the house on a rock

 I don't believe I ever intended for this thing to be public or a resource. I just know that for six months I've written so I wouldn't forget. I wrote because I needed to. The words were many and the feelings even moreso. I 've ebbed and flowed in grief and joy. In freedom and bondage. It has been maddening and beautiful. Excellent and excruciating. Something I can't believe I've been blessed enough to live and driven me to the point of wanting to take my own life. I've thrived and been suicidal. Heavily so.  Today the depression is back as it was a month ago. Yesterday, too. It's been heavy. Almost unbearably so. I'd like to think I'd never go through with it. I think my sound judgement will win each time but it's scary to think of those times when I genuinely just do not care anymore. I don't want to die; I just don't want to feel this way anymore. The feelings always fade. Replaced by laughter or reminders that this, too, shall pas...

 I have sat on this for so long-wrestling with what I hope to be true and what actually is. It's really the best thing. I'm broken and guarded. Afraid and equally not. I just love you. I just freaking do. This blog started as love letters to Jesus and my fear is that they're turning into love letters to you. That I'm replacing Christ with you and holding you to a standard you've should never be. I'm so afraid I'm going to love you too much and for not long enough. That I'll be in this constant state of healing and reflection that I'll never be well enough to commit to anything besides friendly. But in my heart I am safe and I am so, so known. I am deeply and intimately loved. Cherished and adored. It's likely the most tangible example of love I've known and I thank God for a chance to feel that. To feel even a fraction of the love He has for me through you.  You make me a priority. You consider my feelings and show interest in who I am and wh...

I’m the one who does everything for everyone all the time. The one who sees needs before the person even realizes they need them. The one who does the thing, buys the thing, does the task so you don’t have to, and on and on and on. I’m the one who works, begging to be seen. The one who is too much and not enough all at the same time. The one who has tried for a decade to wrap her head around why, despite all the doing-being wasn’t enough. The frustration at that is minimal. The sadness is extreme. And though I’ve taken steps to get out every day for 3650 days, I’m at the door and can’t fathom what’s to come. But I’ll be able to breathe. Everything gets muddled when you can’t breathe. You can’t see or perform. Over time your ability to do things for anyone-including yourself- gets lost in the shuffle. Breathing is essential to life and, believe me when I say, I’ve been dead for a long time. So long that I'm coming out on the other side an entirely different person who’s still figuri...