writing for your life.
It was the beginning of the end, but I still didn’t know it.
I didn’t know a lot back then, I guess; I still don’t know a lot, per se, but I know more than I did. I know the awful truth and though you shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free has taken its toll, as well as its time, I think I’m getting there.
Getting to be free, I mean.
But when I first found out that he didn’t love me, I didn’t know what to do with myself. The few who knew about what was going on were calling me, warning me, loving me, but it was like I had become an answering machine. No matter who called, no matter what message they left, I would say the same thing: It’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay; it’s gonna be okay, we’re gonna be okay…and then beeeeeeeeep.
And that was probably me flatlining just a little before somebody else called and the answering machine kicked in.
And wouldn’t you know it that one of my best friends was getting married in just a few days? And so not only did life demand of me that I attend a wedding, I was also the matron of honor, so in addition to singing a song I had written while Drew accompanied me, I gave a toast.
A toast about love; a toast about marriage.
And you know, I am glad that I was able to go; glad that it was not one more precious thing stolen from me in this ugly mess.
But getting there, that was another story.
Drew and I had different flights and so were waiting at two different terminals that morning. And I was a mess. Can’t imagine why. Just tonight, somebody who I am getting to know was texting me about emotional pain, telling me: The pain is just indescribable. I don’t know if you’ve felt it…but it is horrible…And suddenly I was brought back to that morning, when I was waiting to fly to the wedding and feeling alone in every way possible.
I remember watching two young women. They were like me in that their luggage was fun and funky; I think one girl had something purple and I had polka dots. But they were laughing, talking excitedly, smiling a lot in their exchange while I was feeling shocked at how much of a contrast I was to them.
I kept breathing and marveling at how my body still did its job. My heart beat. My pulse kept time. But I no longer cared. It’s like if somehow somebody survived the atom bomb and managed to find their cubicle the next morning. They made their copies, filed their papers, picked up a dead phone and tried to make calls, but nobody was even around to answer anymore. All the work that mattered so much had lost it’s meaning in just one moment. But that person knew nothing else, so they still tried to work.
And there was my body, still doing the work; still busy with living.
Still acting like it mattered.
But God, I hurt so much. And every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was me, taking my skin off. Peeling away every bit of me until I was just the pain and then maybe the pain could be flicked away. You know, like what the mean kids did to the daddy long leg spiders when we were little. They’d pluck away each of the legs, one by one, until just the little ball of his body was left, and then they’d flick that away. I thought maybe if I could just get down to the pain, I could flick it away too.
And so I pulled out my Iphone and started to write. I wrote like I was a junkie and putting those words together was the hit that I needed. And my thoughts, they centralized, somehow. I was finally one big goal; finally not terrified or confused or panicking as I wrote just a little bit of my nightmare down.
And as I thought about the punctuation I wanted to use, if I should end a particular sentence right there or connect two with a semi-colon, something inside of me was momentarily soothed.
I wrote for my life that morning, though I was chronicling a death.
And I didn’t show anyone what I had written for a long time. It felt too sad, too ugly, too strange. And even when I finally did, I made a disclaimer, saying that nobody had told me that they didn’t love me. But that wasn’t particularly true. He hadn’t said it to my face, but he’d said it in enough ways and to enough other people (and really, once is enough) that truly, he had said it.
Anyway, this is what I wrote that morning. I’ll never forget that feeling; It’s not a place I ever want to be again.
I keep seeing myself taking my skin off. Just like you’d peel off your wet clothes, I take off all my skin, fold it up neatly, and tuck it away in a drawer. I don’t leave my skin all over the floor; I put it away, just like my mom taught me.
And it’s so easy, so simple. Because now I walk around, just bones all bleached white, knocking together like teeth chattering on a January day. And when he tells me he doesn’t love me anymore, it makes sense.
‘Of course he doesn’t love her,’ they all whisper, ‘She’s just a pile of bones, after all.’
in Thoughts and Feelings
as drew, gonna, matron of honor, morning, one of my best friends, pain, polka dots, precious thing, singing a song, skin, time, ugly mess
Jess this post makes me very sad for you. I’m so impressed with you though. You truly have risen from the ashes. I know there is still a lot to walk through, but I feel so confident in your ability to walk it out with grace.
“I know there is still a lot to walk through.”
Yep, I think I know that too.
But it’s interesting, cause now I think I can try to live in the moment, whereas before, I wanted to live anywhere BUT the moment. I could hardly sit still in my own skin, it hurt so much…But in this moment, I think I feel grace. I think I feel like something good is on the way–or at least something better…:)
Well, that’s some achingly beautiful writing right there, isn’t it? You know, I seem to remember a wise older brother not named Josh or Jonathan once said to you that one silver lining of this tragedy will definitely be your soul being deepened and strengthened to the point where your already impressive creative talents will positively sing with authenticity and power. He was clearly on to something, that one.
Um, you never put your cloths away, like Mom taught us, so why start with your skin?
