And He’s holding out His hand. . .

When one references speaking in tongues, I am certain it is not what happened to me tonight. That doesn’t make the words any less mine, and less foreign to my way of thinking, or any more surprising yet true.
A close friend, the kind of friend that is so close you consider them family, and I were discussing happiness and overcoming depression. We were talking about the difference between bringing someone JOY and showing them the love of God, compared to trying to be their God.
We just thought we were talking about someone who is in both of our lives.
God, as He always does, knows better.
I heard my voice say, “Only Jesus can bring light in the darkness. Only Jesus can save us. Only Jesus can bring us the peace we need to overcome. Only Jesus. God is the only one who can love us the way we need.”
Not my clever words.
My mind was in a grumpy, gossipy place. My heart leaks bitterness at the seams when I hear certain names. I am nasty and jealous sometimes. My soul is ugly and black and only my Savior’s blood changes that.
That relationship where I’m trying to be God to someone else, whether for love or greed or pride, will fail. Any relationship where I make someone else God in my mind will fail every time.
No man or woman or child can change my soul. My kids can make me want to be better, but I can’t do it without God. Whether it’s a temper tantrum over candy at the store or my reflection in a completely shattered (brand new!) iPad screen, my strength and patience is credited to the Holy Spirit, not my love for my children. Because I love them, but it’s hard to show love to a kicking, biting toddler sometimes.
My marriage fell apart when I realized my husband wasn’t God and he refused to accept that. My last relationship didn’t work because I wanted him to love me the way only God can, and I wanted him to accept my love the way he could only accept God’s. Human love is influential but not changing.
I’m lonely a lot. I’m sad easily. I feel weary. I’m overwhelmed by the amount of housework, homework, and actual work I need to get done each week. I’m drained emotionally by some of my relationships. I cry too often and complain too much. I could go on for a while, but, well, the whole complaining thing I just mentioned.
I’m a huge stinking mess, but I have Jesus.
Only Jesus can bring me light in the darkness of this world.
Only Jesus can save my sinful self from Hell, on Earth and for eternity.
Only Jesus gives me peace to every day overcome my depression and try.
Only my Jesus.

And God I run into your arms

I believe in a God who performs miracles on a daily basis. An hourly basis. If I knew the correct word to say every second my God performs miracles in an eloquent way, I would.
Just today, I witnessed a miracle for someone I deeply care about, who makes my heart light, who let God use her to save my life.
I prayed desperately for her miracle. There was no doubt in my mind God would answer my prayer for her.
I believe God loves me. I believe God became man, to redeem us from our sinful natures. I believe God as the Father sent His only Son as a sacrifice and conquered sin, saving us all from eternal damnation. As a parent, that love is unfathomable. I don’t love anyone enough to let my children die for them.
I believe in His saving grace; a grace I did not and cannot earn.
Too often, I believe these things to be true more for others than for myself.
I prayed earnestly and without a doubt for a miracle for my friend.
I pray timidly and cautiously for myself. I ask for things, if God feels like it, if it’s His will, but to make me okay with it if it isn’t His plan.
I need to move beyond the idea that others are more worthy of His blessings. I fully believe He loves me as much as He loves others.
I serve an amazing God. He restores relationships, heals the sick, blesses the needy, and most of all, is our Savior.
Less doubt on my behalf. More trust to God.

