“Write down the thoughts you have before you start to feel like giving up on life,” she said.
And so I did. I took the pen and I wrote, and I was surprised at how quickly things flowed. They’re all there all the time, these thoughts I’m battling. But these thoughts? They are, at least some of them, true. And how do I handle that? How do you battle truth? You tell it to sit down because God’s truth is bigger. Right?
But does His truth undo other truths? Can I tell my circumstances that they are inferior to hope and the good the Lord has for me? Can I tell my beaten-up heart to trust?
That’s what I’ve been doing. For months. Years.
But what do I do when I’m powering through on the promise that God is good and that He can be trusted, but things don’t get any easier or better? What do I do when the condition of my heart is only getting more and more dire, no matter how much time I spend reading the Bible, and raising my hands in worship in my living room, and falling to my knees in the shower, and leaving my house to socialize with people or walk the dog or go to work and help others?
What do I do when I’m coping and fighting, and every single day everything in me still doesn’t feel any interest in this life, and all I am is sorrow and grief and EFFORT. So. Much. Effort. I am doing everything I can to look at my life and say, “It’s okay because God is good and He has a plan.” But it’s not okay, and God is still good and He still has a plan, but IT’S NOT OKAY. So what then? What now?
“I can’t fix it,” I wrote on my list yesterday. And then: “I want Jesus.”
I can’t fix it.
I can’t feel like this forever. I can’t do life like this. I can’t.
And I can’t fix it.
I am only His child. Only He loves me in the way everything inside of me is screaming to be loved.
And I’m telling myself that’s okay, that He’s enough.
But it’s not true. It’s not okay. He IS enough. But somehow also, He isn’t. And I don’t know how that’s possible, but no matter what my brain knows, my heart keeps shattering into smaller pieces as I try to power through this life on His being enough.
He isn’t here. He isn’t here to hold me. I can’t feel Him or hear His voice.
So it ISN’T enough.
As we talked yesterday, I cried. At first it was one solitary tear, clinging to my eyelashes, which I tried to discreetly wipe away and onto my pant leg without her noticing, but then it was the tears that make your chin quiver and your voice fail you. And I couldn’t stop crying. Our time was over and I was sobbing and I had to leave like that, with her reminding me to stay safe. And I sat in my car and sobbed into my hands and nothing about it was okay. Nothing about this is okay.
And I can’t fix it.
But then there was the kid whose love language is also touch, and he touched my shoulder and the top of my head in his little boy, trying to be annoying way. And there was his brother, who fell asleep in my car, and I reached over to keep his head from tipping and waking him up as I went around corners. And the toddler, his legs entwined with mine on the couch. And the dog who let me cradle his head in the crook of my arm, and who fell asleep, snoring, while I rubbed his belly.
But I woke up this morning, and I called my therapist, and I cried. And I am all tears and grief and there are moments of what I’m screaming for, moments of connection and love and belonging and Jesus, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough.
“I don’t want you to think everyone’s life is so much happier than yours and that you’re the exception,” someone else said to me today.
But that isn’t my fear. My fear is the opposite. My fear is that no one is happy. My fear is that everyone feels like this. Because then what hope do I have? I need to believe this world has people in it who are happy and glad to be alive. I WANT everyone to be happier than me.
There was a woman at McDonald’s the other day, sitting at a table, scowling, looking like she hasn’t been hugged or loved in a long, long time. And I thought, “There is SO much better for you than this…”
And how can I say that? How can I feel that for her when that hasn’t been my experience at all?
How do I tell people about the healing, miraculous, all-consuming, powerful love of our God who is nearer than our very breath, when I’ve been telling myself that for months and I’m NOT OKAY?
What is true?
Is this all there is? Is this the More Than Enough, Abundant Life He has for me? Is this it?
I don’t know.
But it’s not okay.
And it’s not enough.
And I can’t fix it.
And so I open my hands. I come empty and broken and scared and with no answers. I have no answers. I just have questions. And even those I offer up to Him. I don’t need answers, I just need help getting through today.
I come to Him screaming for a love that I don’t think I’ll ever have again.
I come to Him wanting to give up and just run to His arms and be done with this pain and suffering and fight.
And I come to Him saying that He is good. You are good, You are good, You are good.
I don’t understand. And I don’t know how to endure this. And I am drowning in a sorrow that I can’t fix. And You are good.