Broken Birdsong

This is my stone. This is the stone I am erecting as a memorial. Years later, I will return to this place --maybe you will, too-- And I will remember. I will remember the feel of my not-yet-calloused fingers pressing keys to form these words. I will remember my tears of inadequacy and defeat. I'll remember the pain. Time will tell what perspective I will have when I come back. I hope I'll be looking down from the mountain that I now squint up at. ... So here's the thing. Here's the truth. Lyme disease. It has made my hands trembling, twitching, weak shadows of things. At least I think so. I actually cannot promise myself that these hands will work again if and when I get better. Some days I think they're ruined for good. Most days. These hands have caused me to give up even the smallest of dreams. They stopped me short of conceiving the tiniest of notions of big dreams. I wouldn't even let myself think about such things.

4:36 a.m. I shouldn't be awake. I don't want to be awake. I am very much Awake. Not to say that I am having coherent thought processes. No, ma'am. I stopped having those before I even got to midnight. I unthinkingly ate something I shouldn't have. That didn't turn out so well for me. I spent the day hanging out with a varying crowd of people I'm not sure really like me. I tend to think that of a lot of people. When you know yourself very well, you wonder why people stick around. I mean, really, is the fact that I cry at literally anything and everything that appealing to you? To add to my problem, before I gave up on the whole 'sleeping' notion, I took my not-so-happy medication. How it makes me feel is implied in my term of endearment for it. Mucho pain.  Mucho mucho. I take it before bed for a reason: trying to sleep through some of the worst. Bang goes that theory. 2 a.m. found me sobbing. Thinking sad thoughts. Writing an email, and then only

In this moment, I am keenly aware of my own weakness. Most of my body is pulsating with pain. Sleep hasn't sounded so good in a long time. I join in earth's labor pains for Christ's return; for heaven and restoration. Arms to hold me. I long to be emptied of something. All of me trembles, and I wonder as to what I could release that would bring relief. It's one of those odd moments when I actually want to throw up; to dispose of whatever's inside me. Or maybe just cry. Long, wailing, freeing sobs. This longing has reached other parts of me also. Spending many a moment in a huddled mass of pain somehow makes you familiar with what's inside you; your true, unfiltered nature. I don't like what I see. I want to expel myself from my body, abandoning pride, self-reliance, selfish ambition, my so-called rights, my plans, my preferences, greed, rebellious nature, judgments, fears ... everything must be surrendered to Him, because I am unable to trust myself. I nee

I've never felt so inclined to write. This kind of writing. The pour-out-my-heart and crikey-people-actually-read-this writing. My soul has been deeply soaked in the love of my Lord, and I am sopping wet, just waiting to drench someone else. I hadn't expected to feel like this today. I'd planned to be a weepy mess while I have a few hours to myself, and to then function when I have to function. That was my plan. That's usually my plan. Get all the emotions and gunk out while no one's watching, and then suck it up and do your job. It started last night. I was home alone, and though my heart was hurting, I thought I was doing okay. I just needed to recharge, that was all. And what an opportunity. I baked Paleo sunbutter bars (um, delicious) while watching Annie and belting out the songs at the top of my lungs. And then a text came in. I never finished Annie. She asked for prayer. I had silently prayed some while Annie sang, "Tomorrow, tomorrow." We move