Yesterday morning, before church, I told God that I was giving up the fight. That the sickness that has had a grip on my body for so many months might as well take over. I was done trying to get better; I didn't feel like pushing for healing anymore. I was at that point where allowing the physical to consume all and destroy me was almost welcoming. I just didn't want to keep going anymore.
But I went to church because I had committed to doing the slides for the service. I could probably have begged off, since I had just been at the doctor's office Friday afternoon and was diagnosed with a sinus and ear infection yet again. It would have probably been easier to just play the I'm too sick to come in card. But I went, and it was like the sermon was aimed over the crowd straight into the tech booth and pointed directly at me. (Wheatland Salem Church - Jen Wilson) It was about the point in David's life where he has just lost his child and he gives up, knowing that the people are looking at Absalom to become the next king.
I feel like I've lost so much to this crazy series of illnesses. I've lost the energy I had to do things I love doing. I've lost out on so many friendships because I don't feel up to making or taking phone calls. I'm missing out on enjoying my nieces and nephews because my immune system can't handle being exposed to normal childhood illnesses. I'm missing work and church and small groups and a hundred other things, because my body just can't keep up.
Yet, somehow, I've pushed myself to this point. The breaking point where I've done all I can do and my body has chosen to say no more. Because I wasn't willing to face the truth that I'm really this sick and need to take some downtime to recover. Because I don't like to sit still and rest. Because resting without input requires me to let my mind process life. And there are some life experiences that I just don't want to process.
I'm going to have to, though. Yesterday, it was pointed out to me by someone I trust very much that my mind isn't as dark of a place as I have always believed it was. That the experiences that led to my understanding my mind as a "darkened cave, black as the night" are really more like blue experiences. Sad ones that nobody should have to go through, but not black. Resting and taking time to process feels so vulnerable. Like I don't have the strength to face what comes next. Like I'm destroying myself and all who surround me with depression and ultimately destruction.
I know that I'm being trained for a position of incredible spiritual leadership. I don't want to lead though. I just want to be the good girl in the back pew on Sunday morning. Pitching in where a hand is needed, but not the one leading. I don't want the responsibility that comes with leading. Everyone else seems to see the leader that I am becoming. All I see is the growing sense of failure. From where I sit, it looks like all I'm good at anymore is letting everyone down.
When it comes to facing "home", that small town I grew up in, there are so many feelings. I miss staying with my dad's parents and my great grandma. Most of my grandparents are gone, either literally or mentally (Alzheimer's runs on both sides of my family - and some of those who I looked up to most as a kid and as a teenager don't even recognize me anymore.) It was where I first fell in "love." The first guy to really hurt me was from there. I had two miscarriages there (but didn't tell anyone except the father.) I miss my family, but some have hurt me in ways that they will never understand. I miss my friends that I had there. Those friends have moved on too. My first job was there - working in the back at McDonald's. I miss seeing Candy Cane Lane all lit up at Christmas, but it has been so many years that I don't even know if they still carry on that tradition. I've missed so many things, like my brother graduating from high school AND college. My sister's little girl barely recognizes me. I've been gone for so long that I don't know how to go back. I don't know if I can go back.
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