I am not ashamed to admit it, his love saved me. I was drowning, falling apart and unraveling every day. No longer just a daily dose of low mood, depression and anxiety had me by the throat and were pushing me under water.
He reached in and pulled me up and out.
Even now, almost 10 years later, my mind can become a fun house at a cheap carnival, where the rides are ill-kept. I am surrounded by distorted mirrors that reflect my ugliness and unworthiness, self hatred swallowing me whole.
The pain in my head, the swirling thoughts, the panic and hysteria I feel are so bad that my body can’t be still. I am a child again, alone with no comfort, shame and terror seize me. I am scared of dying but I want to die, scared of being left but I want to leave and I am scared of being hurt, but I want to hurt. Sobs wreck my face and heart, tears spill onto the floor and I feel completely out of control.
Some part of me whispers, “You are just like her”, “Get your shit together”. This part doesn’t say “Child, you are scared and suffering. You don’t see that they can’t hurt you anymore”.
And I can’t see because the pain is like sheets of rain, so thick and loud that I can only wonder when and if it will stop.
My eyes search wildly for an exit to this madness, but there is no exit and instead I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look ridiculous and wonder why I have to be so dramatic. Once again, it’s not compassion that drags me across the bathroom floor onto the hardwood of responsibility, it is shame and fear of what this meltdown means I am becoming. Just once, couldn’t compassion pick me up, wrap itself around me and love me through this suffering?
And then he does.