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Met my advisor at college today. A lot of the anxieties I had concerning all of the details — financial aid, classes, et cetera — got cleared up.
I attended college around four years ago, before I got the multiple sclerosis diagnosis. But I withdrew, because I couldn’t stay awake at work and I was falling asleep everywhere. I didn’t know what was wrong. Thankfully, I didn’t have any debt, and I withdrew before the deadline hit.
I shed tears for people that are disabled today. This world is so cruel and utterly mean. I will see posts of people who have disabilities — in a wheelchair, et cetera. Whether they believe or not, some of the kindest people. And all they want is a significant other. And whenever I see these posts, the innocence and purity in their eyes, and a genuine longing for a companion, makes me cry — not out of pity, but a deep grief, because I know that this world has been very mean to them.
I was able to speak at a special needs place called Wings a few years ago. I remember giving a sermon. It was very receptive. We talked about Matthew — the verse being how we have to build on the rock, and the rock is Christ; everything else is sinking sand. I remember one of the adults there, whenever I said that he died for you, she looked at me intently. And she said, “He died for you too.” And it struck me. For a few seconds, I was caught off guard, almost dazed by it, because I didn’t know what to say.
I will tell people all about the grace of God. But the delusion in my mind is that my case is special. I’m different. That’s a part of the schizoaffective disorder. Some of it could be spiritual pride. Hard to tell the difference. It could also be a comorbid combination — the way I doubt every day I’m alive. And I’m tired of it. I suppose God was speaking through her in those moments. The human heart is very deep.
And just about every waking hour, I am in spiritual torment, mentally and physically. And I’m surprised my mind hasn’t broken yet. My mind never shuts off, and it makes me so mad. One moment I’m thinking about sin, the next I’m manic, the next I want to die, the next I want to live, the next thinking about my career path, the next trying to fight for disability for the multiple sclerosis. Questions about the future, finances. Am I doing enough to help my family? Am I a burden? And it all makes me furious. Even putting these things down is starting to make me angry. So I suppose I’ll change the topic.
I don’t want to be anybody else. But I also don’t want to be me. I was talking to my therapist, and she said how, if I was anybody else, I wouldn’t be able to do what I do with the content. And she talked about the different things that I’m capable of, and my skills. I believe people. But I don’t believe me.
After I got done with the college meeting, I came home and I crashed. Sick and utterly tired. Played a couple of games of Apex to numb the pain, get some sort of dopamine in my system, the reward system, trying to build it up.
Sometimes people will call me, and I can’t answer the phone. Because all I’m seeing is red, and death — namely, the void, and the void stares back at me. To utter any sort of words, it’s like my tongue trying to lift a hundred-pound weight. And my soul sinks into despondency with every single word I say, because to me it feels so futile. And there’s no real answer for these things. That’s the scandalous truth about it. Mental health is a messy topic. It affects the godly and the ungodly. Unfortunately, I can’t tell which one I am. And to be frank, I don’t think I really care in the first place.
On my time on Earth, I do want to help those who are stricken with these types of feelings and thoughts. I know that they feel alone. Someone is on the brink of taking their life right now, I imagine, somewhere in the world, stricken with these thoughts. So the LPC path is my goal before me with college. I’m praying for endurance and strength in order to do so. I have to take full time in order for FAFSA to pay for it. I can’t afford to take out college loans. I barely make enough money anyways with the freelance editing I do. And I have not got approved for the disability yet. So I scrounge up what change I can. But God makes my needs be met.
With me turning 28, soberly thinking about the future — I truly believe this is my calling. Just like in Hunter x Hunter, whenever it talks about making a covenant bind, a restriction, I feel like I’ve done that to myself with enrolling for college. I give my worth over to what I’m capable of doing. I don’t see myself as a child of God, so I find purpose in what I can do. I mean these things from the bottom of my heart, mind, and soul.
I know that my mind would break under the weight of it. That’s how deeply I care about it. I don’t have this therapeutic self-guidance saying that it’s a healthy path. But then I ask myself, what’s healthy in the first place? This puts the bind on me, the restriction to lock in. So it’s not that I won’t drop out. It’s that I can’t. And it’s not that I’m not sure I’ll be able to obtain this goal — it’s that I will obtain it. I’ll get the degree, with the ability God provides me to do so, and strength mentally, physically, et cetera. And then I could be a private practitioner, helping people with religious trauma and OCD. Possibly children with autism, and teens and adults. Because I have had autism my whole life. I have connected with youth concerning autism, the familiarity — being able to detect it, whether they’re nonverbal or verbal. There’s a connection that has always been there.
These things give me hope, but they also make me sad. I see myself as the most gross creature in all of existence. As Job said, I will speak in the bitterness of my soul. I will not withhold from God, nor front any more. That’s why all the rage has been coming out. Because for six years I kept serving God, acting as if nothing was wrong with me and my relationship with God, when I was utterly furious with him. And I hated him. And in the moments whenever I’m crashing out, I feel those feelings return. Not hating him in a way that he’s evil, but me buckling under pressure — from the affliction and the pain of just wanting assurance, not wanting to be depressed. And every godforsaken day I’m awake, it feels like. And then I have joy for a moment, but it flees from me.
