How It Happens: The Downward Spiral Part 2

Your realtor tells you to talk to a lawyer who specializes in foreclosures, who can advise you properly. She has the name of someone who’s helped quite a few of her clients.

How will you ever pay for a lawyer?

You call and leave a message, then wait the nail-biting two days for a response.

The mortgage company is still jerking you around about the loan modification papers, asking for clarifications, letters and signatures to back the information that has already been certified.

And they continue to return your payments.

You talk to your roommate, guilty and sad that it is going to affect him, too. It doesn’t matter that he knew the situation going in, that you kept him abreast of the job search and the uncertainties you were facing. You still feel like you’re letting him down.

You start cleaning house. There are things you don’t want to risk losing. Mostly your mother’s things. You stopped being sentimental about your own things when you were forced to start selling them to make ends meet.

But her life mattered. Her memory matters.

Remembering how she loved you, believed in you brings more shame.

What a disappointment you are.

And yet even now you hear her voice. She would never be ashamed of you. Not even now. You know beyond any doubt, her love for you never wavered. She would cherish each shattered piece of you. It somehow brings comfort.

People tell you to be strong, go to church, stand on the Word. Some pray, some cross their fingers, some send good wishes. Mostly people feel afraid because they don’t know what to say, so they disappear. You’ve been there before; it’s not an unusual response. The friends who say “I don’t know what to say” then talk you to distraction are a relief. For a few moments, you can feel normal. For a few minutes you have a place.

The lawyer says to take a deep breath, it’s going to get worse before she can step in and hopefully make it better. There are no guarantees.

You’re barely treading water. That means you’re going under. The “deep breath” is good advice.

She has a plan, though. You have no choice but to trust her.

Trust is hard. Faith is harder. You remember when they use to be so much a part of your being it felt like they were part of your name. That was years ago. Before the disappointments. The miscarriage. The loss. That was before death had taken its toll and life had pummeled.

“If you need to talk…”

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to think about it anymore. But it’s taken over your mind.

The light is getting dimmer every day. You’re not sleeping well and it’s hard to get out of bed. But you force yourself. You have to move. You have to keep trying, keep pushing. That’s what’s expected; that’s what you do. You may fail at life, but it won’t be because you slept through it.

More phone calls. More applications. More resumes. The only thing darker than the black hole of the job search is the black hell inside. That’s where demons reside. They have talons of humiliation and fangs of shame. They peck and bite and sneer. They mock you for believing you have something to offer, for thinking you still have value.

“Being hopeless won’t get you a job.”

“You need to think positive.”

“Every day is a new opportunity and you’ve got be be excited to embrace it.”

You feel the bitter shroud closing over you. The cliches are slaps when you need a soothing touch.

A friend from France calls. She sounds happy just to talk to you. You cling to the knowledge that it’s real. She’s too blunt to patronize. Besides, she happily gives you hours of her time. She doesn’t have to.

Another makes contact to tell you people only speak the best of you. She insists you are more than the circumstance.

You wish the voices across the ocean could mute the voices in your head. The ones that say “People are talking about you.” You can sense it, feel it in every interaction, see it in their pity-filled eyes, hear it in the judgmental counsel.

You find yourself raging on the inside, desperate to be free, to have the chains of bondage broken.

You think about the homeless you’ve seen under the bridges and along the sidewalks; their animated talks make sense now. A frightened soul can’t stay silent; a broken heart needs a voice to survive.

Your voice carries a pen. So you write.

This is how it happens.

Quickly, but in slow motion. Each step to the gallows accompanied by whispers.

I understand.

Today I gave John my granola bar. He’s a veteran, and homeless. For a little while, the voice he heard was mine. I hope he heard: “You matter.”

Click here for Part One: http://wp.me/p3HHLR-9g