For the time I was away from work, and church, over Christmas and the New Year, I felt cut-off from the emotional storm that had had me in its grip. The dust I’d been caught up in settled, and I swept it all up under a carpet of crochet, and walks by the sea, and familiar, more benign, relationship problems.
When I got back, people said I look better. And I did feel better, too. Kind of. I felt better, because I wasn’t feeling. The emotional debris were all under the carpet; out-of-sight, out-of-mind.
Back at work, I’m still not feeling. Or rather, not until I am reminded of what’s under the carpet. Now, the merest mention of the minister’s name engenders a surge of anger through me, bordering on despair. I remember that I am hated and actively rejected and outcast. The subject of church gossip. I remember how much people fear me – tread very carefully around me – so as not to disturb the dust. How in two weeks’ time, she’ll be back off leave. And I am tearful at the mere mention of her name. How long does it have to be like this?
There is too much dust for me to sweep away. My emotion is stronger than me, and I can’t deal with it. I’m barely under my own control – always right on the edge, easily tripped. I’m scared. So, help me, God.