There are days when recovery is...well, not easy, but easier. There are days when I am happy and carefree and secure, when I am able to put the past behind me and drown out the voices in my head with His truth
But other days?
Other days, my brain seems stuck on a loop, incessantly asking what good is recovery!? what use is it, if I'll always to some degree want this? And even if I do manage to get free, who would ever want me with my past?
And I know He mends with gold. I know that in His hands, the brokenness is beautiful, but sometimes I feel only broken and not beautiful at all.
Like, will I ever be free? Truly free? Does it matter if I cave if I'll always struggle with this?
Depression screams hopelessness at me. The devil whispers condemnation in one ear, and shame in the other. And I want nothing more than to find a small sharp blade and watch as the blood runs red. Or overdose myself into oblivion. Or run back to everything I'm ashamed of in a futile effort to hide the pain.
And I know, I know that that will accomplish nothing, save drag me yet further into everything I must escape from. But there are still nights where the pull to darkness is oh so strong, and I grow weary of pressing on when all around me seems hopeless.
Tonight is one of those nights.
The sort of night where I climb out onto the roof, curl up, and sob my sorrows to the stars because they are too great for me to hold, and in the stillness of the aftermath, when I am shaken with weeping and drained to the core, the demons taunt and jeer, throwing my failures in my face and pulling me right back down again.
But I've learned that, it isn't what I do when life is sunshiney and cheerful that counts half so much as what I do the nights during which I cannot drag my weary soul anymore through this worn and tattered life.
So, tonight, like so many nights before it, and, probably, for many more nights after it, I shall crawl into bed, plug in my headphones, turn up the music, and let it carry me away.
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