Father’s Day

I was minding my own business.

I was sitting during worship, nursing a cup of tea, feeling just fine.

And then I started weeping.

It started with this line: “Then bursting forth in glorious Day…”

I’ve heard it a million times, but there, as I sat completely unsuspecting of what was to come, suddenly something inside of me felt that light- the light of His overcoming death, the light of His being with us, the light of Him calling me His own.

And I wept.

And when I asked myself what was behind the tears, I found this sentence repeating itself in my head: “No one will ever love me like You do.”

And for once, that thought didn’t feel terrifying and lonely; I felt grateful. Held and safe and in awe of the God who promises to never leave me.

I don’t know if I’ve ever cried from a place of wonder at how He loves me. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried with gratitude.

Oh, how it hurts, this life.

Oh, how held I am in the midst of it.

And so, after I prayed over my heart during our first song: “Bless the Lord, O my soul…”,
after I came to Him honest and broken and admitting I don’t love Him the way I should,
after I asked Him to help me love Him,
after I sang about how He rose from the grave,
after I felt the lightness of Him invade my soul and fill me up with a sense of being deeply loved,
after I wondered at the tears pouring down my face…

After all of that, I realized, it’s Father’s Day.

And I’m still Someone’s little girl.

Breath

Arlow is laying on the floor by my feet right now.

He played all day at daycare and is probably tired, but I keep studying his face. Is he okay? Is he bored? Depressed? Am I being a good mom? Does he know I love him?

This is my brain always.

Does he know I love him? Does she?

And also: Am I enough? Am I lovable?

Followed by: Yes, they know you love them. And they love you, they love you, they love you.

*

Not everything is fragile.

Love isn’t supposed to be a fragile, fleeting thing. It’s a commitment. A thing that just is and that cannot be lost. Because love doesn’t forsake us.

I am alive because I love.

And I am alive because they love me too.

That, love, (and Love), is the solid ground beneath my feet when all the world grows hazy and unreal to me. When my brain is flooded with a silent scream, and my chest is tight from trying to keep breathing, love keeps me committed to this fight.

*

I remember when things used to matter to me, not just consciously, but in a life-affirming, deep-in-my-soul sort of way.

How the dishwasher exhales steam when you open it, breathing wet, warm air onto your face.

The calming way the sunlight comes through the window in the early morning if you leave the lights off.

I remember who I used to be. I remember when life held magic and possibility and felt like a hug from the Lord, even when it was hard. I remember how just the simple act of existing felt like a gift.

The entire man-made world is designed to make life better. iPhones; and boats; and vacations; and TV shows; and recipes for something homemade and warm and delicious. And God gives us love. Love and sunshine and the smell of freshly cut grass and bananas and hugs and Himself. The entire world is infused with good, reasons to laugh and enjoy, and I can’t feel ANYTHING.

I read good books, and drink warm tea, and let myself be loved, and bend low to kiss Arlow’s wet nose. I laugh at jokes my coworkers tell, and hold doors open for people, and plan to go see movies with those whose company makes my life better.

I’m doing everything I can to try to make myself, the me I really am, return. The me who can feel joy in budding flowers and the smell of a freshly cut cucumber. I am desperate to stop floating somewhere above this world, unable to feel or touch anything, like it’s all a dream. I am begging myself to come back.

But the harder I try, the more panicked I feel. Because it isn’t working. Trying harder isn’t always the solution. But this? This version of living? This isn’t going to work for me either.

*

I text my therapist tonight. “I need to know if anything–grief or experiences or lies I’m believing–is contributing to this depression and panic,” I said. “I need to fix it. I need to not feel powerless. I need to be me again.”

Someday I’ll look back on this season and I won’t see it as wasted time.

God hasn’t brought me (or kept me) here to suffer.

And even now, I can see His hand in all of it.

I am currently here with two of my favorite kids, in a house that feels as much like home to me as my own. And I have a place here. I belong here.

