Crazy Enough To Want To Fly | The Struggle

As a child, I always wanted to fly. The thought of being able to grow wings or even to be caught by an angel while falling in mid-air kept my imagination just as hungry as I use to physically be.

When you grow up on a fixed income from social security checks on every third of the month you understand patience differently. I used to be eager to cut out and circle things from the Sunday Wal-Mart Newspaper ads.

I also knew that many of the few five or six things that I would cut out I would never get.

I accepted my truth.

I accepted my intuition.

I would hold on to my newspaper clippings and use a glue stick to glue them to a sheet of notebook paper. That same glued-on sheet of paper would then go into my bible. I would pray over my bible.

My hopes were never high.

My faith was weakened by my intuition.

Wishing silently during those bittersweet moments felt better instead of praying out loud.

I never yearn for materialistic things to begin with. I always felt bad even asking God for better shoes, hair products to style my hair with, and clothes to put on my back. I shared a queen-sized bed with my sister. My mother slept in the same room with us along with my brother. Both beds and box springs that we slept on were found on someone’s trash in our town.

Someone else’s trash can be someone else’s treasure.

One room.

Two beds shared by four people.

The math is simple.

A complex living situation.

When it would rain at night the tin rusted roof on our shack would create a rhythmic beat. A rhythmic beat to my struggle, pain, and happy moments. The beat was never soothing. The beat seemed purifying in ways, mentally, before it then would start raining on my head.

God’s tears were purer than rainwater.

Oh, what a thought?

Then I would grab the empty plastic Blue Bell Sherbet container from under the head of my side of the bed.

I was always prepared for the rain.

I then would place the container as accurate as I could get it underneath the holes above our bed.

With a few taps on the shoulder, I would wake my sister and tell her to change positions. We would both sleep headfirst at the foot of the bed. We would curl up as best as we could. We knew that we did not want to get our feet wet or to kick our plastic homemade water catcher.

I cried myself to sleep countless nights after getting off my knees from praying. My chest was always heavy from my emotions. My stomach sometimes would be empty and bubbling from all the tap water I drank to help my raging hunger.

Is it okay to say that I am still scorned from my childhood?

Is it okay to say that my desire to share my life with you is helping me to heal?

I won’t stop ever sharing my life with the world. It’s comforting. More comforting than the thought of being caught in mid-air as I fall. More comforting than that glass of sugar water on a hot day. More comforting than holding on to my uncomfortable truth.

I wanted to fly away even when it rained.

I wanted to feel full without eating.

I wanted to be lifted from my reality

Physically, spiritually, and emotionally

without feeling guilty for desiring peace.

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