Sunday, 14 February 2010
Love thyself: Speaking truth to darkness
You’ve been here before.
The familiar weight, the heavy thing that’s bearing down. You don’t want to name it, give it a voice, speak it out for fear that this makes it real, animates it. You’re so sick of thinking about it, turning it over in your mind, battling it all the freaking day long, that the thought of speaking it aloud just makes you so tired. When will it stop? It is relentless, the constant thought like an addiction you can’t quit, and you don’t know how it got so powerful. You’re perfectly aware of what’s going on, though the root of it is still buried deep, but your body, your mind won’t quit until you’re worn down again, accepting defeat.
And so it begins to devour you from the inside.
You can feel the push, from God you suppose, to share it, to confide in the one who loves you best here, the one He’s given you just for this kind of thing. You know that allowing him to share your burden will lighten it, will give some relief.
You climb into bed and breathe in, out. You wonder if he can feel the weight of it pressing on your chest, you wonder if the swirling, brooding energy you bring into the room is as palpable, as real to him. You feel like you’re swimming in it. You lie in bed, side by side, and you take a breath to speak, then breathe it out in a sigh. That moment gone, you wait for the next wave. Eyes open in the dark, you can hear his breath becoming more steady, regular. You know it’s got to be now. With sudden urgency, you know you can’t carry it one more day.
In that moment, you decide to love yourself better. To look at yourself as a child, to view your struggle as your own parent. You know what’s best for you. The child fights it, but love wins.
And you open your mouth, speaking truth to darkness.