Salvation

     It was an area code I didn't recognize. I usually never answer, but I thought someone might be in trouble. I'm always a call for help, like a private emergency line. I don't mind. It makes me feel important. I expect it, which is why it was so surprising to hear the young girl's voice on the other end of the line, trying to help me. 
     She spoke with hesitation and an unnatural cadence to her voice that I instantly knew meant she was reading words on a paper laid out before her. I imagined her sitting in an uncomfortable chair, checking off names on the call list she had next to her speaking prompts. Or maybe I was the only call.  She knew me by name. She sounded younger than me, or less articulate, or less sure of her convictions. I asked who was calling. She said, "OK," after every sentence she spoke. She said she got my name from a friend. She asked how I knew him, and if I was familiar with what he believed. I told her "high school", and "yes." 
     I was half asleep. The sleeping pill was wearing off, but I was in that warm place between awake and asleep, stretching my legs, gaining the feeling in my fingers. I knew the church she was from, I knew the city, I knew where this was going, and I was too tired to say what I really thought. I was polite, I made my voice sound like I wasn't sleeping in later than usual, I hung up the phone. 


     This isn't the first time someone has tried to save me. I'd be kidding myself if I thought it was the last. I'd be lying if I said it made me feel cared for. 
     I've never liked church. The stiff Catholic kind I grew up in, or the others that appear less terrifying, but choke me with similar ideas I can't swallow. I cannot abide by a book of stories. I cannot repent for being imperfect. I enjoy sex, and curse words, and I don't want to be married. I write instead of pray. I go to movies instead of mass. I live to live, and not for a seat in Heaven. 
     Close friends and ex-lovers will disagree with what I say. They have for years. I keep my mouth shut, they think it's out of fear. I'd say it's out of respect. I don't believe you, but I believe you believe in yourself. That's fine. I love you the same. I will be here for you as I have for years. Do the same for me.
     I will feel magnified emotions. I will write about them. You might read it. You might worry. You might wonder if I'm doing alright. You'll hear about a time I was drunk, or the beds I wake up in, see the ashes pile up on the dashboard. 
     You should call. You should ask me, if you were wondering.
     Please don't save me. I have been treading this water on my own for years. Always waiting for a flood, knowing I'll go it alone. Afterward, I'll be sure to tell many of you how it went. How I held my breath and kicked until my legs were numb. How I finally found some land to rest on for a while. 


     What's it like to hear these stories after they've already been written? When the tears are now just salt crusted stains on freckled cheeks, bloodshot brown eyes are glossed over from lack of sleep or substance. While you watch my dry lips gently close around a filter, and exhale stale smoke, is it then when I look like I'm in need of some salvation? Because in case you haven't noticed, you only see me after I've survived.