…God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair. I was only thirteen, and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows in the garage. I don’t blame them. I really don’t. I slept in the garage the night he died, and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist, just for the hell of it. I even tried to break all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer, but my hand was already broken and everything by that time, and I couldn’t do it. It was a very stupid thing to do, I’ll admit, but I hardly didn’t even know I was doing it, and you didn’t know Allie. My hand still hurts me once in a while, when it rains and all, and I can’t make a real fist any more—not a tight one, I mean—but outside of that I don’t care much. I mean I’m not going to be a goddam surgeon or a violinist or anything anyway.
Holden is carrying around a lot of unresolved emotions over
the death of his younger brother, Allie.
Holden is angry, depressed, guilty.
Yes, guilty. I think he’s dealing
with a little bit of survivor’s guilt.
It sounds like everyone loved Allie, and Holden seems to have been a
“problem child” his whole life. A smart
ass. Trouble in school. Smokes too much. Drinks too much. Yet, Holden is alive, and Allie—the “nice
kid”—is dead. Maybe Holden believes God
made the wrong choice.
Of course, that kind of thought process would be considered
a version of magical thinking. It’s
about as useful as Holden believing that if he got all A’s, joined the football
team, and dated Jane Gallagher, Allie would have survived. There is no correlation between those events.
I, myself, frequently engage in magical thinking. I say the same prayers every morning, read
the same devotions, because, if I don’t, I might cause someone’s illness to
worsen. Or I might lose a writing contest
I entered. Even worse, if I do something
that I know is wrong (use your imagination here), then God may punish me in
some way. For example, my hours might
get cut at work. Yes, I walk around
believing that, when something really bad happens in my life, I’ve somehow
brought it on myself. That’s magical
thinking at its worst. It makes me feel
like crap.
Yesterday, for some reason, I got it in my head that it was
Worry Wednesday. Hence, yesterday’s
first blog post about being a conflicted character. Since I’ve already focused on my worries this
week, today I’m going to pray. I
sometimes engage in a little magical prayer thinking, as well. I convince myself that I have to say a
certain prayer in a certain way in order to obtain whatever my prayer intention
is. Of course, that’s treating prayer
like the Avada Kedavra curse from the
Harry Potter books. It’s magical.
I know this, and yet I continue to do it.
I’ll try not to be too magical today.
Dear Dumbledore…Just kidding!
Dear God,
Yes, it’s me again.
Sorry I didn’t write yesterday, but I got a little off with my
calendar. Please don’t hold it against
me.
Which sort of brings me to the subject of my prayer
today. Things haven’t been going that
great for me this summer with money and work.
You know that. Hours have been
cut. Paychecks have shrunk. I had a little freak-out last night over a
phone bill. I think I said something
like, “I am so friggin’ tired of going from disconnection notice to
disconnection notice!” I’m better today,
but I’m starting to believe I’ve done something wrong, that I’m somehow being
divinely spanked.
I know You don’t work that way. However, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for
getting angry last night. I’m sorry for
everything I said or did last night that disappointed You. I’m not proud of myself at all. There’s this whole thing about trust that I’m
struggling with at the moment. So, I
also wanted to ask You for some courage during these difficult summer
months. Give me a little faith. Let me know things are going to turn out
alright.
I’ll try not to disappoint You anymore. It’s a battle every day. I get angry and scared and discouraged on an
hourly basis, it seems. I’ll try to
cultivate joy and strength and hope instead.
I promise.
Your loving child,
Saint Marty
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| I choose not enter,,,No punishment for me, thanks. |
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