And regularly people text me and tell me they’re thinking of me and love me, or that something funny or good happened in their day, or that they need prayer or to talk to someone who understands. My life matters to people. I know that to be true.

And I have a job that I love. It’s hard, brutally hard at times, but rewarding. I have lots of time to myself, and I regularly get home early, and my clients are so lovable. It’s the perfect job for me in so many ways.

And Arlow. My whole heart loves him.

All of that is God.

And the way I feel Sundays, surrounded by my church family, watching the band play and candles on stage flicker, and knowing we’ve all come together with our brokenness and joy to worship the Lord? Oh, it’s so undeniably God. His hand in my life. An unmistakable gift.

*

Maybe I don’t need to try so hard.

Sometimes “trying harder” just breeds panic, especially when you’re already doing the best you can.

So I’ll look down at Arlow, and rather than worrying that I’m failing him, I’ll say, “He is loved. And he knows it. He is resting because he feels safe and secure and relaxed. He is resting. He is not depressed.”

And I’ll look at myself and offer myself the same gift of speaking truth. “I am okay. I am still breathing, in the midst of the crazy I still have the breath of God in my lungs, and that is not a mistake. I am going to be okay. I am held. I am loved. I am His precious child. And I am not going to be gone from myself forever.”

Sometimes you have to stand firm and wield your weapons and fight.

And sometimes you have to be still and know.

And that’s a kind of fighting too.

Mermaid Hair and Forehead Kisses

I took a bath tonight.

If I’m being honest, I probably outgrew baths a long time ago. I always go in there with a book or music, and something to drink, but by the time the tub is full, I’m already bored and ready to get out.

Nevertheless, tonight I bathed for as long as it took the tub to get full.

And I thought about Mom. I closed my eyes and remembered being a child.

I remembered feeling my hair sway through the water, while pretending to be a mermaid.

I remembered how Mom would come in with a towel and wrap me up in it when it was time to get out. How my lips would be turning blue because the water got cold a while ago, but I was having too much fun to notice or care.

I remembered cozy pajamas and Mom brushing my hair and Dad tucking me into bed. I remembered saying prayers and feeling Jesus as close to me as the cat stuffed animal I fell asleep hugging every night, my damp hair smelling faintly like shampoo.

And I remembered that being enough. It was enough to have a home and a bed and people who loved me. It was enough. I could sleep and be at peace and look forward to the coming day because I was loved and someone was going to comb my hair in the morning and tuck me into bed again at night and all was well.

Where did things get so twisted up?

*

At church Wednesday night, someone looked me into the eyes with conviction and tenderness and said, “God isn’t going to let you fall.”

I don’t remember who said it, oddly, but then I think maybe that’s okay because the words weren’t really even theirs, but Jesus’.

*

If you asked me even just two weeks ago, I would’ve adamantly told you that yes, all we need is love.

But today I looked person after person in the eyes and I thought: “I love you… and YOU love ME. And why isn’t that enough?”

I don’t know.

That’s the only time in therapy that I start to weep to the point of being unable to speak- when I talk about the people I love and who love me in return. I am so grateful and so blessed. But also, there’s no denying anymore that my actions affect other people- people who I never, ever would want to hurt. People love me. And in some ways, it was easier back when I thought I was all alone.

Here I am, loved, and still struggling to want to do life. And how is that possible? I thought love would fix it all…

And shouldn’t it? If God IS love, and God is enough, then there has to be some truth to the “love is all we need” philosophy, right?

I don’t know. I don’t know very much anymore. I am more questions than I am anything else.

*

And yet,  what good will it do to rage against what is (or isn’t), or demand answers, or demand something of myself that I just can’t deliver right now?

What good will it do to panic over the uncertainty of this road I’m walking?

All I can do is surrender. There’s no peace or joy or hope to be found in raging against what is.

So I breathe in the God who is in every moment and I pray He give me eyes to see.

And my brain is on fire with the constant battle, but a brain on fire can’t stop my heart from perceiving goodness and truth.

