"Call Me Mara"

 Ruth 1:19-21 So they two went until they came to Bethlehem. And it came to pass when they were come to Bethlehem, that all the city was moved about them, and they said, Is this Naomi. And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

God hadn’t caused my suffering any more than he caused Naomi’s.  In fact, my suffering was my own doing. Call me Mara though, meaning bitter. I had a walk of shame. A bitter return.  Goodbye New Orleans.  Some places are for a season, but you think they’re forever.  New Orleans was a season.  I gained lifetime friends in a temporary place. 

982 miles at 90mph. That’s the definition of Manic. I was trying to leave everything behind me.  I strategically planned a playlist that would overpower the voices, but the voices were relentless. Loud music, louder auditory hallucinations.  The music is inconsequential because the voices engulf me. I drive faster, away from the voices. Hoping I can outdrive them. By the time I reach my destination I’m exhausted and overwhelmed. Twelve hours, record time, life-threatening time.  Destination: depression and despair. 

My mother moved us to this town when I was eleven.  That’s a post for another day.  Just know, while I’m not revealing the name, to remain anonymous, it is a midwest town, majority white, and so small the movie theatre plays one movie. Oh, wait, it has two screens now. When my family moved here the KKK had a rally and they followed us for some time.   Not the place to mend a broken heart and figure out why my brain is going bezerk.  So, call me Mara, forget my name, and just know I”m bitter and broken. 

Naomi’s husband and sons died. She had Ruth by her side, her daughter-in-law, who, besides her God, was her anchor.  By my side was my pup.  When I didn’t know what was real and what was not, she was my anchor. My husband did not die.  We did not get that far.  I suppose the thought of him did. See the previous post. I read somewhere, I can’t remember where now, that some people are in your lives for a season, to teach you something. I do not think I buy into that concept completely, but I do adhere to the idea that you should learn from your mistakes. I learned not to rely on myself, especially when I am physically alone, as I was in New Orleans.  Instead, I needed to rely on God to get me through because Satan was watching and working.  That season was over and I dreaded the next season. I was on point with my dread because it grew steadily worse as the season wore on.  I was going to stay with my mother for two months before my lease started on campus. Did I mention, in the midst of everything I was a Doctoral Candidate at a prestigious university? 

My mom and I have always been best friends. Two peas in a pod. When I was little she would dress us alike.  She would sew us matching outfits. It was great. In fact, I was an adult when we went to Fashion Bug (RIP) and bought matching skirts and actually wore them together. Heck, I would match her now no regrets.  But, call me Mara. Mara isn’t the type to dress like her mother or even appreciate the gem of a mother she was blessed with. Mara, however, was more agitated and angry than loving and caring.   

Aside from the auditory hallucinations, the first time I knew I was really sick is when I went off on my mother. My loving, wonderful, generous woman of a mom.  We had a disagreement and I, wait for it, raised my voice! gasp Ok, maybe you do not get the significance, but in the Black community, if you raise your voice at yo mama, you won’t live to tell about it.  I survived but my soul ached.  I emotionally hurt my life-giver. Yet, I still hadn’t hit rock bottom.