The hues of depression in this season continue to gradually deepen and the darkness is enriched over time.
Post the unfolding of Sunday night, the week has only further regressed. The deep hurt has remained and manifested itself within each crevice of my being. Like a plant, it’s grown and is watered with each drop of negativity. Watered with each thought, each wrongful wish, each cut and each tear. Out of desperation I’ve tried everything to numb the feelings inside. However, each night looks the same and each night fades into another and neither too varied from the last. Last night was the epitome of my depression and frankly tonight isn’t much different.
Transitioning between laying on the wet grass, to braced up against the the back of the couch or curled up on the bathroom tiles. These were the events of last night as they unfolded, raw;
Laying on the wet grass at 9.53pm, I felt as if I myself was gravitating in and out of my own body. With a blanket of stars over head and the moon appearing out from behind the clouds. My lungs were burning and I felt minute, wishing to fade into nothingness. By 10.31pm I was pacing up and down the hallway, hands were shaking and my body was aching. This week had been hell and I didn’t want a second more. Downing another bottle, my head spun as I fell to the floor with my face flushed and warm. Time ticking over to half past 11pm as I was trying to turn the music loud enough to drown out the voices that echoed through each corner of my mind. Friday transitioned to Saturday and as Saturday progressed, so did the desperation to forget everything. The desperation to disappear. To cease. I was tired of being told what would be best for me, tired of being told what to do. I’m grateful that they care but I’m tired of hearing that I need to get help because yes, perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t realise the necessity but I also wonder what it will take for me to ‘wake up’ to the truth. Will the realisation only come forth when its too late? I was simply wanting to give up and let go, my body twirling and dancing like no one was watching at 1.13am. Nearing 2am I was braced up against the back of the couch, old hits blaring from the speakers and head pinched between my hands, nails digging in. Not one night sober, self destruction. Crying eyes whilst my empty stomach churned, run. 2.04am my head hung over the toilet bowl in the dark, fingers in throat to rid my body of the toxicity and disgust that had overrun all hope left. Moments later I found myself staring at the unrecognisable reflection in the mirror, hands gripping tight around the sinks rim. An all too familiar sense of hatred rose as I fell to the tiled floor. A shiver sent through my bones as impact against the icy ground was made. Blade slipping, this was it. This was now. In a state I laid there, curled up and allowing the depression full right to take control. Relocating to the dining room table at 2.34am, pen flooding the paper before me as my tears spread the ink. Suicide letter written and out of frustration by what I’d just done, it was put away for a later date. I can only hope that it’ll never be used. Breathing deep as my head hit the pillow, reminding myself that the sun would soon rise on a new day. Tears streaming as I whispered to myself, “you’ll be okay”.
This morning I woke, once again without the desire to continue on. No desire to wake, live, breathe.. I feel so alone, unseen and non valuable. I selfishly long to be held, told I’m loved and that one day it’ll be okay. No amount of self inflicted pain cares to numb the raging war inside of me. In searching for something to hold on to, I have to believe that things will get better. After all, I’d made it this far, through the darkest week to date and I’ll make it through again today. I’ll continue to hold my head up when I stand before others to hide the truth, I’ll smile and do as expected of me. I’ll conform.
This afternoon I picked up a piece of air dry clay, I held it and with all my might and frustration, I squeezed tight. I kneaded and moulded the clay until it’s texture was polar opposite to its state when I’d begun. The words of the Lord rested upon my heart; “You are as the clay in the potter’s hand, I am the potter” – Jeremiah 18.6. An unfamiliar feeling overcame me momentarily as I pondered the words just spoken. Hues of hope. Perhaps through this season, I am being broken, shattered and torn apart in a hope to renew, refine and remould my identity and very being in Christ. Perhaps there truely are larger works at play and perhaps my narrowed perspective prevents me from seeing the full extent of God’s plan. He’s been faithful yet so what’s to stop Him from continuing?
Though my heart is heavy and giving up appears most appetising, I recognise the need to hold on and draw into Jesus. This is where He meets me and I subconsciously know that I am in the palm of my Fathers hands and I’m sure than in time, I will be okay.
– c x