Hermes always remained a mystery to me. He’s there, he speaks to me, but I feel like I miss a huge chunk of him.
Be it middle class privilege or living in suburbia, I’ve rarely used public transport. Spending money on fare seemed to me like spending money on weed: nessicary, but bypass able. Until recently, I’ve lived where I could walk to Walmart and hitch a ride anywhere else. I would have taken a bus if I could but the systems were ultimately useless.
Now, I’m in Louisville. I take the help of my family reluctantly, I should be in New York. They’re bigots. They helped me in desperation. But as the dust settles and I begin working at a shipping company I learn to come to terms with myself. I’m trans and queer. I’m mentally ill, neurodivergent. I was never meant for a middle class, safe life. So, I ride the bus.
Hermes tests my patience. I’m on third doses of my Zoloft and I’m too scared to get more. I cried, worried I’ll look like an idiot last night. I know what this all looks like. So, half a block from my home, I wait an extra five minutes for the bus.
I run to the next stop. I’m scared. I’m always scared.
Waiting is as important as going. Hermes is not only a “run for the hills” god, but a “stay still, test your luck, what else can you do?” god. Seems obvious in retrospect. But with a god so complex and revered as Hermes, you never know.
I’ll get my meds soon. Until then, it all scares me. And he continues to alude me.