So I smile at the face of a little boy who affectionately kicks my foot during church, and the woman who bends down behind me and hugs me, handing me a latte and piece of gingerbread that she brought me just because.

I breathe in, with immense gratitude, the miracle of every single “I love you too”, and conversation that comes easy and makes me laugh.

I smile about bear hugs and basketball games and sunny days and silly selfies and happy nights with people I love.

I surrender, as best I can, to this unfolding of my life and trust that somehow, all that I don’t understand, the tangle within me, doesn’t really matter when I can lift my eyes to heaven and say over all of it: “You are, You are, You are.”

It isn’t my job to untangle it or make sense of it. It’s my job to rest and wait and trust and try not to give up.

My brain is on fire, and every day is touch-and-go, but all around me people love me, and my God is still on the throne.

And He won’t let me fall.

*

And so tonight, I took a bath. And Mom is gone. And I’m not a kid anymore. And no one’s going to be picking out my pajamas for me or combing my hair. But in some ways, things are still the same.

The pajamas I put on? They weren’t picked out for me by my mom, but they were provided for me by my Father.

And the hair I combed? It, like everything else about me, makes my Father smile.

And no one will tuck me in, but I can pull the covers up to my chin and ask God to bend down and kiss my forehead.

I can listen to Arlow snore and smell my freshly shampooed hair and talk to Him like He’s right here in the room with me. I can close my eyes and know He is near. Because a good Father never passes up the opportunity to hear His child’s heart or kiss her forehead.

And my eyelids will grow heavy. And somehow, peace will come. And I’ll know that I know that I know, I’m still Someone’s child.

Where Hope And Exhaustion Meet

Every day feels like a series of hard and/or scary things that I have to do alone.

And what do I get at the end of the day as a reward? Just the satisfaction of having to do it all over again tomorrow.

And I pray, constantly, to see God in my day.

And I do. I see Him when I reflexively reach out and place my hand on my client’s unwashed head after she bumps it getting into my car. “Are you okay?!” I ask. And I know that simple love and concern for her is less me than it is Jesus.

I see Him in the sheer awe I feel at the way the mountain looks as the sun is coming up in the morning.

I see Him in how I can’t help but cry during worship, watching my church family, arms raised towards heaven, proclaiming over their pain that our God is GOOD.

And I feel Him, like electricity, running through my veins. It’s like being hugged from the inside.

And yet, somehow it’s still not enough.

I told my new therapist all of that this week.

Yes, I have a new therapist. Because the last one fired me. Which seems like the opposite of therapeutic when my primary source of pain is that everyone gives up on me and walks out of my life.

I had poured my heart out to my former therapist, and yes, in her defense, I’ll admit I’m a mess, but isn’t that sort of to be expected when someone comes into therapy because they can’t make themselves want to be alive?

And this former therapist of mine looked me in the eyes, bi-weekly, and made me feel secure and safe with her…

Only to decide that actually, she was going to contribute to that theme of abandonment in my life.

This new therapist of mine met me for the first time last week. I sat down on her couch, pointed at myself, and said after a brief introduction, “So, good luck with this one.”

We talked and she look at me, expressionless. Then she said she isn’t sure what to do with me. She said she feels like I’m doing everything right.

I’m practicing coping skills and reaching out and guarding my thoughts and trying to pave a future for myself that feels like hope. I can list twenty reasons I’m grateful, and at least half as many times today that I felt joy.

And I can still say, I’d rather be dead.

I can look forward to things, I can laugh, and I am still, every single second, having to battle the constant thought, and resulting emotion sitting heavy on my chest, that this life isn’t worth it.

“Why can’t I make myself want to be alive?!” I asked her. “What am I doing wrong?” And then: “I’m so, so tired.” And then I wept.

She said she doesn’t think I’m doing anything wrong, and that it’s a mystery to her why I can’t feel any desire to live.

“I think,” she said, “this has more to do with how your brain has tried to cope with all the trauma. I don’t think this has anything to do with you not trying hard enough, or being ‘weak’, or ‘not having enough faith’. I think this is about your brain.”

