This level of restlessness. Fear, uncertainty—fear again. The utterances of faith don’t seem to allay the fears. Or maybe they do at first, but the fear always comes back. That sinking feeling, the crappy weight of it. I find myself wondering what medications might help. Maybe a stress ball will help. Or a hand to squeeze. A pillow to bite into. A strong hate for everything. Exhaustion. I’m holding on to God, but I’m also clinging to my surroundings. The experiences, the family, the love, the friendship—they offer some comfort, yes—but they also make me bask in the fear and hate. Fear of losing everything. Hate for everything and everyone not on my side.
I want to hold on to God, but I know He’s not the one I’m fighting with. So I end up holding on to everything else but Him. Maybe I should hold on to Him regardless. But even when I do, my mind still wanders—back to everything in my life that’s not yet in place. It’s easy to say “hang in there,” “hold on tight”—but it’s so hard. This restlessness, fear, and uncertainty—I hate it.
I’m tired of swearing under my breath at the slightest things. Tired of the fake smiles stretched across my face. Tired of privately rolling my eyes at everyone’s dry jokes. I want to bury my face under the blanket and stay there until light returns. Showing up feels like dragging a sack of hot, heavy coals behind me—no one else sees it, but it burns on my shoulders, weighs down my legs.
I hate it so much. I hate everything. Even your beautiful smiles irritate me. Your happy life makes mine feel even darker. But this isn’t me. This is the darkness inside me. The kind that is void of God.
Now I reach for Him again. But I’m still human. How do I forget the pull of my fleshy surroundings—my passions, the people and things I love? How do I focus on God and what He’s said, when everything around me feels empty? I smile. I laugh. I pray. I study God’s word. But the darkness comes, sooner or later.
How do I survive this darkness?
Jesus, hold me. Hold me before it slips me away.