Crying out to be heard. My mind, body, and soul are acking, sick. I cry out to God, asking when will this pain end, when will true happiness ever begin. The darkness creeps in, stiffling everything in sight. Rising above the crashing waves is futile. I will only be pushed back down, down into the cold dark sea. I’m going under.
The water is thick and swirling with the numb fog and it seeps into my being and turns me comatose. I claw and gasp for air. Land is up there, but it’s only more pain, and Death too stings.
Somewhere a battle for my soul wages between the Dark and the Light. My core can never turn to the Darkness, but Light isn’t strong enough to outshine the Dark. God doesn’t see me, He doesn’t care. He hasn’t heard my plea in 18 years, He hasn’t given me hope that it will ever change.
I need a savior, someone to reach down, down into the murky waters. A warrior not afraid to carry me limply across the eerie swamp, fighting off the demons on the way. Years of battle have stripped me of strength, and I have none left.
Swirling in this Sea of Darkness, I catch glimpses of Land, the Land filled of Christian busyness, self-consumation, fake smiles, and one-day warriors. And I grow used to and prefer my comatose state, the bubble of numbness keeping me safe under the surface. But just as it keeps me safe, it’s acidic placenta eats at me, eats at every ounce of joy I once had, melting my skin, and the face in the reflection is a skeleton.
I don’t want the Dark to have me, but there is no escape. What was once pure and spotless has become almost one with the Dark. The Dark is more welcoming, more accepting. It doesn’t require perfection, it accepts me raw, bleeding, and in turmoil as I am. And it is too late, too late for anything more.