In sickness and in health

It's too soon for this post. It's not fair that we have to fight so hard, just to breathe. But here we are.

The first time I sat down to write this, I had just entered a very challenging time with my boyfriend. Together only 2 months at the time, he was dealing with a second bout of depression just since we'd been together. He assured my fragile heart it wasn't me, but that there just wasn't much I could do either. Facing that season- and watching someone I love struggle through such inexplicable darkness was a unique kind of isolating. I wanted to love the actual hell out of him- but anything I thought of was of no interest to him. Even sex which we happen to quite enjoy as a couple, he'd long since lost interest in. Communication of any sort was difficult at very best. I wanted to write and let others in similar situations know that they aren't alone, and that dating among demons is doable. And let them know that I suffered through with my man, and we made it, and they can too.

I thought I had so much inspiration to share with the world. So much strength to put on display.

"See, dating with depression is doable! You can still have love!"

However, before I could write out the pain I was feeling, the sun was once again shining for us, and the weight of the darkness we'd just fought off slipped so quickly into a distant memory. We free-fell once again into plans and dreams and bliss for our future. We talked travel and children and hope, love and passion grew, as if nothing had happened. He gives me butterflies all the time. He calls me "doll". He makes me feel like I am precious. And I felt so so so happy.

And then it happened.

My own demon showed up and sat beside me, just letting me know he was back. The medication I had been taking for a few months had kept him at bay- so at first, I denied he was really back. But over the next few weeks, he got closer and closer. And by Sunday afternoon a week ago, his beady, deathly eyes were staring into mine, draining the life from inside me. Before I could even get home- his hands gripped my throat and my heart began to pound- it felt like it was going to beat out of my chest and shatter on my steering wheel. My lungs began rapidly heaving with the hyperventilation that had quickly settled in. My gut erupted up through my mouth and ungodly, darkness-saturated screams filled my empty car. Tears gushed out of my eyes and streamed down my face. Every gasp for air was followed by another hallow, hopeless scream. Every time I tried to clamp my mouth shut and stop the horrible screaming, out another would come up anyways, from deep down inside where everything was all broken.

For the first time to my knowledge, I cried out "God, please just kill me now. Just let someone run into me and end it all. Just make it all end. Let me wake up in Endless Light."

I have never actually wanted to die. But I can assure you, last week I did.

Suicide has always seemed so selfish- and it is. But I get it. I get just wanting that horrible feeling to end. If anyone is in that much pain, isn't death going to seem like the only logical out? Why are we offering assisted suicide to end of life cancer patients and shaming those who's agony is less visible? I'm not saying I agree with suicide in any capacity, but I get it.

The darkness felt so wholly consuming that the only way to escape it was to be wrapped at last in Jesus's actual arms.

There are many capacities to the healing and restitution I have experienced since last week. Some medical, some spiritual, some emotional. But this post is primarily about dating through this.

And my man was there. Never shaming me. Being patient with me. Loving me in his own ways. Being present when I need him, reaching out in ways that meant a lot to me.

We've only been together since July- and already we have faced two bouts of depression, a hospital, and now a severe anxiety attack. And we have stood by each other, supported each other, loved each other, and been light to each other when our worlds felt otherwise consumed in darkness.

We made it. And although work has been insane for my amazing man this week, he has made sure I'm ok. He's been there for me. He has given me his love as best as he's been able.

We're stronger. As people, as a couple. Because we chose to fight through this together, and fight for the other.

It. Is. Not. Easy. Nothing about this is easy. Some days I wake up and realize none of it was happening- because this isn't the last time one or both of us will enter a season of darkness- but it's worth it. It's worht it because we have learned to fight for the soul in the other person and created ties between us that I would argue are uniquely stronger than those of a mentally healthy couple. We're stronger than this. And we're strong for each other.

We can do it. You can do it. Jesus hasn't left us to total darkness. Our people are worth our love. They deserve the light we can bring to their lives.

Fight for the light in your loved ones life. He/She is worth it, and the bond it creates is payment enough.

I'm not ok

i'm not ok

this isn't a happy post

but i'm afraid if i don't bleed here i might bleed somewhere else.

there's just nothing.

there's a total lack of feeling other than broken.

i spiraled

i fell.

i shattered.

i have chased every passion to fill the hole.

but it just keeps getting bigger, each distraction leaving behind more disappointment than the one before.

i'm not even asking to feel happy, just alive.

i'm trying to ground myself as i type- i'm having one of the worst panic/anxiety attacks i have ever experienced.

the yelling and the crying and the screaming and the heaving and the hyperventilating.

i want to scream screw you God because above all the pain i feel, the lack of Him is most pointed.

my heart is absolutely gutted right now...so where is he? isn't he supposed to be near the broken hearted?

when did his promises stop applying to me too?

when did he give up on me, and can i please have a do over?

everytime i think i've found something to help me survive, it gets ripped away.

for the first time in my life, i felt my heart change towards someone, and she died, and a part of me along with her.

so i crashed into anything that made me feel the same spark that she ignited in me.

but i found selfish lovers and heartbreak after heartbreak.

i left a job i left for a job with more money

i met a boy who took the most precious thing i had to offer. i gave it, but he had no seconds thoughts taking it.

he left me.

my grandfather died.

the man with disabilities i dated didn't even want me.

and finally i thought i'd found it: my person.

someone i could be happy with and build a life with.

i wake up every moring to a good morning text.

every picture i send is returned with a compliment

every trashy remark i get from other men is reported and contradicted with a reminder of my worth.

but then i snapped. the weight of the anxiety i had started taking meds for put the pressure on me.

the fingers flew the texts went out and the line remained quiet.

i have done what i have always feared: i have suffocated a person i love with the weight of love i want to give.

i got one text from him in the last 24 hours- just one.

