Less than an hour ago I sat on my roommates ultra comfy bed and poured out my heart, half in tears, repeating the sentence "You know what I mean?" about a dozen times. We were both playing around with our cat throughout the conversation and at one point the cat scratched the back of my fore arm in one of those appears-more-as-time-goes-on ways. It is now pulsating and stinging just ever so often. Most people don't know that I hate scratches and cuts on my arm. It's just too real. I guess that's mainly because most people don't know how close I became to becoming a cutter. I say this for no emotional effect, its just a fact. Before I could truly say I knew God as my resting place, I needed a release. I needed SOMETHING to attach myself to when I seemed so out of control. I hit my one and only rough patch my Junior year of college. I now jokingly, and mainly seriously, refer to it as my "two weeks of hell". I was so out of it those weeks, I cried to anyone who would listen, I didn't understand the fog I was in, but I KNEW I was in it. I'll never forget the moment I convinced myself to walk down two flights of stairs to then unlock the Resident Assistant office, to then search through the desk for the sharpest pair of scissors. Its like I was thinking so precisely and yet not thinking at all, all at the same time. Thankfully, I never brought myself to the act. I instead ran for my Bible, held it to my chest and balled like a baby. Never opened it, didn't even pray out loud. Just laid in bed and cried. All to the Glory of my God I've never felt that type of darkness since.
As Carey and I sat on her bed today we both shared stories of grief and happiness. We've both heard so much and we FEEL SO much. The only words I could muster up to explain it was if somber was a physical state of being I have been it this week. Every night I have cried about something. Not a pity party, not depression, a genuine compassion for the pain in this world. It's like the ever gentle stinging from this scratch on my arm, if I wanted to, I could ignore it and forget about it, but if I close my eyes and take a breath-- I feel it and it doesn't overwhelm me, it just awakes me to the ache of pain.
So many stories swirl through my mind of broken hearts, lost lives, and utter darkness. My chest feels as if a small child is resting upon it day by day. The extra weight does not make me any less capable of living my life but it more so drives me to love always and more well. At certain points it takes my breath away completely but my God is faithful and He is strong, He uplifts me, He alone keeps me standing. (Psalm 18&91)
Carey jokes at how crazy we must seem. Two girls crying on her bed, surrounded by a beautiful apartment that inhabits useless items we simply enjoy so we bought them without second guessing, and an orange cat who sadly probably receives more love and nourishment than God knows how many children in this world. I wouldn't say we are heartbroken, but we are broken, we are undone before our God who knows of everyone's pain and joys (Isaiah 55:9)
We have no answers, we barely understand this concept of life and how it balances beauty and tragedy so angelically. We just know that there are points where the only release we know is to sit on our beds and cry, for the mere act of releasing some genuine compassion into the atmosphere that we pray impacts someone, somewhere who needs it.