Last night a song with no lyrics made me sad. I told my husband, and he looked up the song and said it was from an album called Healing is a Miracle. Fuck that.
A friend and I went to see a Medium in Maine once. The Medium told me I was a miracle and that I was going to write three books that would change the world. I was sure she told everyone pretty much the same thing. Who wants to hear that they were a slave in a past life? But she told my friend, who is an author by trade, that she should find a richer boyfriend.
Therapists have used the word “miracle” to describe how I came to be so well-adjusted after growing up in the situation I did. The same therapists who laughed me off when I asked for medication to help with the constant feelings of dread and the wave pool of emotions that were drowning me. Not waving over here.
No angelic choirs for me; Julianna Barwick’s album just makes me sad.
My mother used to say that “Independent” should be my middle name. Stubbornness might be a gift, but it’s not a miracle. My grandmother said I should be like my cousin who agreed with everything his family said, but then went off and did what he wanted. The inability to keep one’s opinions to oneself may be a curse that feels like a blessing, but it’s no miracle.
Being called a “miracle” is horrible. It erases me. All my life I’ve been told that I am not enough, that I will fail, and fight harder in response. Family and teachers alike have driven me to tears and defiance.
Maybe there are miracles. But I think that it is more likely that “miracle” is used to erase the sweat and tears of people who have made these things happen.
The pyramids weren’t made by aliens, after all. They were made by the people we don’t want to see.
I’ve never been a pharaoh.
There are no miracles here.
Note: Probably a great album if you aren’t bitter about miracles