I don’t know if that feels like hope to me or not, but it does help me feel compassionate with myself.

I told Camilla, who asked me that same question, that I wasn’t sure I felt more hope, but that I felt more compelled to give everyone the middle finger every time they look at me with judgment or harbor the belief that, if there wasn’t something wrong with me, something I could control, then I wouldn’t feel this way.

“The human desire to survive is very, very strong,” my new therapist said. “And if you truly can’t feel that, then something is wrong. And I don’t think it’s your fault.”

I’ve been trying to think of a metaphor for what it’s like to live this way, and all I can come up with is that it’s kind of like when you have a cough- not a deep cough that earns sympathy and maybe time off of work and a doctor’s prescription, but a constant tickle in your throat.

And you know everyone around you is annoyed because you can’t stop coughing, and you’re annoyed with yourself too. So you try to tell yourself you don’t need to cough. And all day long, you are fighting against what your body naturally wants to do. All day long, you’re trying not to cough, and the pressure in your head just keeps building from the never-abating tickle, which endlessly reminds you that something isn’t right.

All day long, I am fighting against what my body naturally wants to do- die. All day long, I am battling a part of myself that I have no real control over.

I wonder how much of this is spiritual.

“Look for reasons to laugh!” I tell myself.
“Look for Jesus!”
“Smile at strangers!”
“Don’t let yourself, even for a minute, think hopeless thoughts!”
And so I do.

Last week, on two separate days, I almost left work without telling anyone. I almost just drove away from the building, picked Arlow up, and went home.

And what would I do when I got home? I wasn’t sure. Would I kill myself? Run away? Did it matter?

It scares me to see myself so close to doing something that would so completely derail my life.

I drive across the bridge my client jumped off and I have to tell my brain to STOP. I have to force myself not to think.

I hear in a training about the most deadly combination of pills and alcohol. I hear how alcohol thins your blood and makes you bleed out faster. And I have to yell at my brain to STOP.

I hug the ones I love and look into their eyes and tell myself, “They need you.”

I text Camilla every single night something true. Like, “God has a good plan for my life. This fight is worth it. I have so much to be grateful for.”

I mentally make a list of goals, (getting my LICSW, finding a place to live in Gig Harbor…), and things to look forward to, (Madison coming over, spending Thanksgiving with the Sarnos…).

I count down the days until I can see my therapist again, not because I think she’ll be able to help me, as we’ve both confessed not knowing what to do with me, but because it gives me an hour in which I can stop fighting my brain. An hour of rest. I can lay all my cards out before her and weep over the confusion I feel- all the loss; the so, so much good in my present; the desire to die.

I laugh. I reach out to people and tell them I love them. I force myself to stay present with my clients, letting them know I see them, I hear them, I care.

And I beg God to show up. To supernaturally get me from 6:30 a.m. until I finally pull into my driveway at the end of the day.

And at the end of the day, I arrive home. I take a long shower. I cuddle Arlow. And I crawl into bed.

“This moment is good,” I think.

“I like my job,” I think.

And yet why, if both of those things are true, do I feel so compelled to give up on living?

And so I lay in bed, and breathe deeply, and think of things that are good, even when my emotions don’t recognize them as such. I try to talk myself into looking forward to tomorrow. But it doesn’t work. I just feel panic.

So instead, I soothe myself with all the good in this moment: my snoring dog, his head underneath my chin; being warm in my bed; the gentle hum of the heater.

And I try not to think about the fact that tomorrow is coming.

Tuesday

“Do you have family around here?” my coworker asks.

“In theory,” I tell her, and then elaborate just enough for her to understand.

“So, you’re all alone?” she asks.

“Well, aside from my dog,” I say. “And my church.”

She looks thoughtful for a minute. “Well, you have a new family now.”

*

“He killed his mom,” I’m told after leaving a client’s house.

“What?”

“Stabbed her to death,” my coworker tells me. “Not to scare you or anything. But you should know.”

