the tunnel

Sometimes I feel like I’m in one of those tunnels under ocean piers, and there’s no way to get out, no way but forward.  I keep fighting, keep going, one step at a time.  On good days, I can see the light at the end.  I want to reach it.  But with every step I take towards it, the water grows deeper, the waves higher, the current stronger.  I don’t know how much longer I can stay afloat.  I almost want to just let go and let the current sweep me off my feet and take me where it wills.

That would be so much easier.  There’s a kind of comfort in letting go.  When we dive into water, we don’t have to worry about how cold it is anymore.  We’ve let go.  It’s over.  No more worrying.  No more wondering.  There’s freedom in letting go.  There’s relief in bowing low to the enemy and saying he’s won.  No matter what may follow, there’s always a slight bit of relief at that one moment.  And it feels so good.

See, I’ve been there before.  I know how it works.  But as I get so close to it again, I’m fighting even harder.  I know what comes after that fleeting moment of relief.  When I surrendered to the monster, when I gave him my body, my life, I suddenly had no control at all.  What had once been the one thing I could control became the one thing that I had no control whatsoever over.  It was like there was a demon inside me, making me do things I never really wanted to do.

I know that’s serious business.  I know there’s never been a demon inside me.  That spot’s taken.  But there’ve been plenty on the outside, constantly whispering their lies in my ears.  They’re the ones that tell me it’s okay to cut, that it helps, that it’ll make me feel better.  They’re so quiet, sometimes I think it’s my own thoughts I’m hearing.  And ideas just kind of seep into me, then grow more and more acceptable until it really is me thinking of those things.

It’s all a big complicated mess.  I hate myself.  I hate the way I look.  I have scars that will never go away.  That’s what the devil has done.  And the more I push against it, the more the waves push me back, knock me down, suck me inside so I can’t breathe.  But somehow, somehow, there’s always a rescue.  Every time I sink and think it’s over, there’s always a hand that pulls me out.

I think that people underestimate the power of friendship.  Real friendship, where people are honest with eachother.  Almost every time I’ve tried to kill myself, it’s been friends or thoughts of friends that stopped me from going all the way.  It’s hard to say that nobody cares when people have stayed up all night with me to make sure I’m okay.  People don’t just do that, not without at least a little love.

Once I’m pulled out from under, here I am again, coughing on the sand, weak, aching, lonely, and so far away from the light at the end of the tunnel.  It seems like I’ll never reach it.  How can I?  Every failure only makes me weaker.  How can I go against those waves one more time when I can barely even stand on my shaking legs?

People always tell me to take it one step at a time.  I guess they’re right.  One frickin’ step, and even if I have to stand there for hours, days, weeks, before I can take another, at least I’ve taken that one.  I once told a friend to start counting the victories instead of the failures.  I should probably start listening to my own sermon.

The tunnel’s there, dark, grey, foreboding.  And here I am at the beginning again.  The thought of going at those waves again makes me want to just curl up and cry.  But I’ve got to keep going.

I won a great victory the other day.  I threw all my blades away again.  Now I feel like crap, and I want to go find some more, find something, anything that will make me bleed.  I want that moment of relief.

But I’ve got to keep going.  Don’t look back.  Don’t look down.  Just focus my gaze ahead to where the end is.  If I see the light, keep towards it.  If I can’t see it through the fog, then I’ve go to keep stepping, one foot at a time, knowing that the light is there.  Even if I don’t see it, it’s there.

second-guessing

I’m so tired.  My mind isn’t focusing, and I’m not getting anything done.

Everything’s falling apart.  I can’t figure out what I’m supposed to do.  Everything I’ve been holding on to, everything that’s been driving me, keeping me fighting… I feel like I’ve lost all of it.

I’m supposed to go back to school in two weeks.  Two weeks!  I should be excited.  But now that it’s getting so close, I’m scared.  I know I’ve been behaving for the past week, since I got out of the hospital.  I haven’t really even wanted to kill myself, which is a pretty big deal for me.  But I’m terrified that I’m not ready to go back.  I’m afraid I’ll relapse… again… and have to go through all this hell all over again.  I’d rather just go all the way through and be done with it.  Forever.

