Weak & Wounded

Did you know you can die of grief and stress? A troubled mind causes heart-attack-like symptoms; they call it Broken Heart Syndrome–dying of a broken heart. Usually the syndrome occurs in older women, but I wonder if whether or not it happens is linked to mental strength as well as physical? Right now I’m the weakest I’ve ever been. The nightmare my life has been since October nineteenth has to do with much more than just my friend’s choice. Every time I’m halfway coping another trouble wounds me deeply. They come from out of nowhere. The people around me try to help, but they cannot live my life for me.  I’m not the only one with physical pain due to heart wrenching emotion. We are all more than a little messed up right now.

I wish I could go back and wake up that Sunday morning and listen to the gut instincts I had all day. The Holy Spirit can be ignored; I may have been guilty of that. I felt I  should not let our mutual friend come to youth group with me, but rather stay with him. I thought I should have followed him into the woods–because isn’t that what we all want, to be followed by dogged love? I had the urge to randomly stop by the house on the way home. I knew I should have checked my facebook sooner when I felt the nudge instead of putting it off and telling myself to stop being addicted to social media… I know, I can’t live in the past. I go to work and act like I’m ok every day. If I act like it I feel like it more or less eventually, but then reality brings me back down.

The last thing I want is to go to another funeral thanks to suicide. I hate depression like some people hate cancer, because it steals the ones I love, if not physically then mentally. But reality is if I keep loving the people long enough eventually I’ll find myself at another mourning ceremony courtesy of depression. They lean on me. I do my best to keep them alive, for both their sake and mine. But the balance between trust and betrayal is terrible. I’ll break trust so they can continue living, despite the fact that their lives feel like wretched, pointless torture. And then they’ll hate me. Last time breaking trust only made it worse.

I am worn, and I am tired, and I am empty. I can’t sleep tonight. My hair is falling out. My immune system is suffering. Mental stress is catching up to my body, but life does not relent. There is no time out, there is not pause button, there is no relief. Don’t pity me. I’m not saying this here for pity. Rather, I’m typing it out because it is a part of my journey, plus, since these words started circling in my head an hour or so ago they would not cease. If I fought them long enough they would have been gone by morning. They were being stubborn, and I didn’t want to lose them–that is how writing works for me. Maybe now that the words are all typed out I can slip into the gentle oblivion of sleep. We’ll see.

Categories: Journey Prologues., My Life, Ponderings | Tags: , , , , , , | 9 Comments

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9 thoughts on “Weak & Wounded

  1. littleannab

    Reblogged this on Little Anna B (Anna Bianca) .

  2. Destinee

    You could not have described what I’m feeling much better. It’s so good to know that I’m not the only one. It hurts to love people. It hurts to be involved in the lives of others. It hurts to care about them so deeply. It hurts, not always knowing how to help them or if I can even help. But it’s my calling, and so I must continue. Some days I feel like I cannot go on, but somehow I do anyway. God will be my strength.

  3. I was going to do a double comment, one on the previous post and one for this one. But other duties call for the moment so my own thoughts must wait. Until I can return, here is a few threads I’ve shamelessly stolen from around the internet which make speak a gentle word to you:

    A Song for Simeon, by T.S. Eliot

    Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and
    The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;
    The stubborn season has made stand.
    My life is light, waiting for the death wind,
    Like a feather on the back of my hand.
    Dust in sunlight and memory in corners
    Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.

    Grant us thy peace.
    I have walked many years in this city,
    Kept faith and fast, provided for the poor,
    Have given and taken honour and ease.
    There went never any rejected from my door.
    Who shall remember my house, where shall live my children’s children
    When the time of sorrow is come?
    They will take to the goat’s path, and the fox’s home,
    Fleeing from foreign faces and the foreign swords.

    Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
    Grant us thy peace.
    Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
    Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
    Now at this birth season of decease,
    Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
    Grant Israel’s consolation
    To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.

    According to thy word.
    They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation
    With glory and derision,
    Light upon light, mounting the saints’ stair.
    Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstasy of thought and prayer,
    Not for me the ultimate vision.
    Grant me thy peace.
    (And a sword shall pierce thy heart,
    Thine also).
    I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
    I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
    Let thy servant depart,
    Having seen thy salvation.


    O Lord, the Scripture says,
    ‘There is a time for silence,
    and a time for speech.’
    Saviour, teach me
    the silence of humility,
    the silence of wisdom,
    the silence of love,
    the silence of perfection,
    the silence that speaks without words,
    the silence of faith.
    Lord, teach me to silence my own heart
    that I may listen to the gentle movement
    of the Holy Spirit within me
    and sense the depths which are of God.

    Frankfurt prayer, sixteenth century


    Finally, the words of someone I personally know.


    It is the berries under snow
    the windows etched with ice
    the smoke suspended, frozen, in air
    the exhaust exiting the tailpipe
    the steps slick as foot treads
    the brown tree body creaking
    the equation in the stars,
    it is the sheen of snow under lamplight,
    the shadow of branches under moonlight,
    the crease of pages under candlelight
    all in the hand
    that gives and takes away,
    all beneath the finger
    that marks out the voids and the fillings,
    the additions and subtractions,
    the arithmetic of grace.


    • These are beautiful, Rundy, thank you. There is something about the poetry, weather biblical or “annointed” as the grandmother figure at my work likes to say. There is something that makes it just altogether more than prose, despite the fact that in reality it is altogether less.

  4. Oh man, I can’t imagine. No words.

    Wish I had some kind of answers, but right there with you slogging through the depression and pain and life crap and nothing has resolved. Thank you for your words and for being so raw and open. I hope some kind of peace finds you soon, soon, soon.

    big hugs to you ❤

    • Thank you. I hope you find peace as well. Though sometimes I think I will not come to it until the other life, until Beulah Land. But perhaps I am wrong. I suppose I’ll see.

  5. Karen

    I am praying for you. as you journey through the mourning period after the tragic death of your friend. In addition to my prayers I’d like to offer one suggestion that may give you a bit of peace.

    Imagine you are talking with another person who loved your friend, and this person is blaming his or herself for not preventing your friend’s death. The person feels he or she should have convinced your friend to see a counselor, or should have been there at the exact time when he or she could have stopped your friend’s fatal decision.

    Would you agree with this other person, and say he or she is responsible? Or would you say: “It’s not your fault, you were a good friend, and did what you could to help.”?

    If you would have mercy on another guilt-ridden person, it may help you to reach the stage in your mourning journey when you’ll be able to have a little mercy on yourself.

    Take care of yourself, my friend.

  6. Thanks Karen,

    Yes, I’ve offered those words to many feeling guilt, although my closest friends I indulge and we share the guilt together. It’s hardest to offer mercy and grace to yourself. It’s easy for me to lead others to peace, many told me I’ve done that for them, but it’s not so easy to find that peace for myself. Just the way life works, I guess.

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