Looked up this morning, saw the roses full of thorns

It’s 4:16 AM. I’ve been awake for just over two hours. I came home from work just after 5:00, exhausted, and barely moved from my bed.
A visit to the doctor last week proved to have not been a waste of time. The second trip back in for more blood work when I embarrassingly passed out was not in vain. Monday afternoon, standing in Starbucks waiting for a sweet girl’s sweet reward for doing well at the orthodontist, my iPhone buzzed and I couldn’t hit ignore.
No death sentence, nothing dramatic.
But a diagnosis that requires lifestyle changes and new medications and time to adjust to. A change in expectations of what my future will look like.
No partner in life to process with. I opened up to a few understanding friends, and I’m thankful for them. But nobody to sit with and discuss how this affects my routine. Nobody to discuss what treatment looks like on a daily basis with me. Nobody to cry to. Nobody to admit my tactless, ugly fears to. Nobody to discuss the diet changes I need to make, or how to move forward with an exercise routine that keeps me in shape without constant bothersome dizziness.
I have friends. Just not someone who can enable some needed codependency for a few days while I process. Nobody to hold me at 4:31 as tears roll down my face and I reach out to the internet for prayers instead of having a close, intimate relationship with someone who can hold me and pray over me.
It’s not a big deal, but it is.
I had thought I had found that someone. And I know God is teaching me to lean on Him, not His creation. I wouldn’t say no to someone, is all. You know, the right one.

You really see nothing of this girl

Always here when I’m needed.
Thanked politely.
The details change but the feeling I walk away with is the same.
Used.
Needed, not wanted.
Required, not desired.
And still I answer. I try not to, and something in me is broken and I say yes.
I give in and someone else’s needs are met, yet I am left feeling more broken and out of control.
There isn’t any one person, or even a small group of persons to blame.
Only me, and my stupid eagerness to please even when I don’t really mean to them what they do to me. Always so eager to please everyone else. Certain someday I will be pleasing enough to be loved.
But that’s silly.
Still I give of myself, for nothing but hurt in return.
Maybe that’s what love looks like in my life right now.

I remember a time when a kiss on the hand was enough

I’m ashamed to admit how desperate I am for physical affection.
I’m not ashamed to say I’m not out attempting to satisfy those needs in vain.
It’s not my hair that desperately needs fingers run through it, it’s my heart desperately needing someone to care for me so deeply they desire to twirl my long brown hair between their fingers as they watch TV or discuss life.
My arms are not despairing at the lack of an adult human of the opposite sex to hold tightly and fight letting go. My heart wants to be comfortable with another so as to feel confident enough to hold them so tightly.
It isn’t my nose craving a familiar scent when in close contact with someone I care for who returns my affections; but the comfort and relaxation that smell brings to my very soul.
I’m not going to seek meaningless relationships.
But I very much miss giving and receiving affection with romantic notions.

Learn to let go, got to give in

I barely did anything yesterday. I enjoyed the hour and a half of time between waking up as a family and my children being whisked away by ‘we’. The pronoun ‘we’ that nobody, not even my then husband, would choose to use and include me. But for her, it’s ‘we’ this, and ‘we’ that. WE said wedding vows, but I don’t remember feeling loved, just comfortable. ‘We’ just moved in together and are having fun playing house with the children WE conceived.
I feel embarrassingly paralyzed by this threatening undertone he uses at times. It doesn’t matter what he is saying, only how he says it. The sentence would be about me, spending too much on fresh fruit. The menacing, intimidating undertone made it clear he was seriously upset, and I would regret my boldness in thinking I could spend $2.49 on peaches even if I was pregnant and craving them.
That hasn’t gone away.
I’m not ‘his’ any longer. I haven’t been attached to him for several years now. And I’m not afraid in my own home. I’m not afraid to make eye contact with others but for being accused of flirting with them. I’m not constantly cleaning, doing little to fulfill my soul but much to meet his demands.
Just that tone.
I’m afraid of what it implies. I’m afraid of it being used toward our children. I cower slightly, still.
This fear paralyzed me most of yesterday. I cried myself back to sleep, falling asleep praying for guidance. When I’d wake up, I would pray for His control over our lives, not ‘his’. I would pray for safety and hope. And I would cry again and fall back to sleep eventually.
My old instincts kicked in; the ones he ingrained in me. I cancelled my plans. I didn’t reach out to anyone, at least not until it was late in the evening. I shut down and shut out.
Today has been a struggle, attempting to interact with the real world again. Habits that took a couple years of counseling to kick tried to take hold again. I couldn’t raise my eyes to meet anyone else’s. I didn’t desire to participate in social conversations.
I’m catching myself. I don’t intend to dwell here. I just need to process.