People have suggested taking a semester off.  Or at least part of a semester.  I could do classes online… I could make it work if I had to.  But the thing is, going back to school has been the one thing driving me all this time.  I’m afraid that if I lose that, or even put it off a little longer, I won’t have anything to fight for anymore.  I know I have people.  I have a ton of people who care, and I keep on fighting just for them, every day.  But I’m scared of what I’d do if I lose one more thing, one more anchor, one more lifeline.  I feel like I’ll just be cut loose into the rivers, and there won’t be anything to hold on to anymore.

I’m probably just worrying too much.  My life is kind of run by fear and worrying.  I can’t just stop all at once, you know?  It’s a hard battle to fight.  And I’m so tired… and this is just going in circles.

I don’t know what to do anymore.  Most people don’t even know I’m even letting the thought of staying home stick in my head for more than two seconds.  I’ve been telling everyone that I need to get back to school, that things are better there.

But are they really?  I mean, I have a much better support system there.  And I’ll have more of a steady structure.  PHP (Partial Hospitalization Program) has been very structured.  But I’ve been flipping through different programs all summer.  Something steady would be nice, even if it’s homework deadlines and class schedules.  When I’m at school, I have people I can go to and talk to when I’m having a rough time.  I mean, I can think of like ten people off the top of my head that I could call or go visit.  All people who really care.  And the depression is usually better when I’m at school, because I’m not internalizing stuff so much.  And counseling is free!

But the depression is also related to the eating disorder stuff.  I usually hate myself more when I’m home simply because I eat more.  When I do go back to school, I’d need to keep up the meal plan PHP has me on.  So I’ll still be eating.  But I’ll have more control over it.  Maybe?

I just don’t know what I can handle right now.  I guess I won’t know anything for sure until I try it.  There’s no guarantee that staying home another month or two would really help at all.  I know I’m not comfortable with my weight now, and I still want to be thinner.  But I also know it usually takes people years before they can truly conquer that.

I still want to go.  I think, at this point, I still will.  I can make it work.  I feel a little better after getting all that out.  It probably means nothing to anyone who happens to read it, but thanks for listening anyway.  I whisper my doubts to the wind, and the wind takes them all and blows them away.  It feels nice.

Honestly

I wonder… what would the world look like if everyone was truly honest?  It would have to be a perfect world, I know, but I just wonder… what would it look like?

Everyone is so independent, always turning down help and doing everything alone.  Maybe that’s just an American thing.  Independence is kind of a big deal for us, but it factors down into every day life, too.  We don’t want help.   We don’t trust anyone but ourselves.  We don’t dare let our guard down, don’t dare appear the slightest bit weak or needy.  We’ve got to be strong, always strong… and I could go into all the different pressures on men and women in regards to this, but that’s a topic for another time.

The thing is, we’re really not as independent and strong as we want, or as we make ourselves out to be.  We need support.  We need friends.  We need people.  Heck, we are needy.  We’re just afraid to let it show.

Soooo… what would happen if we really were honest about who we are?  What if there was no more hiding behind painted smiles that are really tall brick walls, no more hiding behind easy “I’m fine” answers?  There really are people who care.  When they ask how we’re doing, what if we told them the truth?  I’m not saying we should all pour out our life stories on every random stranger who asks how’s it goin’.  But for those who care, those who we care about, shouldn’t we be honest?  Shouldn’t we stop lying?

I don’t know how things would be.  But for all of us who get so pulled down inside of ourselves, I think it would be good.  To be able to cry when I’m sad, say I’m ticked when things go wrong, and be okay with falling apart in the arms of a friend.  Life is easier for me when I’m able to help others.  Maybe things would just be better all around if, when we’re weak, we let it show.  When we need a hand, we open our tight-gripped fists.  When we’re afraid, we let someone tell us we can make it.  When we’re hurting, we let someone sit with us and offer hugs and tissues as needed.

It’s so hard to be independent.  It’s hard to be alone.  I think life would be better if we were just truly honest with each other.  It would for me, at least.  But then, I’m crazy.  Maybe in real life, everyone really is that strong.  Maybe they’re all fine with going it alone, and I’m the only one who’s needy.  But somehow, I think not….

