Mystery

Mystery.

  You said that I don't realize to what extent I remain a mystery to You, as if it were a bad thing that there are things in me You have not seen, or heard, or felt—of course, these are still mysteries to me, also. But if I am , as You have claimed, a goddess, then do You dare attempt to strip away the layers of mystery that protect the divine? What right have You to know any goddess fully? What would happen if suddenly You could read my mind as words on a page, and there were no thing left to inquire about or seek? What use would You have for me then?

  You said it as if it were a personal affront, a crime, but I cannot help but feel that You know me all too well, and that there is nothing mysterious about me, for when You speak of me to me, You hit so close and hard, perhaps not with perfect accuracy, but with incredible insight. You implore me to speak, to narrate, to astound You with soliloquy. And at the same time tell me I have nothing to say. The very reason I remain so silent is so that You will not discern my emptiness—better mysterious or somber than vapid and trite—, and the more You force me into vocalization, the more panicked I become, and the emptier. It's as if You don't believe me when I say that I have run out of words; but it is true, that in those moments, those haltering phrases that I manage to utter slide away into fragments of "I don't know," "Say something, quickly!" and "You're losing Him!" The pressure to come up with not only the right words, but any words at all, paralyzes, and literally the thought repeats in my head "I can't think. I don't know what to say now." I fear I have run my course.

  I hear myself sometimes, sounding exactly like my mother, and it is disgusting to me, and intolerable. I know You see and hear it too, so how can I not be ashamed to open my mouth? I never know when it is the wrong thing to say. You tell me of  little men who live in our stomachs. I ask "What do they live on?" I thought I was doing well by starting with questions, but You respond with "That's your question?" It was only a start, but it was immediately dissatisfying to You, and You put me down for saying anything at all. What am I to do? Is this how You support me? I'm afraid to have You read what I wrote yesterday for all of these reasons...I can't do it like You, and because You want me to , I will always be lacking. 

Fear fear fear...I have been trying so hard to escape you all week. 

  And after a long day, I return home, wanting only to crawl in bed and drift off while nuzzling  in Your skin and hair and scent, I am chastised for having nothing to say. My small accounts of what have happened, all I can offer in the moment, are seen as so much pitiful prattle, worthless and useless and valueless. I had just begun to feel a tentative sense of accomplishment in what I had done this week, and now I just feel inadequate, again. The stirrings of excitement in me were quenched by a sense of failure . Today, I feel hurt and low, and the feelings I have been trying so hard to ignore, the voice telling me I am not good enough, are coming not from me, but from You. I thought I was rising, but it seems I have only sunk further into Your disapproval.

  I thought You understood. My great pain, is that I cannot do for You what You do for me, even though I would give so much to do so. I don't know what I can do, or do, other than frustrate You.

  The week was good, yet now it seems like it isn't worth much at all.

  But the most hurtful thing is that I have disappointed You, again, when You need so badly for someone to override Your own rampant thoughts with their vivid descriptions and recollections and imaginings. Sometimes You tell me that the narrative in my head that tells me I am not good enough is a lie, and that other people aren't thinking or saying it, so I should stop hearing it and being difficult with myself. But, doesn't this prove me right? Isn't it  sign of...something, that as soon as I decide to try a different mindset, someone puts me back in the place I was trying to leave?

  I know that I need to share more, but so much of my thinking is shrouded in pain of various sorts, it seems that I cannot get around it, or outside of it, or away from it, or out from under it. It is hard to let your mind fly freely when the weight is always upon you.