“I’m not scared,” I say. And I mean it.

*

I took my client grocery shopping this afternoon. I trailed behind her and smiled as she got three cartons of eggnog. She grabbed grape jelly, orange juice, and eggs as well, but put them back when we got to the register and she realized she was over budget. The eggnog, however, was a non-negotiable item.

“So!” I said as we climbed back into my car and headed toward her home. “Now that you have all this yummy food, what’s on the menu for dinner!?”

She smiled, not looking at me. “Meatloaf,” she said.

When we got back to her house, I helped her carry her groceries inside. “Here,” I said to her as I set stuff down on the counter. “Why don’t you stay inside and put these away, and I’ll run back out to the car to bring the rest of the groceries in?”

She accepts that and I head back into the rain. And I wonder how often she has people do kind things for her.

*

“He had a great day!” they tell me when I pick Arlow up from daycare this evening. “He played all day long with a Husky.”

I smile and tell them how in the morning before we leave home, he knows where we’re headed, and he gets so excited that he grabs a hold of my purse with his teeth and tries to pull me towards the front door.

“It makes me feel good,” I say, “to know he’s spending his day so happy.”

When he sees me, I caution him against jumping up in his excitement. He tries to control himself, but it’s a work in process. I smile again at the woman behind the counter. “He’s crazy,” I say, “but I love him.”

And I wonder as we head out to the car, if I so passionately desire happiness for Arlow, how much more does God desire that for me? How much more does He desire that I excitedly grab His hand at the start of a new day and pull Him towards the door?

And how much more does He love me, exactly as I am?

I don’t have to try to love Arlow. I don’t have to talk myself into loving him. Nothing he does, even when it’s naughty, makes me love him less. I don’t wish he was different. I love him just as he is because he’s mine. His place in my heart is permanent.

And through that, that effortless, unconditional, present, selfless, “walk through fire” love, I know God is speaking to me of how He loves me.

*

I finally get home after driving through off-and-on rain, in stop-and-go traffic.

My car was too hot, but if I turned the heat off, the windows would fog. So I drove with the heat on and the window down, the rain pelting my face.

As I drove, I saw an ambulance and, like a reflex, I found myself wondering when the next time would be that I’d be in the back of one. I can’t decide if I hope that day never comes, or if I don’t care.

I make my way inside and set my purse on the coffee table. I can’t wait to shower and climb into bed.

When I go into the bathroom, I see bird feathers all over my bathroom. The cats have had a busy day.

With more than a little trepidation, I scan the whole house, hoping I don’t find a dead bird anywhere. I don’t.

*

The smell of shampoo fills the air and I close my eyes and let the warm water soothe me.

“I don’t know how I’m going to work forty hours a week for the rest of my life,” I pray.

And like the shower water, the words fall all around me: “Let’s not worry about that right now. Let’s take it a day at a time.”

The Questions We Ask

He whines and tries to push his wet nose between my hands and face when I cry. Which is definitely more endearing when he hasn’t been throwing up all night.

I rolled out of bed and slipped on some Uggs, and my unbrushed hair and pajama-clad self and I went to Albertson’s for some canned pumpkin tonight. Because that’s supposed to help doggy tummies.

And mamas crawl out of bed and go to the store for their babies.

He threw that up the little bit of pumpkin I gave him too, so I wiped his runny nose with my hand and turned out the lights and told him he needed to rest. He’s here at my side now, while we sit in the dark. And I pray for his body, occasionally reaching over and placing my hand on him while I pray.

I pray for his body, and I pray for my heart. He’s throwing up and my eyelids are swollen from crying. It’s been quite the night.

*

Laura spoke at church the other night about serving. And I found myself wondering if God’s call to serve (others and Him) is almost protective. Because when we keep in mind that we’re serving Him, we don’t have to have the answers. We don’t have to understand things or be orchestrating things or hold anything together. That isn’t our role. All we have to know is what the next thing is that God is asking us to do.

