Just when I think I’m going to be okay, the Pain materializes, reeling me backwards.  He grips me by the waist and drags me back, viciously ripping through the cavern between my lungs.   I attempt to remain calm, strong, and steady, but the horror engulfs my helpless body, robbing my mind of the ability to fight;  so I let Pain do what he must until I’m numb and lifeless.  Sometimes there are tears, more often it’s a silent defeat.  The ambush renders me vulnerable and knocked down: my fears and my weakness keep me pinned to the floor.  He hijacks me of all breath, and I halt:  If I process enough now, maybe he won’t attack me for a little while longer.  If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll learn how to get up again.  With new crevices carved into the cavern between my lungs, I’m weak, I’m alone, and it it’s dark.  Oh so very dark.

I’m weary.  My eyes year to rest and the gloom tempts me to surrender.  Alone, this Pain attacked me.  Pain contends to conquer as tears swallow my widening pupils, and, for a moment, he does win.

He comes haphazardly, begging for me to release him—Pain reminds me to feel.  He reminds me to heal.  He reminds me to rest.  He humiliates me.

When I’m hapless in his grasp and I think that all is lost, Pain flees.  My pupils dilate to a soothing light—the Father.  As suddenly as Pain assaulted, Christ enters, picking me up and tenderly drawing me into him.  He pierces through my shame, in my sorrow, and amidst my pain and becomes my strength.  While I am oh so weak, he carries my burden in exchange for his own.  He liberates me from my despair, calming all my fears, and restores me in his presence and with his community.  He reminds me of his faithfulness amidst a world prone to abandonment.

While I lie bruised and bleeding, he cleanses me of the wounds and addresses each trauma as it arises, assault after assault, revealing the the stripes he paid for my ransom.

I crumble before him, grateful, humble, and in awe of this loving Father.  He dresses my wounds and sends me back to my safe community—his church, his nurses—who see my lacerations and come along my side to help me heal.

No, they weren’t assaulted by Pain this time, but their pasts preserve the stories of their own scars.  This time, they’re stronger and they’re waiting to help change my wounds.  They don’t have my PTSD, they don’t live with my the memories, and they don’t know my horrors, but they see the manifestations of my fresh injuies.

With God guiding us all, they come along my side and teach me how to walk again.  I’m nimble and uncoordinated, requiring tenderness and patience.  I’m more sensitive than before.  I’m afraid, but I don’t want to be paralyzed forever, so I continue learning to walk by pressing into God and into his church.

I’m a survivor.  I survived the initial assault.  I live in the aftershock.  The horror has ceased, but its affects linger on.

— — —

I am healing—slowly, messily, gracefully, and dutifully—healing.

The days fluctuate: some are easier than others, some I cannot seem to concentrate and conceal the tears.  Others follow the pattern detailed above; sometimes the emotions surprise me and I feel like I should be “over it” by now, holding myself to a nearly impossible standard that, in turn, prompts me to feel failure, inadequacy, and guilt.  Grief is love that has lost its object of affection, and one cannot simply terminate one’s love, even if that love has been stripped from him or her.

So, I take “one step forward, and five steps behind,” and my healing progresses.

In the first three months after Patrick died, absolutely nothing made sense anymore.  All of my hopes and dreams and understandings collapsed within those months, and I was terribly afraid to live and to breathe and to know and to be known by others.  I was angry with God and angry with myself.  Disillusioned and then disappointed, I thwarted any intrusive thoughts of hope and of goodness.  Life couldn’t be good, I thought.  But, realistically, I was [am?] afraid to hope that life could be good again.  My hopes had been so violently stolen from me that I dreaded the thought of hoping again.  How can one continue to hope when someone else continuously takes everything she’s hoped for?  No, I won’t reduce myself to hoping again, I bitterly resolved.

Hope is a terrifying thing.  While alive, she helps us receive joy and cherish moments of mundanity, but if she perishes, we’re left behind with the trauma and disappointment of “hope deferred” (Proverbs 13:12).

 Nothing made sense anymore, and I did not want to make sense of anything my family and I were left behind with.  I harbored so much pain that I became too terrified to face it alone.  Most people I live near hardly knew Patrick—I cannot emphasize how isolated that can make one feel—and yet those nearest to me continue to graciously love, support, and encourage me despite my inability to pour myself out at this time.  God’s kindness and mercy broke through my “shelter” of self-preservation and He’s teaching me how to breathe in this new rhythm of life.

Perhaps we search for depth in others because it helps us process the depth of ourselves; we need one another and speaking helps more than I can explain.  At first, I was so afraid to voice my pain.  I was afraid that those around me would not be able to “handle” the truth of where my heart resides and would invalidate my feelings and my questionings, but, nonetheless, those in my life persisted to investigate my heart despite my protests.  God has opened my eyes and continuously opens them to see his mercy, and my dear friends continuously pursue me to show me how much they care about me. 

In this season, I don’t have much to give.  I’m overflowing with questions and slowly coming to a new understanding of life itself.  I am inquisitive and I am learning. 

I have to remind myself that the worst has already passed, and now I can enjoy a season of disciplined healing: one cannot heal if he or she lacks the willingness to do so.  Every day is new, every moment is precious. I see and feel new growth and new life all around me as I rest in God and I pursue healing in the shelter of his love.  God has been so kind to remove my fears and to reveal new truths to me. 

I am hurting, and this will always hurt, but I am happy and I am abiding in peace.