"im here"

that's all he's said.

my heart is breaking thinking about facing the possible reality of being left again.

and then the attack hit.

so here i am wailing from the deepest part of my heart

typing to grasp reality

watching another precious thing slip through my hands.

and i'm drowning.

when does the drowning end?

when do i resurface and deeply take in the fresh air?

when does the pressure come off my chest, and the light fill my soul again?

when does the constant aching of my soul find satisfaction once again?

when does Jesus come back and take me in his arms, wiping my matted hair from my dirty face and kissing me tenderly on my brow?

when do i feel like a child wrapped in safety instead of a child left alone?

when does it end?

when is it over?

wake me up when september ends.

Me Too...Me still.

The liberation I personally experienced with the #MeToo movement is beyond comparison. I was able to share as much or as little as I felt comfortable with and still make it known, "Hey- I was abused." 

But I'm ready to talk now. I'm ready to open my bleeding heart and weep, with a naked soul in front of the world. 

I'm in counseling- because 16 years later, I still haven't processed so much of it. Did you know that your mind can essentially blot out memories? Whole years actually? It's a form of self-protection- but it's also kind of terrifying: instead of just blocking out the bad parts of childhood, I don't remember almost the first entire 9 years of my life. Some memories stand out, but most of those are recallable because of pictures that happened to catch those moments. 

Unfortunately, 9 was too old to be able to forget. And so many details of that wretched afternoon stand out, creep down my spine, grip my throat, and make my stomach lurch. The panic, the desperation, the hopelessness, the dirtiness, the shame...the secrecy. It comes back in a rush and all the sudden, I'm that lonely, broken little girl again, stripped of all that made me who I was. And I haven't been her since. I'm huddled in a dark corner, knees pulled to my chest, hallowly watching the walls of who I am, crumble. I can't stop them. I can't understand it. I can't change it. I feel betrayed. I feel empty. I feel alone. I feel dark. That moment comes back and taps me on the shoulder and I feel so vulnerable- like if someone stares too much, I'll shatter under the weight of it. 

I remember the day my mom looked at 10 year old me, and asked me, "where did my happy girl go?" And empty, confused, 10 year old me didn't have a clue what to say. Because at this point, that moment was locked up. And it wasn't until I was 14 years old, I experienced a trigger that was the key to unlocking that moment. So at 10, I was completely lost. I was drowning and I didn't even know what under. I just knew who I was had been ripped away, and I was suffocating. 

When I was 14, and that moment was opened up, the truth came gushing out like a waterfall, and the process began, but still hasn't ended. The correlation between how happy of a child I was, and how depressed I became wasn't made until adulthood when someone explained that the earth-shattering childhood I had, had created patterns of self-sabotaging behavior. And when I experienced grief after grief, I finally shattered again. The pieces of myself I had reconstructed, the person I thought I had built- she was so shallow, still so empty. She didn't know who she was either. I'm still that broken little girl. Nothing has changed, the hurt has just changed shape. 

I still don't know who I am. One day I woke up and looked around, and everything in my life felt like something I couldn't touch. People held no warmth. Moments joy didn't last. And Jesus felt so far away. Every day that passed by, He feels further and further away. Like He was the only happy childhood memory I had. Jesus, Sweet Jesus, my Saviour, my God...the only light in my childhood. The only light in my life now. 

I still believe at the very core of who I am that I cannot exist without Him, but I cannot find Him in myself. I search and I beg and I plead- but my life still feels like the same shallow hole that it has for so long. Is this just how it is? A passionless, dry, dull, empty life? Where is the fullness of joy? My heart aches for it.

I have chased the feeling of being alive. I have sought for the wind in my hair passion for life: I have tried the nights of endless lovemaking, the ecstasy of drunkenness, the laugh of a child, the high of a run, and delight of decadent chocolate....it doesn't matter. Nothing fills me. When I wake up, I'm still alone. I'm still broken. Around me still lay the fading pieces of a childhood I can't make sense of. I grasp for anything that promotes the promise of fulfillment or love. I have sought until the soles of my heart's feet are bleeding raw from the endless seeking and running and chasing. 

I wish I could leave this with "but here's how I have healed and how I'm doing better" but I can't. I can tell you this: I have a village of loving, amazing Jesus people who clear away the cobwebs of my passion-chasing mistakes and hug the broken little girl huddled in the corner. I have a man who reminds me of my self worth every time some pig downtown rolls his window down to yell obscenities. I have a community that spurs me on, that keeps me in church, that points me constantly to Christ- even when I can't see Him anywhere but in their faces. I have a beautiful family, that is so precious to me- all I want to do is protect them, and keep their hearts innocent to how dark my own has become. 

And I have only one last thing I can say: I still feel dark. I still feel shattered. Absolutely gutted and empty. But I am not alone. And I have one thing: I. have. hope.

One day, it all ends. One day the sun rises on that little girl- the bruises heal, the heart mends, the shattered pieces create something beautiful and touchale. One day she dances. One day her hair flows in the wind. One day her lover spins her around a field of flowers and one day the dark first 25 years become a chapter, instead of the whole story.