The Way It Used To Be




Journal entry: January 17, 2017
How does my dark, lowly existence compare with the glassy glore of God's throne? Only by His glory and redemption and grace can I even dare approach Him. I am so in love with His grace. He sees me as I am because He created me. He knows my innermost parts and thoughts. His love is rich. I am rich by owning the salvation He gave me. I have no crown or honor here, but I am crafting my crown of Life here on Earth. A heavenly crown worth more than any wealth or asset here. This soil is worthless. I kiss the feet of Jesus. 
Journal entry: June 8, 2017
It feels like nearly 100% of the time my mind is telling me lies or exaggerated truths that I can't rationally break down into reality. I'm always (exaggeration) falling back into ruts that end up hurting others and myself. I struggle with my self-worth nearly every day. I know I need to focus on God when my mind and heart and soul get so overwhelmed as they do. But I don't. I continually rely on flesh, blood, and bone. And they always (exaggeration) let me down. If I relied more on the Spirit and Eternal Love and infinite wisdom of God, I know I wouldn't get so heartbroken. What even are human promises but flimsy words almost always forgotten or broken? My heart always feels battered and bruised. If not broken. It's a gossamer skeleton that crumbles beneath the weight of a single anxiety. One small sad thought can break me. 
Present day: October 17, 2018
This is the way it used to be. Before discouragement and the radio silence set in. Before prayers completely ceased, hope was dashed, and all connection cut off. 
This is the way it used to be. Before church attendance felt empty: before I felt like a complete shell sitting in the pew. Before I felt like I am not for God, and more dangerously, that He is not for me. 
This is the way it used to be.
I slog through my hours in pain, a feeble ribcage surrounding the beating corpse of my heart, cold and empty of all potential light.
I cannot give myself grace. I cannot feed myself hope. I am consistently lost, tracing circles around my own head, weeping tears that only cultivate the garden of fears in my mind. 
Living daily with a mental illness is excruciating. No amount of pill-popping and talk therapy and journal writing eases the pain to a comfortable level. 
It is only laughter. It is only love. It is only wrapping my arms around those I adore that brings that hellish static to a dim roar. 
I know it should be only God.
From Whom laughter, joy, love, peace, patience, and pure healing flow from. 
I wish to once again find that lifeline in my soul. 
I embark on the quest once again, a constant voyage in the Christian life, of finding Him again. 
I know He has never lost me, but I have lost Him.
By my own choices. By my own hand. 
By my own hopelessness. By my own hatred. 
By my own sinful, decaying flesh have I cut Him off. Closed my ears. Blinded my eyes. 

This is the way it used to be. 
Ignite it once again. 
Find myself loving me again. At all.
If I cannot accept myself, I cannot accept His salvation. 
I cannot find any worthiness in my life. I curse Him for letting me be born. 
But if I can find some inkling of worth in my existence, it is only through Him, and those who He has graced me with, encircled me with. 
I press on. 

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