The other day at a recovery meeting the leader shared on the idea of trust, and how--for her--being sober has helped her learn to trust people, trust recovery, and trust God.
I found myself scoffing at her and her shining-faced happiness. I thought to myself, "Well, clearly, nothing really bad has happened to her yet." And, condescendingly, "Well, she's still pretty new to recovery, she'll see--it gets harder." Many folks that then shared talked about the connection between trust and faith; I found this equally galling. Even though I know many of them have suffered horribly over the last few years.
I worked hard to listen, though, while shutting up my inner voice. And I realized that I envied them all that simple trust and faith--I miss it. For years I felt very connected to God, and was very grounded in sobriety and I had lots of faith and trust that things were going to be, all in all, OK.
Of course, you all know what happened. Infertility fucking happened. During the early years of that struggle I felt like I was being punished by God. For what? Maybe my previous years of slutty behavior, or for not taking care of myself, or for being fat. I wrestled with this the first few years, but I managed to hold on to just a shred of faith. I could still pray, I could still trust, and I still believed that God was watching out for me.
Then we lost the boys, and that shred of faith turned into a tattered thread, and then it disappeared completely.
I didn't realize that I was still suffering from a lack of trust and faith now until I heard that woman speak about it. I realized then that I was still roiling with anger and resentment toward God. That I don't believe in my heart of hearts that God has my best interests in mind.
I thought I'd gotten better thanks to Tori. Holding her close, smelling her sweet neck, listening to her laugh--I thought that it was there that I saw God again. But that's not really true. Where I once believed in a personal God--one that heard my prayers, one that held me in the palm of his or her hand--now I believe only in a hazy, distant God that could care less about me personally. I believe in the overall flow of the universe; that it's possible to direct yourself into a negative or positive flow of universal energy based on your actions. But prayer is just spitting in the wind--no one cares, and no one is listening.
I don't like feeling this way; I was much happier when I really felt like I was cradled in God's hand, safe and cared for. Shit, who wouldn't? But I feel now that if there is a personal God (personal to me, that is) he or she is kind of an asshole, and full of arbitrary moods and inclinations. A God like that is impossible to trust. It's like trusting an abusive parent. Seductive, compelling, and impossible.
But I've been continuing to behave in a spiritual way, even if I don't feel particularly spiritual. I have continued to go to church (missing the last few Sundays notwithstanding). I go to meetings. I participate in my church's online prayer circle, dutifully bowing my head and praying over for the health and joy of others. I hold hands with everyone at a meeting and mouth the words to the closing prayer.
Basically, I've been acting as if I have faith.
Recovery is based largely on the idea of "acting as if." In recovery, we believe that you first have to change your behavior and then eventually your mind and heart will catch up (somewhat the opposite of most therapy). It worked for me in my first few months sober; I just acted as if I didn't want to use alcohol and drugs so badly that my eyeballs hurt. Eventually, I didn't want to use anymore. So I figure I'll just continue acting as if I have faith until I find myself willing to have a better opinion of God. I don't know when that will happen, or even if it will ever happen. But what else can I do?
Luckily, it turns out I'm in good company. It was with great interest that I heard this last week that Mother Theresa, of all people, struggled this same way. It turns out that her letters reveal a profound spiritual crisis, one that left her bereft and angry. In one letter, she says:
"Jesus has a very special love for you ... [but] as for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see, — Listen and do not hear — the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ... I want you to pray for me — that I let Him have [a] free hand."
She gets right to the heart of the matter, doesn't she? I find that I feel the same way--YOU all get to have a kind and benevolent God, but me? Not so much. For me as well, the silence and emptiness is so great. It feels impossible to overcome, no matter how glorious Tori's giggles.
I have no idea how to cross this hurdle. It is so immense and solid. I don't want to be this way--I want Tori to look at me and see a woman that believes the best about the world, people, and God. I want her to be open to the idea of God working in her life, and not stymied by my lack of faith and her father's lack of belief (oh, I still believe--yes, indeed).
But I feel better knowing I'm in good company, that others lived a spiritual way of life even while they didn't believe. I never thought I'd have much in common with Mother Theresa, much less discover that she's put words in my mouth. But I feel a lot less alone knowing that is true.
