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I’m writing this at 4 a.m. I could close my eyes, but as my mind won’t be still, sleep is unlikely.
To scroll through Facebook right now is to watch people slowly crack apart. Unfiltered rants, blocking and banning, and employing all caps in fits of digital temper tantrums.
It’s contagious. The more I read, the more I feel unreasonably angry over inconsequential things:
>> An unfriending by someone whose name I didn’t even recognize and whose arrogance made me wince (but it’s the principle of the matter)
>> Seeing that people have viewed a post where I poured my heart out (everyone can see that you saw) but didn’t respond. One click. I acknowledge you. Is that so hard?
>> Misspellings. Grammar. (For example: when you’re freinds comments make you loose you’re mind.)
Distractions. I know that’s what they are. Designed to pull my attention from the huge, swirling black hole of depression in the middle of the room. I don’t know when it first appeared; I just know that I’m barely skirting the edge, fingertips white from gripping the earth so tightly, afraid of what might happen if I let myself tumble free.
Maybe this is an overcharge. Maybe I’m the one cracking apart now. Maybe I’ll leave these words in my notebook, unread and abandoned among fragments of short stories and skeletons of unfinished poetry. Or, maybe somebody needs to hear that it’s okay not to be okay.
Maybe someone needs to hear that they aren’t the only one who finds it hard to get out of bed right now. Hard to eat. To speak.
Maybe someone needs to hear that their cheeks are not the only ones stained with tears they can’t remember shedding.
I’m supposed to say something inspirational here—something profound or moving. And I want to, but I’m running low on profundity.
In the case that vulnerability is an acceptable substitute, I offer this disjointed insomniac rambling.
I won’t likely get my REM for the day, but here’s what will happen:
I will get out of bed.
I will eat. And I will speak.
I will engage with other human beings.
I will feel the sun on my face.
I will talk to God. And I will listen.
I will unplug when I need to.
I will hug my children. Often
I won’t argue with my husband when he tells me I’m beautiful.
I’ll laugh and remember that sometimes I’ll also need to cry.
I’ll play music and let myself dance.
I’ll forgive both the real and perceived slights, and I’ll forgive myself for not being perfect.
I’ll apologize. Maybe.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
All of this until I can loosen my grip. Rest. Dream.
Until the looming darkness disappears in the light of the Son. And it will. It will. It always does.