Nothing.  That’s what I have, post-divorce, at 55.  Nothing.

I love my son but he is scared of me and I can’t keep up with his problems.  He doesn’t want to live with me.  Since signing on for the background check at the mobile home park yesterday, he has been incommnicado, I don’t even know where he is.  We were very closely recently and suddenly as of last night he’s not talking to me.  I can only pray my father and mother haven’t done something to him in retaliation for sending “Daddy” those two emails of the posts I wrote on sexual abuse by him and “out of the woods.”

I still called him “Daddy” in college, and so did my mother, until he told me to stop.

I feel it all slipping through my fingers, the marriage, all those times and places, California…nothing.

My God stays with me but doubt still comes first.  It’s a struggle to believe and sometimes I think I’m only doing it to stand up to them.

I went to Harvard a runaway.  I wrote my essay about running away from home, and then I showed up alone off a plane wearing a cut-off dress without even a change of clothes.  I asked directions to Harvard Yard in the subway.  During my second year I came to this same point:  NOTHING.  “I come from somewhere half-way across the Atlantic Ocean,” I said to my two friends and roommates.  NOTHING.  NOWHERE.  NOONE  Maybe that’s what God means by asking me to be His “small one” again.  Give up the pretentions of a middle class suburban housewife and be the vagabond again, whose psychoanalyst asked in Boston so many years ago, “Don’t you have a better coat than that?  Are you a waif?”  I told him I wanted to be like Ted Koppel, who had just given the graduation Class Speech.  “I’m deeply moved.” he said, I still don’t know why.  That route led to the state hospital.  This voice I hear, I can’t say for sure it came from God, I only remember the confused prayer I said that seems to have brought it on me.  It makes me feel sick to talk about my family and then talk about God.  The one thing I do know is that He did say to me, “Be my small one again,” in the garage, smoking, after a failed Thanksgiving dinner, when my son and the boy who threw the dart at him stood in the driveway talking.

That’s what I have.  That’s all I have.  I don’t know how you go into old age like that.  My next step, which I can’t share, may take me there.  Maybe I’ll find peace in old age.


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