The fear and the peace

I always do this. I wait forever to blog until I finally sit down in front of an empty screen with too much to say.

It’s been intense. Maybe. A little bit.

I’ve tried to rip a towel in half at four a.m. one morning and I’ve had silent screams in the shower. (Why are those both bathroom related?)

See? There is too much to say. I’ll just say what I can say tonight and let the rest hold on until next time. And I shouldn’t wait so long next time.

I’ve never lived with my emotions so close to the surface. I think that’s what insomnia does. On three hours of sleep I watched a man walk slowly and painfully with a walker and wept over him as if he were my grandfather.

When the anxiety joined the insomnia party, I started feeling the pain that so many people are tormented in a chronic way and not an acute way. At least mine was new and would likely end.

I want to (but I won’t) tell you about every dark night and how I’ve never felt so fragile or desperate—arms lifted out of a soapy warm bath begging to touch the hem of His garment. To heal me. Didn’t He see His daughter? Didn’t He hear me?

Yes, He did– He does. Even though I’m on two medications now and the fear of night creeps into a tiny part of my brain even still, I know He didn’t spare His own Son and I know He knows me by name and says “Brittany, Brittany I’m with you.”

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