This is a good song.  It says a lot of what I mean.  Take a listen, would you?  And just think about it.

http://youtu.be/XQ91xnDh6hY

the question

Is this really worth it?

That’s the question I keep hearing lately, from what seems like everywhere.  At the treatment center, it seems like all the other girls are struggling the same way I am.  Is all this pain really worth it?  Will I ever be completely better, all the way, body, mind, and soul?  What if I’m not?  What if I have to live this way the rest of my life, until I die?  Is it worth it?

I hate myself.  I hate every pound I’ve gained, every bite I’ve eaten.  I feel like I have less of a handle on myself than I did when I was getting better before.  Why does it have to be like this?  I’m at a healthy weight now.  Why do I have to keep eating?  It doesn’t make sense.  None of it makes sense.  I want to die.

My mindset is all wrong.  My emotions are going crazy.  Today in treatment I got in trouble because I was smiling too much.  The group leader said she couldn’t understand how I could be talking about wanting to die, and not wanting to get better, while all the time I had this big smile on my face.  She didn’t want the disconnect there between me and my emotions.  But I don’t know how to show what I feel!  Yeah, I’m sad.  I’m hurting.  I want to cry half the time.  Yeah, I’m angry.  I want to scream and run and punch something.  I want to cut, to hurt myself.  I have to punish myself for not doing all this right.  I have to punish myself for feeling.  But I hide behind a smile.  That’s the one bit of safety I have left, the one bit of control I still have in this crazy life.

I’m falling apart.  Is that even possible?  I feel like I’ve already fallen into so many pieces, there’s nothing left to break.  But I’m usually still able to hold some semblance of control in my life.

Can I say I want to die?  Can I say I’m just tired?  When people ask me how I am, I usually say I’m fine, or I’m tired.  I’m tired of living, people!  I’m tired of facing each new day.  I’m tired of fighting.  Tired of losing.  Tired of failing, every single day.

Is this worth it?  Eating all this food, going through all this treatment?  Will it really make my life any better, in the long run?  I want to be thinner.  How is this helping my self-confidence?  I only hate myself more every day I live, every day I eat.  I mean, really.  This is torture.  Why am I going through it?  Why not just stop?  Why can’t I let myself start losing weight again?  If it makes me feel better about myself, wouldn’t that be worth it?  If it makes me willing to live again, wouldn’t that be good?

I’m so messed up.  Everything is so messed up.  I know I’m talking nonsense.  I know that this will ultimately be good for me.  I know the truth.  But I hate going through all this anyway.  I hate myself.  I know that I have to fight.  I have to live.  God won’t let me die, hard as I try.  So it’s not time yet.  But there’s still that sense that in fighting, I am actually giving up.  In living, I feel like I’m giving up my self.  I’m giving up my spirit, my personality, my hopes, my dreams.  Everything that makes me who I am.  When I fight and keep living, I feel like I’m giving up my self and just becoming a joyless, spiritless body.  That’s it.

It’s backwards.  And, technically, I know this is where I’m supposed to be.  God’s always talking about being dead to the self and alive to Christ.  I just feel like dying to self isn’t nearly as painful for everyone else in the world.  I literally feel like I’m dying when I live.  I’d rather just physically die and be done with it.

I don’t understand.  I don’t know why in the world any of this is worth anything at all.  Maybe it’s not worth it.  Maybe it is.  I’m too tired to try to understand anymore.  I’m worse off now, in terms of mindset, than I’ve ever been before.  I don’t know what I can handle.  I hit breaking point in the hospital.  Now I’m just dangling by whatever thread of a rope is left.  I honestly don’t know how much longer I’ll last.  I’m so tired of holding on.

love

Sometimes I feel more alone than I can bear.

Sometimes I feel like there can’t be anyone in the whole entire world who would want to be around me.

Sometimes I feel like no one would even notice if I were gone.

But then…

there are also some times when I am so overwhelmed with love that I just don’t know what to do.  Sometimes I just sit there and cry.

