With Fear and Trembling


 

I don’t know what it is that makes me so susceptible to mood changes.  I rarely keep the same one for more than half an hour or so, it seems.  My energy levels constantly shift, and with them, my moods.  It’s like there are these constant shifts–feeling good without a care in the world, feeling good but not energetic, feeling tired but mostly okay, feeling like I have the energy to do something but I’m stuck in a vat of glue…  It’s hard to maintain a positive outlook when all of a sudden you turn morbid, morose, miserable.  

I am quite confident that the weather has much to do with my mood–I chose a school in the South for a reason, and it wasn’t the friendly atmosphere.  I need sunlight to survive–emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually.  Back home, it’s been very grey.  I got home at 1:30 AM Wednesday, and it seems to be grey and rainy ever since.  There were a few peeks of sunlight through the clouds here and there, but the temperature has been stuck below 60.  I can feel my summer crises latching on earlier than normal this year, maybe because I know from the outset that it’s going to be a hard one.

I have a doctor’s appointment on Monday.  Judgment day, I call it.  I don’t know if I want to know how bad things really are, but I know that if I don’t find out, I’ll never be able to fix it.  I watched my favorite TV show tonight, but without my usual company.  I wanted to continue the tradition of snacking and screaming at the screen, as best I could.  I caught myself mid-binge, though.  Told myself to stop.  Ate a candy bar and grabbed some soda before I finally quit.  The past few days, I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m fine, that I don’t need help, that I can just do it on my own.  No serious intervention required, right?  Wrong.  

I try not to think about it, but I know the truth.  I know that I am so lost, here.  I look at myself, and I just feel so sad.  I have a body, and the means to take care of it, and somehow…I can’t bring myself to care enough.  I love who I am.  I love being me, with all the quirks and oddities.  But why is it so hard to love my physical self?  Why is it so hard to take care of myself?  If I am so positive about the good that comes from the scars, such a firm believer in becoming who I am as God’s beloved, why can’t I seem to do well with what I have been given?  

Stories are lived out in bodies, in people with skin and scars and bone.  My part of the story will end if I do not take the right steps to give myself a chance at all the pages in my book.  I can’t say when I will die, but I can say this:  I would hate to have chosen a path that would lead to fewer chapters for God to work with.  He’s not limited by me, but I do have free will.  My choices will have consequences–and I will find out just how heavy those consequences will be on Monday.  I’m scared, friends–not because I don’t want to do the hard work to get better, but because I want so much to live for God and yet can’t seem to quit all of the things that will surely shorten my days. A cut too deep, a pill too many, a drive too fast, a binge too big…  

I desperately wish these would be removed so I can just get straight to Christ, without all my shit in between.  But I’ve learned that He is here in the dark spaces.  How do I know?  Because I haven’t given up yet.  A year ago–even a few months ago–I would have refused to search for any good in this.  I would have refused to take My Father’s hand and trust that He will lead as He sees fit.  I know He is near, He is with me, because I still have the desire to be close to Him and live for Him.  I don’t fear that God will forsake me, but that my faith will crumble and I might turn my back on Him.  But He is faithful, and all He demands of us is fulfilled in Christ’s work.  So even if there is all of my shit between us, even if I do feel like I’m falling away into an oblivion of escapes and addictions, Christ has redeemed me and is redeeming my life.  My choices, my struggles, my addictions, my scars–it is all part of me becoming an instrument for His glory.  And I’m okay with that.  I still have cold feet about treatment.  I’m still terrified of going to the doctor on Monday.  But I’m not backing out of it.  I can’t.  

God has kept me, kept my will to live, to love.  He has kept my desire to encourage others.  He has kept my dreams of showing people that the struggles we face in this life are worth it, that they have their own story that begins and ends with God’s love, and that in between they get to see it and share it in new ways.  God has given me the desires of my heart—for I have long desired to want to have a heart for others, a passion for him, a love that overwhelmed me.  And God not only has given me these desires but has fulfilled them in allowing me to experience so much pain, in opening my eyes to the way people suffer around me and around the world, and teaching me His faithfulness, His promises, His truth that I can hold anchor to and offer to others as well.  A lot of people have said they are proud of me for asking for help, that I’m brave to seek treatment for an eating disorder.  Honestly…I’m humbled that God would see fit to use me at all.  

 

In Faith,

The Scribbler

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About thefreescribbler

My life is one of words. I am a scribbler, whose thoughts are best expressed through adjectives and phrases and punctuation marks. I would not go so far as to call myself a writer, although many would disagree. I’m characterized more by my unfinished works and half-embodied ideas, scraps of stories and parts of poems. Maybe one day I’ll be a writer, but I’m okay with being a scribbler right now. It fits my personality and style, and best expresses my aims. I’m not trying to create some lofty version of literature. I’m just a kid blogging about life. View all posts by thefreescribbler

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