numb-ish

I am numb. More like numb-ish. Numb because I'm having to guard myself from a huge emotional blow...and numb-ish because I know that it is impossible to shield myself from this one and I can already feel the cracks in my armor starting to give way, though they haven't fully broken just yet.

Even though I've not lived there since 1997, when I think of "home" I think of CO. Yes, I think of the physical place, of course, and the mountains and all, but even more so, "home" is represented by people for me. As the saying goes "home is where the heart is," and well, my heart belongs to a great many people back in CO, as do their hearts belong to me. A vast majority of these beloved folks are family friends from my church back there. All of us kids from those families grew up together, and I consider them among my best friends *still* to this day. That church family was instrumental in my upbringing. I learned how to sing there; my piano teacher was the church pianist; I was baptized there; hell, I even learned some not-so-churchy things there (spin-the-bottle, anyone?) NEEDLESS to say, that place and those people represent the "village" in my own personal "it takes a village to raise a child" story.

Well. It seems that that church - and a chunk of my heart - has just imploded upon itself. A possible church-merger went very, very wrong and many feelings have been hurt in the process. The merger itself was not the problem, but the execution of said idea was . . . less than ideal. I fear that, figuratively and literally, families might have been ripped asunder. And this grieves me beyond . . . beyond feeling. Beyond comprehension. This is why I am numb-ish. This is why the tears start to flow and then stop short. This is why I feel like something elemental to me has been irreparably broken. And I don't know what's going to happen. I will probably never, ever be returning to that place again. I know for certain that my parents will not be returning - that's for sure. What I don't want to happen, and what will be very tricky to navigate, is for those ties -those mentors; friends; surrogate families; those people whom I love so dearly - to come unraveled. The ties which have been my . . . home . . . for as long as I can remember.

Everything will be fine with us kiddos. We are spread around the country - hell, around the globe - and have managed to keep up with each other and remain friends despite location, life situation, etc. And the rare happy holiday times when we are all back in CO at the same time have become precious jewels to which I look forward with much anticipation. But, really? I am as much friends with the parents of all of these beautfiul people and other adults in the church as I am friends with the people my age. Call me greedy, but I want those friendships to remain intact. And I will be praying that they do . . . but there will have to be much healing involved.

The damage is such that I can think of a few of the people who came and sat with me at the hospital while my dad underwent open heart surgery - just this last November - might now be sliced away from my parents', and thus, to an extent, my life. Not by my choice, but by the events that have transpired. They've effectively cut themselves out. And it makes me sick...just...SICK to think about.

I am angry. Angry that grown-up, adult people are acting like they are two years old, arguing over a toy truck. Angry that something that did not have to be handled so poorly WAS handled so poorly. And just ... unbelieving and hurt at the whole thing. I want to rip my hair out and shred my clothes and mourn in the Biblical sense.

I don't know. Some of this is just my first gut reactions and spilling of emotion onto the page. But some is not. I really won't know anything more until I go home and see the aftermath for myself, later this year. Right now, I get only a couple versions of what's happening. I just....I don't know. I just feel so ... disgusted. And sad. And broken. And I feel this not just for myself, but for everyone involved. It completely sucks.