It keeps us safe when we go through life remembering He is the one scripting it, and that our job is to surrender and serve.

Surrender and serve, admittedly, are two words that have a traditionally negative connotation. But when I think of them in relation to our God who is Love? All I hear is: “Rest, child. You are held. Be still and know.”

So often my anxiety and fear stems from a desire to control things that aren’t mine to control. I’ll lie in bed all tangled up, analyzing what is or might be, and how I can fix it or undo it, and what that means for my future and life and hope.

And in the midst of all that, God whispers to me: “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

The right questions are more along the lines of: “What are You saying to me in this moment?” “What do I KNOW to be true?”

And it strikes me that, even if God gave me the answers to all of the things I want to know, often times I suspect He’d have to say: “But these things are still in process. The answers I’m giving you might not even be the same tomorrow or the next day or in a month or a year.”

It would be like drawing conclusions about the ending of a book based on paragraph three, chapter six.

So, questions that demand answers aren’t really helpful. Questions that help us feel like we’re able to dig our nails back into our lives in some manner of control? That’s not His goal for us.

He’s protecting us by what He doesn’t reveal.
He’s loving us when He refuses to let us believe we’re in control.
And when He is silent in response to our petitions? Even that is proof of His goodness.

We know we’re asking the right questions when we feel more surrendered and peaceful in the asking. The right questions are those that help us shed the weight of things that were never ours to carry. They leave us with our hearts open to life and possibility, rather than shut down and suspicious.

*

“What are your favorite things about God?” Laura asked that the other night as well.

Mine? He’s always available. He loves to hear what’s on my heart.
He loves me and understands me and delights in me so completely that my heart is always safe with Him.
I never have to be afraid or weigh my words or be scared He’ll yell at me for something I feel.
He always sees me, even when I’m at my worst, through eyes of love.
He is gentle and compassionate and leads me with kindness.
He is invested in me, and He isn’t going anywhere. No matter what.

And as I made that list I thought, “…Isn’t that ironic? All the things about Him that I love the most are the things my heart is so desperate to find in human relationships.”

And I don’t know what that means necessarily. I do believe that those things (although imperfect forms of them) can be found in relationship with others. But I am grateful that in this season, He is teaching me that I can also find what I long for in Him.

*

I spread my arms out wide. “Lord, strip away all that isn’t of You.”

“Teach me, Lord, that it’s enough to go through life as just me.”

“Teach me to live surrendered and at peace. Teach me to live held.”

*

And when I feel out of place and like I don’t belong, I can go lock myself in a bathroom stall and tilt my eyes to heaven.

And because He and I have spent so much time together rehearsing truth, I can meet His eyes and remember that the God of the Universe knows my heart and smiles when He thinks of me. Who I am, just as I am, is enough.

I don’t have to feel in control, even in social situations. I don’t have to be well-spoken or magnetic or present myself “well”. I can let go of that pressure because He’s the one doing the orchestrating, and He knew what He was doing when He placed my silly self there among those people.

And so I can go back out there, just as I am, and know that feeling “out of place” isn’t a reflection of me. And that “not belonging” is a lie because God handpicked me and placed me there for a reason.

I don’t have to stand against a wall, feeling conspicuous and awkward and like there’s a neon sign flashing above my head that reads: “No one wants this girl.”

I don’t have to stand there, palms sweaty, asking: “What is wrong with me?”, “Will I always feel like this?”, “Do they love me even though it doesn’t seem that way right now?”

Because back in the bathroom stall, God reminded me: “Those are the wrong questions, child.”

“Oh. Right.” I am called to serve Him. Which means the right question is: “What do you want me to do right now?”

And He smiles. Because yes, that is the right question. And what He says next almost makes me want to roll my eyes because “what a God thing to say!” 😉

“Go love people.”

