I am tired.
I don’t mean the haven’t-slept-enough, over-active, too-little-coffee kind of tired. I mean the bone-weary, worn-soul and beaten-heart kind. The kind that keeps you nailed to the ground and muffled as if wrapped in layers of cotton. Anything that comes in contact with you makes little impact if any, just pinging off and away as you watch in apathy. The kind that leaves you with no energy to move and no motivation to try. The depression kind.
I am so tired.
And I can’t overcome it.
Forgive me as I try to clumsily word the things I’ve never permitted out loud.
There’s something about this season of life that constantly seems to leave me feeling stranded in a vise-like grip. Everything is tight: money, time, energy, willpower. It wears you down with no elegance. Not the nicked and smooth hardwood floors, gleaming with age and love, but a dirty, frayed and matted carpet that’s sat in the rain and mud and baked in the sun. I wish it wasn’t so amusing, the self-identification with an over-bested, threadbare rug, because it hurts to smile these days.
I’m grappling with a season of life defined by refinement, and it feels less golden than it does galling. I’m trying to wrestle with an overwhelming disappointment in God as I feel continually abandoned and beaten down by the odds and life, wondering where is the cup that runs over with anything but pain? Where is the embrace that doesn’t suffocate? Where is the relief, the peace?
I don’t know how to address this in a way that gives glory. It’s as if after all of these days in the wilderness I’ve arrived to find an empty Promised Land. How do you continue to proclaim Christ when you feel abandoned by Him? The Father, the Brother, the Friend; the Prince of Peace, the Lover of Our Souls. All of these names have felt empty lately as I cry out and receive no answer.
I think often of the passage in Hebrews on hope and faith.
Things not seen.
What does the believing soul do when these steps seemed to have failed? I know depression well enough to realise it deals unfairly in pessimism and lies, each card the colour of cynicism and disappointment. But how to have hope when there is barely enough energy to breathe? How to help meet the needs of others when yours are so incomplete? How to think on eternity without considering the means to reach it sooner?
I ask for prayer a lot these days, and I long to explain in ordered words and lists the reasons why, but how can I when I don’t even know myself? There is no way to quickly sum up the stumbling blocks of life that have landed me here, there’s no way to organise and quantify the pain. It’s certainly not my first time here, but it’s absolutely my first for allowing myself to acknowledge it and attempt transparency. I cannot pretend to offer a shiny end of brightly trimmed ribbons to what I have to say here. I know the True Things: I know that God works in the silence and moves in the pain. I know that brokenness always precedes the blessing. I know that nothing is wasted, and that even the heaviest crosses are meant to be borne.
But I still feel the empty corridors echoing in my chest, the brokenness still hurts, and I still have eyes deceived by the desert’s trickery of mirage and beating light. I have learned the word for brokenness in more languages than I can count, most especially that of my own heart.
I have seen glimpses of that far-off place of light and life. I have known its taste, I have felt its joy. But as these memories seem insufficient to carry me forward I would humbly ask for the prayers and encouragement of those who have been here before and seen the proven hand of God draw them out of their many waters, that I may at least be reminded that I will not drown in mine.