And of course I know you know this and every person who reads this blog knows this but his failure to love you was his tragic, baffling, if-he-has-any-sense-someday-he’ll-rue-this-for-life failure and of course has nothing to do with you or who you are. And of course you know that. Or at least you should. Some hopefully now you do.
Yes, Jase, I do remember you telling me that. And I remember thinking that it’s a high price to pay, but it’s something and maybe even part of the good that will come eventually; I remember feeling something close to hope when you said that, though I was a long was from happy, as P!nk says…It’s funny, after I told Josh about what was going on and he had his first initial reaction, he looked at me and said: well, be ready to write some pretty rad songs…And haha, you’re right–I’ve never been so good at putting my clothes away. But I am better now:)
Wow, Jess, that imagery is both breathtaking and heartbreaking. So brave of you to share it…
thank you, Nina…It’s weird. I was really obsessed with the idea of taking my skin off; it’s all I could think of while I was at the airport that day.
The skin is one of the biggest physical conduits of love and affection – babies who don’t get touched will die compared to those that do. So, it makes sense.
Jase, that is really fascinating and a good point. Now it makes a lot of sense. Whoa.
Oh, Jess……I know I haven’t gone through anywhere near what you’ve gone through, but the pain during that time period was so excruciating, physically, spiritually, emotionally. It literally took my breath away. I remember always trying to get my breath. And it was so isolating. It was like living in a parallel universe that no one but our family lived in. Even now, it doesn’t seem like others can really understand all that has happened. Someone once told me that going through divorce was like having open heart surgery without any anesthesia. In your situation, it’s been so much more. Your words capture some of that devastating pain. I’m not sure any words can fully capture all the pain.
Every day you amaze me, inspire me, influence me. You are what the Bible teaches in action. You are genuine. You’re the real thing.
Mom, you are so sweet and kind and strong but really, I am not what the Bible teaches in action…I try, I’ll give you that. I try. As do all the rest of us…:)
I remember that post. And skin or no skin, it will never make sense to me why anybody wouldn’t love you.
I think I’ve given up on trying to understand it…and I think that he’s working on becoming a person who can love someone someday, which is a good thing…
Jessica,
You don’t know me yet but I know your parents. My husband and I recently began attending VCF with my sister and brother in law, Steph and Fran Dunham. You most likely know them and my darling nephew Stephen.
I have been reading your blog the past few days and have really enjoyed it. I have gleaned you are going through a tough time right now. You are in my prayers.
Your writing is beautiful. There is a certain honesty and grace in it that I really love. I too am a writer and have been attempting to begin writing in my own blog again very recently. Reading your blog has kind of inspired me to do so.
Anyway, I just wanted to encourage you to keep writing. You definitely have a talent for it.
God Bless You.
Hi Richelle! Thanks so much for the kind words you wrote–I hope I can meet you in person soon:) And if you feel comfortable, drop me your URL so I can read your blog–I always love reading what people have to say:)
Jessica please by all means read my blog! LOL I have been trying to get people to read it. My name has the link for it but just in case, here it is : http://forgodsgloryrk.wordpress.com/
Thanks And God Bless You!
Richelle Knapp
Jessica, just so you know, a lot of times people’s names at the beginning of their comments are hotlinked to their blogs, so you can just click on those if they have a blog.
thanks, Jase–I did actually know that–just sorta forgot about it:)
I will definitely check it out–thanks again!!!
“Someone once told me that going through divorce was like having open heart surgery without any anesthesia.” Yup. That’s EXACTLY what it feels like. I didn’t want to tell you that earlier, but I guess you already know now, so there it is.
When I was coming back from the last meeting I ever had with my first wife (getting papers signed), I was driving on I-495, the Washington Beltway. I really felt like crashing my car into one of the overpass abutments. At around 65 mph. I figured THAT would make the pain stop. The only thing that stopped me was not knowing whether it would work or not. So I kept on driving, and wound up in Colorado and met Trish.
All I can do, Jess, is keep encouraging you and praying for you. And I will.
thanks, Jim…and yeah, I do know how that feels…I’ve had similar dark and very pain-inspired thoughts of just not wanting to be alive any longer. And I’ve always been someone to love life, so it’s been a terrifying shock to suddenly feel that way. But yes, already I’ve seen glimpses of the other side…so, thank you for reminding me of it:)
Jessica, it was so wonderful to hear you and Shane play on Sunday night. It made my birthday amazing. I really admire your courage that through the adversity, and the attack on your family, you can still praise God, and rely on him. I don’t know what I would do without Him. Your writing is beautiful, and so are you. I can’t even begin to tell you during the length of time we have known eachother, what a blessing you have been. Continue being a transparent person…through your blog, and through your life. You are awesome! I love you.
“I wrote for my life that morning, though I was chronicling a death.” Oh, Jess.
You are a woman of character and grace. God bless you and fill you with His peace. Love you.
thank you, Kathie. So much.