Depression does not define me, but it will always be intertwined in my story.
Excruciating feelings and places of trauma I thought would kill me have not. I can be resilient, even when I’m convinced otherwise.
I long to know my feelings are of consequence, and yet, I don’t treat them as if they are.
A safe place breathes a freedom that is addicting. The desire for it is unquenchable.
Hope can be carried for another. Hope was held tightly for me, and I am overwhelmed with that gift.
I need people, desperately.
Help well-intended has suffocated. The Holy Spirit in me can be trusted.
Without knowing it and despite feeling otherwise, my voice was silenced. I feel the effort of climbing the mountain to free it again.
My crazy is not beyond the reach of grace.
God does see me. Just because He tarries to speak comfort does not mean He is not deeply moved by my grief.
There are times when tears can feel so, so good.
And sometimes, I have to open my eyes and realize I’m ok.