I think I’ve gone so long hating myself that it seems completely foreign that anybody could even think of caring about me.  I care a lot about the people around me… yeah, I know it doesn’t seem like it since half the time I want to kill myself… which would hurt them.  But I do care.  I’ve put everyone else so far above me for so long that I pretty much drove myself into the ground to try to make sure everyone else was as comfortable as possible.  It’s much better for everything to be my fault, for me to hurt all the time, than for anyone else to have to hurt in any way.  I’ve always taken so much on myself, whether it ever helped anyone else or not.

Me… I’m not supposed to be loved.  Love is for other people.  Joy is for other people.  Hope is for other people.  Not for me.

And I’ve lived like that for so long… to be suddenly told that I am loved… it’s just a bit overwhelming.  I, me, me, is loved!  And not just by God.  I mean, it’s absolutely wonderful that God loves me.  I really don’t get how he can stand me.  But I mean… God loves everybody.  And He’s perfect, so somehow in the back of my mind it doesn’t seem like such a big deal that He loves me.

But see, the thing is, other people love me too.  I just don’t get why.  I mean, what in the world about me is worth loving?  And what in the world am I supposed to do when people love me?  I’m not used to it.  I’m used to hiding, fading into the background, invisible.  People just don’t see me.  And I’m okay with that.  I don’t want to be a bother to anyone.

Love is just a weird thing.  It never really makes sense, no matter how hard I try to understand.

Right now my emotions are going crazy.  Part of that’s because I’m on new crazy meds, but it’s also because my whole world is turning upside down.  I have to learn to live in a whole new universe, where love is real, and people actually love me.  It’s crazy.  But then, I should be used to crazy by now.

Don’t mind me, wind, if sometimes my whispers don’t make sense.  This whole world doesn’t make sense.  I don’t get it.  But I guess that’s okay.  I mean, I’m okay right now.  Ten minutes from now, I’ll probably be falling apart again.  But for now, I’m okay.

Love is a mystery.  It breaks through every wall I’ve worked so hard to build.  But… it feels really nice.  It makes me cry, but I like it.  I like it a lot.

cries to the wind…

Dear Wind, slight as you may be, please hold my cries and sweep them away.  I can’t talk to the people who care.  I can’t let this stuff out.  It’ll only add to their burden… I wish I’d never told anyone.

I’m not gonna make it through this.  I don’t care about hardly anything anymore.  I mean, I’ve already scared everyone once.  I’ve gone through all the shame of a failed attempt at suicide.  I’ve got nothing to lose if I try it again.  I’m ready to just give up.

There are too many days like this.  I hate myself.  I only cause pain.  I wish I’d get in some big accident, so it wouldn’t have to be suicide.  I wish everyone would stop blaming themselves and feeling bad for all MY crap.  It’s my fault.  I did this to myself.  I know it.  And I hate it.

I’m not normal.  I don’t fit into statistics or generalizations.  I hate myself.  I feel like this is never gonna end.  I can’t keep fighting, not every day.  I need a break.  I need rest.  I wish there was such a thing as peace.

I messed everything up with going to the hospital.  I should’ve just gone through with it and killed myself.  Everyone would be better off.  They made me move a step up from the program I was in at the treatment center.  Now I’m in Partial, their version of an almost-but-not-quite inpatient program.  Six hours a day, five days a week, and they make me eat SOOOOOOOO much food!  I hate it.  I hate them.  They don’t get it.  I’m gonna get fat.  More than I already am.  I don’t need to gain any more weight.  I did fine with that in the first month this summer.  They even said that I don’t need to gain weight.  I only need to maintain it.

But this is not maintaining.  They won’t even let me exercise much!  What am I gonna do with all the tension inside?  I’m just gonna get all bloated, and I can’t do this.  I’m getting fat.  I hate me.

I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t be saying all this.  But this is what my heart is screaming inside my skin, and I have to let it out somehow.  I don’t know what to do anymore.  I got up to a healthy weight.  I was okay.  But with all the food they’re making me eat, the depression is way, way worse than it’s ever been before.  And they say it can take up to four weeks, sometimes more, for the medication to start helping.

