No big deal.
Sadness fills me lately. I thought for just a moment I was good enough. Or that maybe I could grow a job past the one year mark--a feat not done since college, by the way. "Tired" is not accurate. "Depressed" is too cold and concise. Black, grey, cold, banished, abandoned, starving, weary, blue, bored, invisible, hellish...what words? Can they explain anything I feel? Not so. If the earth swallowed me, I would be content. Bury me under piles of earth, fold me and tuck me in. Hide me from the light that burns and sears. It cuts off what is inside, sealing it in until pressure mounts. An implosion of the soul is a strangely beautiful thing, and I wonder what keeps my heart from doing so.
I do know that I am blessed. I need not be reminded of my husband and child. These blessings speak nothing of my failures, and they haunt me. The lack of confidence must be off-putting to others. Is there a mark on my forehead, like Ash Wednesday? Do my eyes scream to you? Do they say what I do not dare whisper? Even when I'm alone, to whisper the devastation in my life is like feeding the Beast of Babylon from Revelations. It's like sacrificing my own soul and welcoming an apocalyptic end. I don't want to speak of it for fear of the floodgates that might open. I suppose that my pride has grown to that point, and maybe I'm tired of admitting that every part of me is broken. There are no longer shards of glass, or visible pieces of me. These days, putting myself back together is like finding grains of sand blasted into oblivion in infinite space. I don't even know where most of me is, and I was pretty sure I knew at one point. Seconds and minutes change things. So many things. This is growth, the mass destruction of my soul. Tear away, build back up, tear some more, build more. Rip the suture, cut the flesh, over and over again just when new flesh was visible, albeit scarred. When I enter into glory, I will be a scarred pathetic mess. This is no different than most of the saints.
Am I a saint? Surely not, but I wonder how they felt. Were they this tired? I doubt they were riddled with my selfish weaknesses. I doubt they wallowed in self pity. I get it. Self pity is unattractive on many levels. Right now though, I'm trying my best just to get up in the morning and breathe. I know I am weak. I see it when I let the despair shine through my eyes...I see how people look away or pat my shoulder. Depression really makes people uncomfortable. They just don't know what to say, so it's easier to hide in my house, under a blanket. That way, I don't garner the small amount of pity that lasts just a minute. This hole? It's going to take more than surface words to mend. This hole is a hole only God can close up. Maybe He will leave it open for all my lifetime, and I will forever be condemned to the various salts in the wound. But I don't want others to feel sorry for me. I just want to be sorry for myself for little while. Yeah, that's wrong, I know. I am such a baby--I know I should be happy. I should be. Maybe if I smile long enough it will be true. Just maybe.
Sadness fills me lately. I thought for just a moment I was good enough. Or that maybe I could grow a job past the one year mark--a feat not done since college, by the way. "Tired" is not accurate. "Depressed" is too cold and concise. Black, grey, cold, banished, abandoned, starving, weary, blue, bored, invisible, hellish...what words? Can they explain anything I feel? Not so. If the earth swallowed me, I would be content. Bury me under piles of earth, fold me and tuck me in. Hide me from the light that burns and sears. It cuts off what is inside, sealing it in until pressure mounts. An implosion of the soul is a strangely beautiful thing, and I wonder what keeps my heart from doing so.
I do know that I am blessed. I need not be reminded of my husband and child. These blessings speak nothing of my failures, and they haunt me. The lack of confidence must be off-putting to others. Is there a mark on my forehead, like Ash Wednesday? Do my eyes scream to you? Do they say what I do not dare whisper? Even when I'm alone, to whisper the devastation in my life is like feeding the Beast of Babylon from Revelations. It's like sacrificing my own soul and welcoming an apocalyptic end. I don't want to speak of it for fear of the floodgates that might open. I suppose that my pride has grown to that point, and maybe I'm tired of admitting that every part of me is broken. There are no longer shards of glass, or visible pieces of me. These days, putting myself back together is like finding grains of sand blasted into oblivion in infinite space. I don't even know where most of me is, and I was pretty sure I knew at one point. Seconds and minutes change things. So many things. This is growth, the mass destruction of my soul. Tear away, build back up, tear some more, build more. Rip the suture, cut the flesh, over and over again just when new flesh was visible, albeit scarred. When I enter into glory, I will be a scarred pathetic mess. This is no different than most of the saints.
Am I a saint? Surely not, but I wonder how they felt. Were they this tired? I doubt they were riddled with my selfish weaknesses. I doubt they wallowed in self pity. I get it. Self pity is unattractive on many levels. Right now though, I'm trying my best just to get up in the morning and breathe. I know I am weak. I see it when I let the despair shine through my eyes...I see how people look away or pat my shoulder. Depression really makes people uncomfortable. They just don't know what to say, so it's easier to hide in my house, under a blanket. That way, I don't garner the small amount of pity that lasts just a minute. This hole? It's going to take more than surface words to mend. This hole is a hole only God can close up. Maybe He will leave it open for all my lifetime, and I will forever be condemned to the various salts in the wound. But I don't want others to feel sorry for me. I just want to be sorry for myself for little while. Yeah, that's wrong, I know. I am such a baby--I know I should be happy. I should be. Maybe if I smile long enough it will be true. Just maybe.
