May 292017
 

The pen and the paper have met many times over the last weeks, but the cursor continues to be cursed, blinking tauntingly at my weathered soul, begging for me to reveal to the world the depths of the holes that penetrate so far and wide that not even light can traverse the jagged mass.

Every breath I take hurts my soul, knowing its breath that I no longer want. My pain in my body can be dulled by the medications, but the pain in my soul has nowhere to go, nothing to take it away. I find myself in doubt. Questioning existence, torture, pain and beg the question why?


I’ve searched psychology books, history books, the Bible and my own faith and all that stands out to me is when Job says, “I have no rest, for trouble comes” because trouble always comes.

Only, now I ask myself, am I the trouble? Am I the cause of the pain? Do I bring this hurt upon myself? Do I beg it into my life instead of goodness and strength? Have I subconsciously killed away the children that once grew in my womb? Washing them out to punish myself… Can the subconscious mind even do that? Can mind really kill matter? Can mind end the life of another, stop the heart from having another beat?

Did I do this to myself? I can’t help but believe I did.

I deserve to be punished. I deserve to hurt. I deserve to choke on the tears of grief that can no longer be swallowed back. “I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel”, and the saddest part is I often don’t.

I am reckless. I am on the edge of a cliff unable to step back from the dangerous edge and begging to be pushed forward into the ending gravitational pull.

No one understands me because I simply don’t understand myself.

Life with depression, anxiety, and feeling like your value is only held in the hands of others is no way to live at all. Some days, I wonder if I am living at all. Most days I know I am not.

May 062017
 

The papers have sat blank while my thoughts have raced in ways that make no sense. Ink hovering above the page but never do they meet.

I feel utterly destroyed. Maybe I am destroyed.

The soul-holes making up the mass of who I am, if holes can have mass; they definitely take up space.

My heart beats heavily and with each pump it throbs and bleeds love and loss. Grief can only exist where love has been. To love is to lose.

I wonder if opening up and being vulnerable is worth it at all? Can I afford this pain again? Can I bear its unbearable weight? Even if I could, would I want to?

Would I want to feel the hollow place within me where many hearts have ceased to no longer beat? Where I don’t even know gender or name?

Will my heart be satisfied in its shattered state by trusting that God knew the name? I try to take solace in that, yet have no comfort. And I wonder, maybe there is no comfort to be had.

Holding you in my heart like a hidden treasure that I am unwilling to share.

Goodnight my sweet angels. I’ll see you when I rise…

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