Book Margin
The Book: The Family Bible
Isaiah is gone for summer break.
I am trying to reread this book, trying to find the God Isaiah spoke about.
The God who saves you.
I am trying to find Him in this book, but I can’t.
When I read it, all I can hear is my father’s voice. He’s telling me that every single word, every single verse in this book means that God is mad at me. He indoctrinated this in me since before I could speak. He drilled it in my brain as he fed me my baby formula. I think that the reason I was able to jump out that window, and keep doing it day after day without being caught, was because Father trusted the work he had done.
He trusted his own brainwashing. He trusted the fear he had instilled in me, that it would keep me inside the house. And it did, for fifteen years. What pushed me out? Writing did. On that phone I got for my birthday.
And then, after that, it was Isaiah.
I cannot read this book except through Father’s eyes. He has instilled his every belief into my head, and I can’t escape his voice. Anything I read in this book, I read it in his voice. Father is within this book as well. I won’t find any god here, but Father. He has eclipsed all hope and faith.
I can only read this book through Father’s eyes. His voice, his words, telling me I’m worthless, sinful, that I need to follow all these rules of his in order to atone for my sins. Sins I commit just by breathing. Just by existing. I try to read, but all I see is sin, sin, sin and evil.
I’ll close it now.
I’ll go back to my literature, where I’ll find comfort or at least escape, but I am guessing, little truth.
Maybe the only solution is writing my own words.
I turned sixteen in the spring. It’s time I do something about my situation. Maybe that something could be writing. Maybe I should start writing my own words.
They suck, I know. But at least, they are true and they are mine.
And they will tell a story, a new one, one I haven’t already read. I know I can’t write my way out of my prison, but maybe I can start there.
But if I do start writing properly, it won’t be on the margins of already written books. If I write, it will be my words on paper that belongs to me alone. If I write, it will be my freedom. My truth.