I’m gonna go crazy!  I mean, I technically already am.  I had to stay five days on the crazy floor of a mental health hospital.  Nobody trusts me.  No one treats me normal anymore.  It’s like I’ve morphed into this stupid ugly monster that everyone’s afraid of.

My mom is emptying out the medicine cabinet and hiding all the meds.  She thinks I’ll use them to overdose.  She really just doesn’t get it.  If I want to kill myself, I will.  ibuprofen isn’t the only thing to overdose on.  And overdosing isn’t the only way I could kill myself.  I mean, I have a bike.  There’s a 50mph road pretty close by.  1 + 1 = … and that’s one of many, many other options.  Even if they put me in a padded cell under lock and key I’d figure out a way.

I know I’m messed up.  Heck, you should hear the dreams I have at night.  So real.  I’m sick.  But I don’t need people to lock things up as if I’m two.  Sure, I’ve lost all ability to be rational in thinking when it comes to food and eating.  But the rest of my brain still works perfectly!  Stop treating me like a little kid.  For once, just try and get to know me.  Love me.  Talk to me… as if I was normal.  I hate myself.  If everyone keeps giving me more reminders of my weaknesses and failures, that’s only gonna make me hate myself more.  I just want to be okay again.  I want to know it’s possible… for me.

They say I’ll probably be on antidepressants the rest of my life.  They say it could take years to recover from the eating disorder.  They say part of me will never be the same.

So, yeah, I know, okay?!  I know I’ve ruined my life.  I just want…

I just want to be able to be happy again.  I know it’s probably impossible.  I know all the long-term stuff that goes along with everything I’ve done to myself.

And, no, don’t tell me heaven’ll make all this worth it.  That really doesn’t comfort me at all. It just makes me want to kill myself, so this will all be over, so I can be there, so I can rest.

I want to die.  I hate myself.

There!  See that?  They just came up to my room to check on me.  I can’t stand the constant supervision.  I want to scream.  I want to run away.  And never come back.  I don’t care if I don’t find a job.  I don’t care if I can’t support myself.  The worst thing that can happen is I’d die of starvation.  And I like starving, so that’s not a problem for me.

Somebody help me.  God, I know You’re there.  Can’t You stop this?  Can’t You take me now?  Don’t You see what I do to people?  I’ve ruined the life You gave me.  I’ve torn apart the family You placed me in.  Can’t You see this is all wrong?  I hate myself.  I don’t know what to do anymore.  I’m falling apart inside.  All my emotions, reflexes, thought patterns… they’re all going upside down.  I’m literally going crazy.  I don’t know how to be a functional human being anymore.  Just… I don’t know.  If You don’t take me, at least leave me alone.  Stop all the noise in my head.  I’d rather just listen to one voice, even if it’s the wrong one, if I can get even a tiny bit of rest out of it.

There, my cries to the wind.  And the wind blows… and they’re gone, lost in the teasing wind.

Magical Places

This is a magical place, one of those hidden little hollows where the fairies live.  When I first saw it, it seemed like it belonged in a land like Narnia.  Somewhere far away, where miracles happen, and there is beauty and joy.

On the outside, it just looked like a bunch of bushes.  It was Autumn, the season of colors, but these leaves were pink.  That was rather unusual in my mind.  The rest of the group I was with walked on, but I wandered round to the back of the bush-gathering and found a tiny little opening through the spread of stems.  I brushed one branch aside and stooped in through the opening.

I gasped.  It was all open inside, like a magical room or hidden hollow.  The roof of rose petal leaves glowed as the sunlight shone through in little beams and twinkles.  And the floor was a carpet of soft fairy-dusted leaves.  The walls were thick with branches and painted with coral leaves.  As I sat there, the wind whistled through and whispered a melody so soft and light I could barely hear it.  The wind does sing, you know.  It plays on instruments we could never manage, like rocks and trees and soft little whisper leaves.

Maybe this is where the fairies sing their love songs.  In a place so beautiful, so secret, this is where they sing of love that never ends.

