God the Comforter

So you take a Xanax and lie down, and it physically hurts that you are so awful you can’t stay out of bed for the entirety of just one single afternoon. You are lying in the middle of day in bed “just until you’re no longer angry,” you tell yourself, about the phone call. You didn’t know the things you couldn’t do until one day you just couldn’t do them.

While you lie there obviously with conviction it’s possible to think your way into death- to just sort of mentally whisk yourself dead without any messy or painful action- you wait expectantly for it. That’s how strong your belief in your powers of mental death-whisking are.

You wait hopefully on death for a while, beginning to feel better. But life- thoughts keep intruding, pouring liquid signals through poorly sealed parts of you, into ignorant, pain- hungry, life- attuned receptors.

“I’ll treat this on my own. I’ll run every day- and eat healthy.

Maybe I’ll get a, a…certificate. (Certificate will fix life.)

We can fix our relationship.” (Medical or dental assistant or veterinary technician certification will fix relationship.)

Each idea already contains the disappointment and delivers the pain of failing yet again, as you certainly will.

“Maybe I’ll find the right doctor- the right meds this time.”

No. Back to death- whisking, pull the comforter close. Because the truth is, depression can feel like nature’s safety mechanism for keeping you painfully alive, robbed of energy or strength to even kill yourself. That what’s truly physically dangerous is feeling and will.

Then you see The Face. You examine it, and yes, surely as you’re heavily sedated God did this. Such a perfect face in the comforter formed by the folds and a bit of stray string for two teeth.

Is it you?

Doesn’t look like your face, no matter that you have gotten ugly. Not that ugly yet. How prideful to think this was you, no, it’s God, who either doesn’t know about you or to whom you have no access-well except for the blanket face, obviously.

All the the while remembering the bipolar are especially prone to bouts of religion and delusions of grandeur, you as an Atheist are now accepting readily the work of God making, as He does, imprints in the bedspreads of the unstable and impressions in trees and in the toast of the impressionable.

Possibly because your mind is beginning to hum along at quite a clip, and you think you just may be able to catch this God fellow, who answers the prayers and fixes the minute problems of the wealthy and whom you used to believe in because He answered your prayers and fixed your problems because you used to be wealthy.

“Lord, please let me get a car for my birthday- and the boy.”

(Back then there were only life- thoughts; life- thoughts had no reason to make you sad and death- thoughts no reason to make you happy.)

But today, because of the comforter-God-face, you decide to try a thought experiment- to try for some sort of enlightenment. And because you could have a normal, good life if you had a normal, good, solid mind instead of this one, this experiment is a sad, ironic task of blanket-staring insanity masquerading as meditation which nonetheless calms you considerably.

You in fact begin to feel a sense of euphoria as you meditate, punctuated by opening your eyes to peek at the visage of a God whom neither cat nor dog has yet destroyed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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