The Floor Above
When the song that hurts the most is translated, it takes on a completely superficial meaning—just like the belief that God is only above, and not all around us.
April 3, 2020
Is this the third or the fifth, perhaps the sixth? How many of them have I tossed into the toilet bowl while sitting on the floor and crying. I cannot stop thinking about him and the cigarettes; all those self-help books didn't help me shake him and forget him, nor did they help me quit them—they only intensified my craving. They caused an itch but wouldn't allow me to scratch. What absolute torture!!! I didn't manage to forget him, and I went from a pack and a half to two!!! I drank many bottles of Bordeaux, hoping that there, at the bottom of some glass, I would find the truth—the real one, or the “In vino veritas” kind, or any truth at all, just so I could find it. But no, every glass only remained empty, for a brief moment, until I would fill it up again, searching for all the world’s wisdom inside it. The drinks would only remind me of his lack of refinement, of the fierceness he so loved. He made no distinction at all, because in the end, that didn't matter; fierceness is simply everything that isn't gentle. Fierce drinks, fierce arguments, fierce fights, and yes, he loved fiercely, but not me. Perhaps the wine was speaking that truth, but no, I still think that...
The truth is solely in Him! No, I don't mean him, I mean “the one above.” He was the only one helping me. Every night before sleep, I pray a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys”; I pray most sincerely, completely surrendering myself to the prayer, becoming the prayer itself, but I think He cannot hear me from down here. This room is on some strange side in relation to God. I know, this sounds insane and ridiculous; I often sound like a madwoman to myself when I allow these absurdities to guide me, to convince me that God hears better when I am in the bathroom. In there, my concentration is more acoustic—no, I am dead serious. I can hear my thoughts echoing, I can hear the feelings moving through my body, I can hear their rhythm, I can feel them trembling where they wish to stay longer. That is when I start to cry out of pure fear, so I play a song that makes me even sadder and I begin to sob. I don't remember ever crying as truly as I do in the bathroom. Most importantly, every single time, I experience an epiphany. Those are my only moments of serenity...
I would often turn the shower on to its maximum strength, so I wouldn't hear myself crying so hard, so the water would distract my thoughts, but still, at a certain point, the chorus of the song overpowers my sobbing and the shower, and it breaks me. Then I sob from the depths of my pain, from my heart, from my very core. Soon I calm down a bit, until the song begins anew, because it is both my nourishment and my hunger at the exact same time. It revives me and kills me on every level; that is why it is the only thing I listen to. With my senses, nerves, and thoughts so crippled, I silently beg “the one above” to give me some sign. That is when the epiphany comes. I could swear by the most sacred and the dearest things I have that I hear that sign every single time—either something thuds, or clicks, or drops; an acoustic sign is present every time, sometimes quieter, sometimes louder, but every single time it comes unerringly from above. They taught me that when I pray, I should look upward, or close my eyes facing upward, with my head lifted toward the above. That sign I receive instills hope in me; I know I am not alone, I know I am sharing my suffering with someone, I know God hears me because He gives me a sign every time. I hear breathing, I hear a heartbeat, and I hear a presence—every single fucking time.
Perhaps I never knew how to love, or how to understand anything until this transformation in the bathroom. Perhaps I have never loved anyone more than God, because He is the only one who gave me a sign; when I begged Him within myself, He gave me a sign that I can feel and understand. Perhaps all our sufferings connect us with our own selves—and with “the one above”!
Since I've been a waitress my whole life, I feel like I must have a tip jar even here .