Sam Libby



I've been thinking a lot about faith. Or not faith. Which is kind of funny because I think thinking is the opposite of faithing.

I've been unfaithful. To my God, to my life, to myself. You know why? Because it's hard. It's hard to get up every day and work toward your belief, your imagination, your ideal image of how the world could be. And yet the fact that I am completely immobilized by the enormity of living a faithful life does not go unnoticed - or unpunished.

Am I immobilized by depression or am I depressed because I am immobile? It's the forest AND the trees. It's knowing that I can't set an example for my children of how to do something to build a good life, when I myself cannot or am not doing it.

None of this thinking makes me happy. I've tried not thinking, blocking endless stretches of time with tv and audiobooks. Not thinking doesn't make me happy either. I hate the telephone. I dread long exchanges with other people because the biggest lie is always there: I'm fine, while underneath the truth is screaming at me from under my skin: you are wasting this precious life!

There are legit reasons. And there are justifications and excuses. But I think the biggest truths are just shameful. I'm lazy and I'm afraid. I don't know the last time I made a promise to myself and kept it. Except for the one about not sleeping with assholes just because I can. Go ahead, ask me. I've had sex maybe a handful of times in the same handful of years - and not with a handful of guys.

People tell me to have faith. It'll happen. You'll get there. Where? I haven't made it to the gym I've been paying for. I haven't written a book on the computer I've been paying for, I haven't been able to afford to upgrade the house that I'm paying for. Maybe that's it. My whole life needs an upgrade and I can't afford it.

People say you can only make yourself happy. They are wrong. I can't. I'm never happy. People say build it, make it happen, you have to have faith. I have been unfaithful. I don't know what faith is anymore. Is this even a poem?

And still I remember sparkle. I remember love, I remember words falling onto the page as if conjured by magic. I am "treated" for depression. Maybe I have hope that one day the switch will flip back on and I'll feel connected to the universe again. I'm sure someone, maybe you, maybe god, would tell me I have to build that switch. But it's like the spiritual superhighway is always there but I'm roaming the dead end streets and cul de sacs not even looking for the on ramp. Why is that? I know the highway is over there! Is it because my car is too rundown? My body too lazy to run to the highway? You can't run on a highway! See, excuses.

Here's what I know. My life is small. The world is big. I get scared I will be lost in the forest, run over on the highway, that no one will ever be there to give me a hand to pull me up when I'm flattened so I try not to get flattened.

The roses in my front yard grew in their own this year. I've been smoking in the back yard knowing it'll kill me and my kids might actually kill me before the lung cancer! I know I sound depressed but for me it's not whether it's there or not, it's how bad is it. I hope you understand. This isn't a pity party. My life is fortunate. But I still haven't written a book. I still do not have love in my bed. I still haven't gone to the gym. I need environmental jumper cables but I'm stuck in the burbs with CVS and BJs. Outback Steakhouse just closed so it's Bertucci's or bad Chinese. Do you understand? Sometimes faith is elusive. The desert is hot. I still have to build the land of milk and honey.

I have no clue how to do it.




Sam Libby is currently in the land of in-between. With two teenagers. And no job. But, don’t worry, she’ll sort it out! Her new website goes up this month…