I felt at rest there.  The wonder of it, the little-girl delight in it, and the gentle melody all made me wish I could stay there forever.  I wanted to dream, to pretend I was in some far off land where there was laughter and music and love and friendship.

That’s why everyone needs escapes, you know?  Like reading, or watching TV, or partying, or running.  We’re all trying to escape the reality of the life we live in.  I don’t want to face all the pain and fears and dangers and worries and responsibilities.  I don’t want to have to deal with the thoughtless comments people make.  I don’t want to deal with getting up every morning and facing another day.  I don’t want to deal with me.

But if I can escape to some little fairy hollow, then I can be at rest.  I can dream and pretend and live in a world of fantasy where people’s love never fades, and fear doesn’t rule our lives.  I want to get out of the chains I’m bound in.  I want to be free.  Sometimes, when I find those little fairylands, I can pretend for a moment that none of my pain really exists.  I can be happy and have fun and make up stories.

So I whisper to the wind, there is beauty.  There is lovliness in this world.  I must go on a quest to find it, to redeem it, to treasure it.  Somewhere… beauty is.  And I will find it.

Swinging

Wind.  It blows in my face, my eyes, my hair.  Back and forth.  I stare straight ahead, sometimes seeing the path through the woods before me, sometimes seeing nothing at all.  Close enough to touch the smooth skin of a young maple, then sliding back, out of reach.  Constant motion.  Steadiness.  I close my eyes, lean my head against the chain.  Legs still pumping, mechanic, mindless, up and down, straight and bent.  Listening.  Slight creak of worn hinges, soft clink of chain.  Forward, backward.  Gently rocking, soothing, calming.

Thunder rolling, tumbling across the cloud-hills, somewhere near and far.  Wind.  Brushing my cheek, gentle, awakening.  I lift my face to the sky and open my eyes.

Back and forth.  Slow movement.  Trees above me, towering, stretching, standing on tip-toes to touch the sky.  I wonder, do they ever reach it?  Swaying, pulling, bowing to wind.  Does the wind rule?  Or do the trees adore?  Or is it some conglamoration of both?

Trees dancing.  The wind sings, you know… it sings beautiful, powerful songs, and the trees dance.  Rocking, swinging, back and forth.  They move above me, twisting and twirling in some intricate arrangement.  Or maybe this dance was never arranged.  Maybe they always make a new one, a new dance for every song the wind sings.

Breath in.  Breath out.  Keep breathing.  Heart beating.  Me living.  Alive.

Constant motion, going nowhere.  Safe.  Not running.  Not running away anymore.

Whispers.  Tears.  Tired, weary cries.  And peace.  All at once, backwards and forwards, up and down, someday I’ll settle, someday… but not yet.  Not today.

Thunder, wind, branches sweeping, tiny mistlets of rain.  Chaos all around me, numbing, finally easing a peace inside.  Memories, wimperings, all behind.  And then before me again.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  Chains creaking.  Legs aching.  Hours passing.  Thunder rolling.  Peace.  Tears falling.  Tears drying.  Hands shaking.  Shivers easing.

Alive.  Still… alive.

dry tears

Well, I had this wonderful post all written up earlier today.  It was all about dreaming and fairies and beauty and hope, and it was really good.  But then it wouldn’t load.

And as much as I don’t want this entire blog to be me venting, well, I really need to right now.

I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.  Always I have to be strong.  I have these conversations with my dad, and I always end up hurting him.  He usually looks strong all the time, but sometimes his eyes get all “moist,” and he has this kind of sad puppy dog look on his face.  I know that he loves me, and he tries to help, but so often it only makes things worse.  I’m so tense right now.  I hate myself.  I really, really want to cut.  I want to hit my arteries and just let the blood flow.  I hate myself so much.

Maybe it’s because I’m so tense.  Maybe it’s because I know all my issues are making life harder for others.  Maybe it’s because I don’t see any hope for me in this life.  Everywhere I go, I hurt people.  With everything I do, I fail.

