The Wait

Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; do not fret when people succeed in their ways, when they carry out their wicked schemes.  

– Psalm 37:7

I’m so tired. I’m so tired that lifting myself up, out of this slumped-down-to-my-chin position in bed to open up my laptop to write this thing is the last straw. The very last straw. I'm serious. It's so heavy I can't think what to do. The longer I'm here the heavier it's...

I don't cry but I think if I did I would feel better.

I'm stuck in between losing it and getting on with it. How do I get to just one?

Everything fun has sucked out by this city that I still love more than anywhere else in the world. I'm not sure who or what I'm supposed to blame, so I hate nothing and I blame nothing. It's something – it could be a lot worse. Like that time when I woke up one day feeling sad for no reason. Here's a reason. 

I go for a drink with friends only to be pulled into this black hole when my phone rings with yet more rejection. No reason. Just rejection. You don't really think about the bad stuff in life until rejection is thrown at you, over and over. Then it feels like there's no point to anything. I’m fighting against a tide that just won't give. Determined to pull me under. Waves crash over me with some waiting in between, sometimes going harder, saltier, sometimes throwing me off guard with their awkward angles, stinging my eyes and ears and throat. It doesn’t ever get easier. It only gets more infuriating, but He is the constant and He is the one thing keeping me going. Something inside of me is holding onto that.

He has my back, even when those who claim to do His will are the ones who put me in this position. How does that work? God doesn’t take sides but He’s always on mine, you should know that.

Every limb is a dead weight, my head so heavy I don't know where to go first with its thoughts and as I write this I want to stop because nothing I write makes sense anyway. But what does giving up look like? 

I wouldn't know where to start with being homeless. The thought alone is making me panic. My stomach writhes; a mixture of pain from my period starting this morning and stress. I know what that feels like because my doctor diagnosed me with anxiety when I was 19. He told me I was tense and that to help myself I should lie down on my bed and relax every single piece of my body, even my eyelashes. I didn't understand anxiety back then. Maybe in five years' time I'll say the same about my idea of it now. I'm scared of my present self. Every year or so I look back on events past, thinking how stupid I was and how much smarter I am now. But it's always going to be like that, so I'm never smart, really.

There are boxes everywhere. Boxes piled up so high they're blocking the light straining through the window. Everything that doesn't fit into a box is lying around waiting for me, for something. So still, but what a mess. There are boxes in my head for every option – boxes for every possible avenue. Will I find a home today? 

So, this is what it feels like to be tugged and tugged until a part of you rips. This is what it’s like to be tested – truly – to have evil laugh in your face because you did what was right and not what was easy. 

I still see the things I love – the sun rising, the tree-lined streets, the warmth of August sinking in. The people I love are still the people I love. There are parts of the day when I forget. Breakfast is still my favourite, especially on weekends when it's pancakes and bacon and as much coffee as I want because I can still nap with all that caffeine inside of me. 

Take a breath – I'm reminded that this is the most difficult summer I’ve ever endured. And for the strangest, most inexplicable reason. But there’s a flickering inside of me; the smallest flame on a single-wick candle, burning, and refusing to be snuffed out by this wind. It's that small, strong reminder that with Him this season is ever so slightly sweeter than it is bitter.