I hate what this broken world has made me. I despise the way I react and respond to everyday situations. Every day I plead with God to change me. I wish He would do it instantaneously. I am grieved by the walls in my heart and mind. I am tired of distrusting. I am weary of suspecting ulterior motives. I am sad. And I’m tired of being sad. I am exhausted from second, third, and fourth guessing myself at every turn. I have good days. I have great days. I have days that are rocky, but doable. I have days of utter despair and heartache. Lonely, lonely heartache. I feel like a treasure. I feel like a burden. I am never enough. I am always too much. I’m very, very tired.
It was easier not to try. It was safer not to unearth everything that was wrong. It was less painful to not sort it all out. I’m getting better, but it is an uphill climb and the people around me are tired, too. Instead of mustered smiles and toughened exterior, I am raw nerves and bare emotions. It is good. It is better. But it is a mess. It is a step, a phase, a season in the process. I can’t stop. Or turn back. I have to go forward. I have to believe there is peace on the other side of this. That there is rest. And a reprieve from the feelings. There are too many of them. The spectrum of emotions is devastatingly broad and overwhelming.
I’m adrift at sea. On an ocean that is taking me somewhere good, but the gale force of the storm that is propelling me along has been threatening to capsize me.
Be my anchor. Like Peter cried to You, “Save me! I’m sinking!”
I hang on by white-knuckled fingers. You will not let me fall.