Don’t got a lot, but right now I’m feeling fine

Someone came into my house tonight, invited, as my house normally looks. Same thing last Wednesday. Some dishes in the sink, pathetic attempt at vacuuming and toys thrown in their basket. I didn’t have it all perfect. But it was a realistic depiction of my life and the conditions I live in.
I don’t claim to be ‘clean’. I’m cluttery and a hoarder. I no longer break into an anxiety attack at my bills, but I still out of habit let the mail stack up.
So two weeks in a row, I made connections with people I trust and let them see my home.
My walls I put up rarely extend to letting people into my home.
Maybe this will be a new trend.

On A Sunday Morning Sidewalk

Most Sundays are like ripping off a bandaid.
It always hurts it just depends how quickly you forget the sting.
Johnny Cash describes Sundays perfectly.
Instead of beers, I steal extra hugs and beg for more kisses as they get ready for Dad’s.
I don’t wish I was stoned; for there is no drug that can replace the feeling of my children in my arms or their screams, laughter, fighting, games throughout the house.
I died once, or as close as one can get and live to tell the tale. This is more lonesome.
I draw a bath to relax.
I distract myself removing excess hair from my face and rubbing ointments into the many blemishes leaving their mark on my skin.
Their clothes on the floor and the mess left behind are just a stark reminder of where they are not. If you think it hurts to step on a Lego, try a Lego that smarts emotionally, too.
I don’t feel lucky to ‘get a break’.
I feel incredibly alone despite the divorce statistics which assure me I’m not, that many other divorced parents go through the same thing.
Some days, I’m okay when I drop them off.
Today, it feels like I ran headfirst into the wall entrance to Platform 9 ¾ and I’m questioning everything I believe in.

Look in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re alright

Being all alone is glaring at me in the form of bubbled up blisters on my foot and red marks on my legs.
Sometimes I’m okay with my lifestyle. Other days I even catch myself looking forward to a few minutes alone. I can enjoy choosing the show I want to watch instead of cartoons or shows with talking dogs.
When I hit my head, I had my mom to call. But it doesn’t change the fact I lay with my head bleeding alone.
Yesterday it was bacon grease. I just wanted to pour the grease into a mug. Nothing hard, or strenuous. Somehow, the grease ended up covering my leg and foot.
I feel so stupid, and yet I know I was strong enough to be able to clean the grease off the floor and soak my leg in the bathtub. I found the strength to ask friends for advice.
I still don’t feel as though I have anyone. There was no person to help clean the mess. I couldn’t have someone run the water for me.
Nobody is concerned with me.
I do not say this so as to garner pity.
I am utterly overwhelmed by the feeling of isolation today, is all.

My pretty Kitty Kelly, she’s my wild Irish rose

Something needs to be done to undo my crazy, my psycho, my repulsive side.
I try to do good deeds but I keep nearing 30, an age that I view with much significance, and I can’t feel rational or happy about it.
I have a list.
Not so much a bucket list.
For some reason I intend to live past 30, so I don’t want to be kicking the bucket anytime soon.
Don’t mistake that as an exciting will to live, rather acknowledge it as at least a will not to die.
I’m not turning 30 with a happy family. There will be no surprise party thrown by a loving husband or boyfriend. I will plan and pay for my own dinner and pick out my own presents. If I can afford anything.
The only party I will have will be a pity party.
I know I am wallowing in my own sadness, my own self guilt, my own depression.
I checked one more thing off my ‘not bucket’ list. I enjoyed a cigar, as much as a cigar virgin can.
I’ve hiked a mountain. Stood on my own two feet for a bit. Shown what strength I have and been given too much credit for it.
I have to accomplish something.
I love my children, but any idiot can accidentally get pregnant twice. I can’t look at that as a huge accomplishment.
I have to do more than continue to make mistakes, again and again, expecting things to work out ‘this time’.
I’m broken and shallow and no matter how hard I’ve worked to get where I am- I have so little to show for it.
How can I turn 30 with pride? How can I move forward and love myself? I suppose I’m moving in the right direction by not hating myself so much.