The Dance

(a glimpse of Jorgelina's victories as a trauma survivor)

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      ... I hated God. There was no God in my life. The very word made me sick.

“Talk to God, Jay,” my therapist suggested in 2002.

“I’m not talking to that guy,” I replied, “I’m giving him the silent treatment.” I was so angry, so angry.

      “It seems strange to me that you won’t talk to someone that is so important in your life,” my therapist said.

      God was important in my life? I didn’t think so.

God: smart guy, your therapist, huh?

Jay: be quiet, I’m writing

God: all right, all right

      Who would have known then that the voice popping up in my head in italics …

God: Mister Italics?

Jay: Mister Italics

… would pull me out of my suicidal impulses, leading me, years later, to Cambridge Reprographics, printer of my first and third books?

God: remind me, little one, what was our first title?

Jay: “GOD, YOU’RE DRIVING ME BANANAS!”

God: WHAT DID I DO NOW?

Jay: nothing, you knucklehead, that was our first title

God: good title, if you ask me

Jay: I’m always asking, in case you haven’t noticed

God: and I’m always responding,

in case you haven’t noticed

Jay: touché

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