I want to scream.  I want to run.  I want to binge, purge, do whatever to somehow punish myself.  This is never going to end.  I hate myself.  I hate my life.  And I feel so alone.  There’s no one else up this late, no one I can talk to.  I don’t know what to do.  I wish I could cry.  I wish someone would just hold me, stay by me.  I had a friend who went through anorexia and had to go to a residental treatment place.  She said that one of the things that helped her the most was holding hands.  Just to be able to grab onto someone’s hand and hold as tight as you need helped so much.  I wish I had a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, anything at all.

My head aches.  It always does when I need to cry but don’t.

There’s no one to hear me.  No one to help.  No one actually knows how to help, anyway.  Half the things they say just make it worsel  I want to escape.

My wrists are already bleeding, from cutting last night.  Seeing the blood makes me want to go deeper.  I hate myself.  I want to die.  Is anyone there?  Does anyone care?  I know no one’s reading this, because who’d want to read someone venting out all the crap she’s going through.  I’m crazy, see?  Sometimes I like being different.  But sometimes I just can’t handle it.  God, help.

No one here understands.  No one really knows me and listens enough to get what I’m saying.  And I feel like I’ve lost all my friends at school.  Everyone’s so far away.  I have nowhere to go, no one to talk to.

I’m sorry.  This is me.  I don’t care.  I don’t care about anything.  Or maybe I care too much… and that’s why it hurts so much.  I’d ask, is there anybody out there who’d say anything to help me keep going.  I’d ask if there was anyone who’d care if I took my life tonight.  I mean, besides my family and friends, but they don’t care enough to do something so simple as ask how I’m doing.  They’d be better off without me.  One less person to worry about, you know?

I can’t see anything anymore.  I want to go cut.  Deep.  I think I will.  If I die tonight, oh well.

oh, to fly away…

So… I’m not a very good Christian.  I guess that’s obvious.  I haven’t read in my Bible in I don’t know how long.  But today… I remember psalms.  Some psalms are desperate cries, very much like my own.

I have always wanted to run away somewhere.  Or to fly… I’ve always wanted to fly.  I used to wish I would get one of those fatal diseases so I could do that Make A Wish thing.  I would wish to have a tree all of my own in the park near my house, with the most wonderful treehouse ever in it.  Then I could run away to it whenever I wanted.  I would have a rope ladder that I could pull up any time to keep everyone away.  And I could live free.

I remembered a psalm today, though, that fits me perfectly.  Psalm 55.

“Listen to my prayer, O God, do not ignore my plea; hear me and answer me.  My thoughts trouble me and I am distraught because of what my enemy is saying, because of the threats of the wicked; for they bring down suffering on me and assail me in their anger.

“My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death have fallen on me.  Fear and trembling have beset me;     horror has overwhelmed me.  I said, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly away and be at rest.  I would flee far away and stay in the desert;I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.”

I have a pretty big enemy.  He’s a devil.  The devil.  Nasty fellow; he just won’t leave me alone.  And the things that he tells me… I’ve been listening to them for so long, sometimes it’s hard to remember that he’s whispering lies.  They just make so much sense.  I don’t know what to believe anymore, or how to think.  I’m so tired of fighting… I just want to let go.

And the other part, well, I think about death all the time.  And my life is run by fear and trembling.  I’m on meds now that help a little, but I used to shake all the time.  I held my arms against me as tight as I could to hold it in, or I’d clench my fists.  On the hardest days, I’d have welts in the palms of my hands.  And at night I couldn’t stop, and I’d rock back and forth in bed waiting for sleep to come.

And… to have wings of a dove… to be able to fly away and be at rest… that is my deepest longing.  Funny thing, I’ve read in some stories of people who die, and their friends say they “flew away.”  Yeah… I know… my mind shouldn’t go there.  But to be free, to be able to rest, truly rest… I want it so badly it hurts in my heart.

 

Note:  This is not my picture.

That is me.  This is my cry, this is my dream.  To escape.  To flee far away into the mist, golden mist.

Or even to the desert.  If I could only be alone, yet not lonely… if I could find a bit of rest and peace.  If I could sleep without dreams.  If I could still my mind and be at peace and smile just one little true smile, straight from my heart.

I want to die.  I really want to die.  I wish He’d just take me.  On the outside, I look fine.  But inside, I’m falling apart.