I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought, “I don’t want to be alive anymore.” There were days it was a mantra, especially in my older adolescence and young adulthood. Like I spoke it with every breath.
Just moments ago, I muttered it aloud and was struck by how much of an insult it is to God, my father of fathers. He brought me out of the dark, into His wondrous light, and I’ve spent my life begging him to let me die so I can go to Heaven. BEGGING Him. LOATHING the gifts He’s given me because it hurts to be here, because living hurts. I sound like such a child. I feel like such a child.
A week ago Friday I spent two hours in an orthopedist’s office… and only spent maybe five minutes of that time actually visiting with the orthopedist, who told me he didn’t think I’d had the sort of surgeries I’d had. The moment he said that, I tuned out the bastard, gathered my things and stormed out in as much a huff as my crippled legs could muster.
It hurts to live.
Where the hell did I get the idea that it shouldn’t? WHERE. THE. FUCK. DID. I. GET. THAT. SUPREMELY. RIDICULOUS. IDEA?? Because I look at the people in my circles and think it’s EASY for them? GOOD GOD, I’m an idiot. A petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. I had it in my head that at some point, things would be easier.
There’s a Hillsong Worship song, King of Kings, with the line: He did not despise the cross. I have LOATHED mine. I have loathed God for making me carry it. I have loathed life. LOATHED it.
The following is from texts sent yesterday to one of my oldest friends:
I feel broken in many respects at many times… That brokenness is evident in my physical presence–literally and figuratively… not just because of the maladies that have plagued me and persisted despite efforts to correct them but because of how I’ve handled adversity. I feel, often, that adversity has worn away all that is good in me, leaving the uglier aspects of my character raw and exposed. So when people talk about physical appearance being what’s shown of your heart, what of your character is reflected on the surface, when I say that I am not pretty… I’m not just talking about the surface, though that’s certainly one aspect.
There is such rage and impotence within me. I struggle, daily, to mask it. I think perhaps I inherited it from my mother’s father–he so hated that he could not be what he wanted to be. And, more, in me, there is such frustration that I have never felt a strong calling in my life, not one in which I had/have confidence.
I pray, daily, that the Lord would alleviate these feelings in me.
Perhaps this is why I am alone.
Ambition, purpose and a love for life are SUCH attractive qualities. I lack them all. I have no energy to cultivate these things because every attempt has always brought me up so miserably short.
All this is evident in me. I walk cloaked in despair with no confidence that I could walk any other way… because the cloak isn’t a cloak but a strait jacket. I am imprisoned in this body–doctors assumed at my birth I would be better off in an institution for people like me, and the older I get the more convinced I am that they were right.
All that said, I am FAR TOO focused on myself… like my grandfather was far too focused on himself.
Going to school felt like a death march. Coming home felt like a furlough. Every insult, every attack, whether orchestrated by a teacher or student, was mortar, the shrapnel chipping away at my sense of self so that by the time I was in junior high, I was a broken shell of a girl. First I let them destroy my self-image, then I let them destroy my self-worth.
I haven’t survived. I can’t even call this an existence. I wake up, and I waste time until the day is done. I take things to help me sleep… wash, rinse, repeat.
And before you say I should see a therapist, I’ve seen plenty of them. I know all the things. I know all the ways to combat this mentality. Depression is a lack of will. Anxiety is a fear of it. I am plagued by both.
My grandfather was groomed by his parents from a young age to become a surgeon. At some point I’m certain he was convinced he wanted this for himself. But his hands shook. He took medicine to still the tremors but became addicted to it. He drank. Once he had children, he hated not being the focus of the family. He could not change his circumstances so he drowned his sorrows in liquor and lashed out as his wife and children. He was verbally and emotionally abusive.
I have the propensity for this. Perhaps my singleness and childlessness is God’s way of ending the cycle… perhaps my parents’ efforts to steer me away from education was His way as well.
I have a heart for family and learning but the not the mind for it. And my body… often I feel as thought my blood is boiling and my muscles are cords of stone. Pair the physical sensations with the mental ones… it’s an ugly combination. It makes me feel ugly, literally and figuratively. And then I look in the mirror… and I see the ugliness.
I want to feel soft. And the only time I can feel that way is when I’m in bed. Or, better, when I’m being held.
When I say fear of will, I mean fear of choice, fear of failure, fear of success, fear of responsibility, fear of lackadaisicalness… it’s essentially fear of everything, but all things invoice choice of some kind. I fear the choices I will make will be wrong… so fear of will.
I’ve screwed up. I’ve blown the funds in my bank account. Pray, FERVENTLY, that I can be more respectful of and responsible with money. Pray I can grow up and stop spending it like a stupid child.
All but the last of the italicized paragraphs were sent yesterday… I’ve omitted her responses from the conversation. The last paragraph was sent about three hours ago. I had that glorious epiphany about insulting God about an hour ago.
No wonder I’ve hated life so… I can’t be trusted with His blessings. Can’t be trusted to appreciate them. Can’t be bothered to care for them. I see them as toys to be tossed aside when I’ve lost interest in them. Why SHOULD He bless me with ANYTHING? WHY should I get to see the glory of Heaven?