Which, oddly enough, is a lot easier to do when you’re not trying to control them. Or yourself. 🙂

Thirst

The sun was warm on my back and I listened to the rustle of bunnies in the long grass to my right. Arlow saw a bunny and it was game over as far as our walk went. His mind instantly went into hunting mode. But he was on his leash. The bunnies were safe. And watching him pounce at the grass playfully, even though I had to encourage him repeatedly to keep walking, made me smile.
I saw the faces of people I love. I had conversations. Someone reached over and hugged me and my brain interpreted that as love. Oh, how incredibly starved I am for love.
I watch mouths move and I smile and respond and sometimes I’m even kind of witty. But I’m not there, not getting anything from the conversation. “This, faces and conversation, isn’t what I need,” I realize. And it terrifies me. It isn’t the solution.
And I wake up and shower and walk the dog and do the dishes and eat cereal at the kitchen window while I watch Mowgli climbing the tree in the backyard. And I smile because I know he thinks that giant crow a few branches over is within his ability to catch. But the crow is bigger than him. And the crow can fly. Mowgli cannot. “I admire your self-confidence,” I think as I eat. Occasionally I drop a handful of dry cereal on the floor for Arlow, who is looking up at me, carefully watching my food, wavering between patience and wild insistence.
I go through the motions of living life but I feel completely detached. I can’t feel any reason to live. And I know better than to let what I feel determine my truth, but it’s exhausting to fight so hard without any reward.
“This thing matters! This is one reason life is GOOD!” I tell my brain. But I can’t feel it. I am constantly seeking the good, reminding myself that life is worth it. And I can’t feel it. And it’s exhausting.
There’s a metaphorical hole in my metaphorical bucket, so no matter how much water I pour in, it’s still empty. And yet, I keep pouring. Because I can’t fix the hole. I can’t make there be no hole. And I can’t get a new bucket. This is the only one I’ve got. My whole life is dependent on this one, busted bucket. So I just keep collecting water and pouring it in and watching it empty out. And it feels futile and stupid, but what’s the alternative? Giving up. Either I keep collecting water, or I throw the bucket aside.
I’m trying so hard. I am so tired. Exhausted. Sleepy.
By church’s end on Sunday, I was near tears. Because it is TERRIFYING to not want to live, even when eyes are looking at you with love and the sun is shining and your dog wiggles his entire tail-end because he’s so happy to see you when you get home.
It’s like there’s life playing itself out before me, and all I can feel is this haze. Sleepiness. I am so, so tired all the time. And I’m fighting so hard to push my way through this into the life that everyone else seems to know as worth it, even with its ups and downs. But I feel closer to death than I do life. And I’m scared this is how it will always be.
“Are you okay?” Laura asked when I told her I wasn’t going to go to lunch with everyone after church. And I said yes. But immediately, my chin shook with emotion. And why? I don’t know why. I don’t know what is wrong with me.
I got in my car and I sobbed hysterically. Because every day is this battle to live. And there’s no relief or reprieve to be found anywhere. And I am fighting so hard for something I can’t feel, something that is so elusive I don’t even know if it’s real. And yet, people around me are alive. And they don’t have to battle suicidal thinking, even on their worst days. So I know there’s a reason to do this life.
But I look forward to nothing. And time just keeps passing and I have to keep up with it.
And I stay social and active and guard my thoughts with a fierceness that borders on panic. And I’m so tired.
And what’s the solution? Keep going? Give up? They both seem equally impossible.
So I fall to my knees and spread my arms open wide and I come to God as nothing more than His. I can’t promise Him anything. I can’t even promise Him I won’t give up on life. But I come. Empty and weak and heavy all at once, I fall down in desperate surrender and worship, reminding myself He is God and I am not. He is God. He is God.
And I smile and hug the people I love, and I make plans, and I list in my head things that are coming up that I want to be alive for.
And I weep. And no matter how many hours I sleep at night, I am so tired when my alarm goes off in the morning.
But if this, and that, and those things aren’t the solution, if they don’t help me feel firmly planted in this life, with its green grass and opportunities to laugh, what else is there?
He is the only solution. God alone can make this be okay.
So I try to wait. And I thank God for the water He provides, even while my bucket is broken.