRUST Me…?” Blush. His hot breath on my face. Grasp. His hand in mine. Stroke. His fingers through my hair. Kiss. His lips on my skin. OHHHHHHHHHH, HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
In response to the whole periodically inquired-after trust issue, I shoved my tongue down His throat, kept it there for a solid minute, simultaneously dragged Him down on top of me, placed one of His hands around my throat, the other unto the skin covering my heart, and finally pushed Him back far enough so He could witness the scene I had just created. The vile, potentially violent, ultra suggestive, illegal-looking scene I had just created.
Any other entity (especially if it was a human entity) would’ve stared down at me, bewildered and slightly horrified, at what I had done, what I had made our formally romantic moment appear to be. Matter of fact, I’m sure you don’t understand either. You think I’m just trying to be controversial, don’t you? You think I’m just trying to be provocative by having an imaginary potential sadist/masochist scene with Jesus. You think I’m simply trying to step on some puritan traditionalist nerves. Right?
Well, You‘re wrong. I’m not. And He knew that.
I could tell by the way His solemn ever-enigmatic gaze traced over the suggestive, semi-carnal, semi-murderous position I’d placed His hands in that He knew EXACTLY where I was going with this.
However, if He had asked for an explanation, I had one sort of pre-prepared. (“You want to choke me to death? I’ve already saved You the trouble of putting Your fist around my throat. You want to break my heart? It’s already in Your hand to shatter. And finally, You want to crush me? Darling, I‘ve already pulled You on top of me.”)
Of course, Him being God the Son and all, I didn’t actually have to say any of this out-loud. So I didn’t. He already knew what it meant. But, just for emphasis‘s sake, I told Him: “Love me. Hate me. Choke me. Break me. Do whatever You want with Me. I don’t care.” Grasp. Me tightening His grip on my neck with my own hand. “I. AM. YOURS….. I’ll ALWAYS be Yours.” Pause. Dot, dot, dot. He just continues to bore deep into my eyes for a few more seconds, processing what I just said and wondering if I have enough conviction to back it up. Ellipsis. Ellipsis. Ellipsis.
Finally, He shatters the all-too-tense atmosphere by giving me a loving smile and a knowing chuckle, as He takes His one hand off my throat and His other off of my breast. “You always were a cynical li’l artist,” He said in a mock-critical tone on behalf of my trade-mark melo-drama. “But, sorry, honey, you ain’t getting to stay home from school THAT easy.”
Awwwwwwww! This called for the ultimate, puppy-eyed, desperate, most irresistible look of beseeching-ness ever. TAKE THIS, O ALL-KNOWING ONE!!! FEEL MY ADORABLE WRATH OF SUPREME CUTE-NESS!!!!
Frown. Frown. Moan. Frown. Beg. Puppy eyes. Beg. Frown.
But in the end, all I got was another loving embrace, a promise that it was “only for a little while longer, babe,” one more “good-luck” kiss on the fore-head, and one last sincere-as-can-be “I love you.” And then He’d be gone. Well, no, not gone. Not PHYSICALLY gone, anyway. He was still there. I just couldn’t sense His prescience anymore. Technically, He had never actually appeared to me in the first place. These little occurrences were nothing miraculous. I’m no Joan of Ark. I never will be.
For the most part, I was just using my imagination, trying to picture what God would be like if I really could see and hear and feel Him. It was mostly theoretical. I suppose in some ways it had to be, because, you know, nobody actually knows what God looks like. And I know most of you are probably disgusted, because God is traditionally considered more of a father figure. But when it comes to Jesus, I think of Him as more of a Boy-friend. A much older Boy-friend, but a Boy-friend, nonetheless. I don’t know. I’m just able to get into it more when I think of Him like that. It’s simply easier to pray that way.
But I think that’s enough semi-controversial religious theory for one chapter.
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Title: I’m not dead yet!
Post: Hey, guys.
Sorry about the century-long hiatus. I was kidnapped by leprechauns and drag queens. (True story.) Anyway, school’s been killing me. It’s so damn brutal, it’s not even funny. We’ve got the H.S.A. (High-school Student Assessment) coming up in May, and since everybody needs to pass it in order to graduate, the teachers’ been forcing reviews down our throats like mad. I swear to God, I’m about to have a total melt-down. I’ve got, like, 10 ----ing assignments due tomorrow. Oy… I hate 11th grade.
Oh, and also, Cori--who is still missing--hates me now. Yeah. Meg was transferred, Aquia was shot, Danny was killed, Stacie was practically traumatized into insanity, and now Cori’s gone. Fun.
Fun.
Fun.
I’m just having the best gawddamn week ever. Can you tell?
~Shadow the me~
Date: April 9th, 2009
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