I’ll meet somebody. I think they’re the one. But then it’s all just rage bait, as if God is sending them just to screw with me once again. And then they end up leaving in the end. I don’t fit in enough to be in the world, and I don’t fit in enough to be in the church. I can’t blame people for leaving (not everyone I met has been treacherous) I’m extreme. I take my faith utterly serious, to the point where it crucifies my mind. I see things very black and white, and I hold myself to a high standard. Concerning relationships, I try and keep that standard. God knows.
I love very deeply. And whoever loves deeply, there’s also the risk of hating deeply. Somewhere in my heart, I know: if I were to get married and find out that my spouse cheated on me, I would be done immediately. I would forgive. But I would remove all of their things from the house, put them outside, packaged neatly — honoring what they once were, not what they’ve become. And then I would serve the papers. I have a genuine rage for people that commit infidelity. It makes me sick. People come up with the most futile, foolish excuses for it.
My marriage was not easy. I had moments at my job, having more discernment with my condition, of the torture and anguish I was in. A female coworker even asked me what’s wrong with me lately. I lied and said I was fine. Christ knows, I would rather slit my throat seven times over than confide in another woman about my issues. It’s spiritual adultery in my mind. And I do believe it’s biblical. You should cling to your spouse.
It’s this depth that scares people. But I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have depth, because covenant marriage has been reduced to a sensual toy thing. People leave whenever they’re tired, going on and on about how they don’t feel anything anymore. I’m over this culture. And I’m over myself. I’ve made a fool out of myself so many times. Either God will grant a miracle, or I will die alone, just like David Brainerd did. But I don’t want hope again — hoping for something that doesn’t work out. My heart is so cold. I would treat anything with such extreme caution, and I’ve built so many walls in my life. I don’t know if there can be any maiden who could pierce through that. But then I ask myself, is it even worth it, to possibly be betrayed?
I mean these things from the deepest parts of my core being. Even the standards I set make me feel sick, because I can’t help it. And I feel so deeply, to the point where it hurts, maybe even destroys myself. I don’t find myself to be lovable in the first place.
I see myself, if I remained only a freelance video editor — peddling, getting little jobs here and there — as just an unusable loser. Because the multiple sclerosis is not going to improve anytime soon unless God does a miracle. I can’t sustain a full-time job; it’s physically impossible for me. That’s how black and white my mind has been lately.
Also with lust — it’s as if that’s the only thing in my mind lately. Makes me sick. Even recalling it is such a repugnant, gross thing in my mind.
I don’t know who the hell I even am. What are these words? What is this blog? I may as well be two different people, holding the pendulum of the light person. I can be manic, the light of the party, funny. But then on the other hand, holding the void, putting on the mask, as if everything is fine. But there’s always that darkness there. Even in laughter there is grief, like the proverb says.
I think the scandalous thing is that even if I was a millionaire, I’d still feel miserable. I’m just reaching for things, something to fill the hole in my heart. Only God can fill it. But it feels like he doesn’t. Could be that he’s trying, but my heart is cold as a stone. And I think anybody else would be, if they were to endure this for six damn years — remaining in the faith and not deconstructing, going through every single mental crucifixion. And on top of that, to explain this thing to the modern evangelical culture — it’s a foreign work of madness. I’m better off having a company of squirrels encompassing me, me confiding in them, and them nodding their heads like they understand, even though they’re a mere beast — versus another human being trying to understand the sheer vanity, darkness, chaos, and repugnant, inappropriate thoughts that go through my mind, that are too dark and unfit to say.
So this blog is where I can put all of it. I can seal it all away, like evil will be sealed away in a lake of fire.
I play the comparison game too much. I know that other believers bear their cross, things of that nature. But it’s as if some just get a one, two, three step program in life. Family, career, slight mental afflictions, not suicidal at all. And they just go on in life. Life is great. No doubt, no torture.
But I have been grateful for the recent blessings I’ve been able to receive. A new vehicle, finally — something more gas efficient than my truck, which has been enormous. Not everything is bad, and I’m not saying that I have a bad life. It’s just that it feels like I’m bad, and I’m broken.
My eyes are wasting away from grief. I may as well be an atheist and a Christian at the same time, with how far away and close God is. The Puritan dark night of the soul. St. John. Brainerd. Robert Murray M’Cheyne. William Cowper. If only I could resurrect them, to have another commonality with believers — because they would understand all of these things, even though hundreds of years have passed.
I want all of my friends in heaven. And I want all religious hypocrites in hell, those who turn people away from the faith. I count them as my enemies, and I hate them with utmost hatred. Especially sick pedophiles that creep into the church, turning people off to the faith, aiding people in deconstructing. My wrath burns against them. But God’s wrath burns at a fervent heat beyond even what I can comprehend, of the little bit I have toward them.
Where is the love in this age, especially in evangelism? Most believers don’t even know how to talk to the lost. The suffering homeless person doesn’t need a sermon. They just need you to sit with them. Christian witness, repentance — milk and meat. It’s a little thing if I’m judged by human authorities. The music choice, the visuals — it’s depicting what’s inside, the torture and the ecstasy of creating it, and also reaching a group that a healing song or evangelical pamphlets will not be able to reach. It will fall on deaf ears.
But if these posts can reach someone in the twilight, and it helps them see that they aren’t alone, and that there is hope in Christ — I suppose I would endure these sufferings a whole other lifetime over. I’d do this for God and for people. I count my life as nothing. If I start thinking of myself as something, God humbles me, reminds me that I’m just dust, and to dust I will return. Whenever the four horsemen collect me.
