We had a beautiful World Aids Day vigil yesterday. It ended with communion. Communion always moves me: especially so when a certain liturgy is used, and perhaps even more so yesterday evening, as I read a part of that liturgy. Last night, having spent the day-time actively and effortfully not thinking about previous years’ December 1, the memories hit me with full force in bread and wine. I breathe hard. Not, now God, I can’t deal with this now. I need to read.
My throat tightens further. I keep breathing. I speak the few words left. The vigil ends. I close my eyes, try harder to breathe. God, please. Help me keep control. By the time someone speaks to me, I realize I haven’t mastered control. I’m angry with myself at my lack of control (I’m nearly thirty, not three) and angry that God hasn’t helped me regain composure. I run. I run and I cry hot tears – and I want an end to it all because I am horrid and I hurt people. These are my memories. I am hurting so much.
I stop crying and breathe again. I have control: I can end it. If I can’t control myself, and God won’t help me, then I can end lack of control once and for all. I return to the sanctuary. People are laughing, and I laugh, too. But others see that things aren’t right. They ask if I’m okay, and I say yes, but then I hear myself say no, and I accept hugs, and I feel held. Safe-folded in the Everlasting Arms. I’ve regained genuine composure. And then I can talk more easily, and I get safely home, and I know I am loved.