Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Doors and depression and a splattering of hope

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Words are lost inside me, when he stands inches away and wants to know why I'm sad, and I don't know if I can explain it again.  In this moment, with this man I married, we might as well be strangers.  In this moment, I'm stranger to myself.  I know this depression is not who I am, but here it is, eating my words from the inside out.  

My legs carry me out of the apartment, into the hallway, through the dark corridor leading outside, before the tears give me away completely.  The walls seem thin as two sheets of paper, flapping in the wind that's kicking up outside.  I lean against one of these plywood walls and stand there in the shreds of daylight that remain, staring straight ahead at the black metal door.  

The door I entered in, it opens with a creak, and my heart rate speeds up, but no one is there.  At the end of the corridor, the metal door swings open, and the wind passes through, closing it with a thud.  The whole corridor, on both sides, is lined with doors.  Blank white doors with shiny brass handles.  And I feel the walls themselves closing in, the way my life closed in this past year, with all it's doors flapping open in the wind, slammed and sealed.  These doors, they taunt me in the quiet, and I whisper out a name.

Jesus?  

It's as if hope rises with the wind and falls with the door closing, wishing the wind would carry him in and down this corridor, to wrap me in his arms.  And I know he's here, somewhere, but tonight he slips through my fingers.

I think back to my visit at the doctor today, how I recoiled inside at the number on the scale.  Why I bit back tears, later at home, knowing it's only a number.  But it didn't feel that way.  It felt like another door no longer open, as it was in the days when my body was healed and I ran and played without restraint, lined up in that darkening hallway, the life I wanted back concealed on the other side. 

And now, I stand in this corridor, this bridge between the place I've called home this past year and the windy outdoors, and I can't move, only stare at that metal door.  One year ago, I moved into this place with joy and anticipation and dreams wide open, awaiting a wedding and a marriage one month later.  And then, just days before the wedding, I tore my achilles and we tumbled into marriage and my heart has been tearing in pieces ever since, until I don't know how many more ways I can tear.

One year later, I stand what seems a skeleton of me.
 
I don't say the words in this dark corridor, but they hang in the air, and so I confess them here so they come to the light: Friends, in my darkest moments, I doubt I'll ever recover from all the tearing this year.  In my darkest moments, I want to seal my mouth shut and sit in silence, let my words collect dust behind these doors.  And then, the dark gives way to cracks of light and hope trickles in, slow and gentle.  And I can't see or feel him, but I know he's like the wind.

The tears dry and I step out of the corridor, back into the lit hallway, back into our apartment.  I step into the kitchen and pull spinach and romaine, carrots and celery and onion from the fridge.  And I feed myself a salad.  I mourn this frail body, and still I love it with a tenderness I did not possess in my younger years, when in fear I starved it of food and vulnerability and grace.  

I'm aware, sitting here as I hungrily consume, that this heart beating behind the skeleton ribs of me, these lungs breathing, this body with its extra pounds and limitations, house the essence of me - and still can't contain it all.  One day, I hope, I will be a door bursting open at the seams.  Until then, I stand in the corridor and whisper the name and wait for him to come and heal and show me how to run again.   

Maybe then, I'll look in the mirror and see more than severed pieces.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

My little disclaimer: Friends, this writing reflects my process, and it is up and down movement.  I am trying to be brave and not edit my words - the things we don't wish to say - down to something tamer and safer to express.  I am not always here, in this space I was in when I wrote this.  My hope is, if you ever find yourself in this place as I am, you can know you're not alone.  We may feel alone, but it is simply not true.  Let these frail words of mine testify of that.  This I do know: Doors may appear sealed shut, but they were designed to be opened.  Every broken door can be mended; new doors may be discovered; old doors can be painted.  And my soul says in the darkened place, "Glory to God."  He is here.   


Linking up with Emily.


19 comments:

  1. This is beautifully written. I often struggle with this feeling. And it isn't constant and always, but when it hits it feels like it will be always and constant. Thank you for being brave with your words. Coming here from Imperfect Prose.

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    1. Thank you for being so gracious, Karmen. I'm glad you stopped by here.

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  2. Amber, I'm a little slow but today I finally connected the dots with your name and your blog. Halleluah! I was desperately trying to find your blog and then I realized, I've already been here and your words are lovely. I've enjoyed every post. And I've felt this, where you were when you wrote this and I'm thanking God that yes, doors open and shed light on the darkness when it tries to suffocate. Praying you feel Him today, loving you, accepting you for who you are. Beloved.

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    1. How funny - sometimes I struggle to connect the dots, too, or to follow the trail of a comment back to the writer! My heart is blessed by your efforts to find me here - and thank you, for these words. For the prayer, the acceptance, the love. I've seen some of the beauty of your heart in your writing, and I look forward to knowing you more, friend.

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  3. Dear Amber, I am feeling so sad for you and wish I could give you a huge hug. And I don't say this in a pitying way and not in a worrying way or an I can make it better way, but in a life is so painful sometimes and I wish you didn't have to feel all that kind of way. There is no wishing these moments gone, and, friend, what courageous good in sharing them -- these downs as well as the ups. For I have known hallways like these and all the doors you describe. And you can know there is hope -- and there is -- but while you struggle in the corridor, it's just plain painful, and what else can you say but "Jesus, Jesus." I am praying for you right now. That you would know to new depths God's love for you -- the love that reaches not around the tearing, but right into the middle of it. I'm realizing that tear (like your Achilles) and tear (like the one that runs down your cheek) are the same word right now, and that seems so appropriate. Through your tears and struggle may you know the mender of each tear. I love you.

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    1. i could not have said this better than ashley did.

      ((amber)) broken, but beautiful. love your honesty. love your willingness to struggle. let those little rays of light speak to you in the dark days, friend. even a gentle flicker is a flame none-the-less.

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    2. "Even a gentle flicker is a flame none-the-less" - I'll hold onto that one, Kelli.

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  4. oh Amber. i know these thoughts. you are not alone. may you feel the whisper of Jesus calling your name, reminding you that you were made for a divine purpose, that you have a heavenly calling that only you can fulfill. love you.

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    1. Thank you for this, friend... such a beautiful heart you have. Love to you, too.

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  5. Stopped over from imperfect prose. Praying for you today Amber.

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  6. I came from Emily's Imperfect prose. Your title of your blog intrigues me, i'll have to read the link that explains it.
    First of all, wow, do you ever have a gift. First of writing and second of painting images that are so vivid and clear I feel like i've entered into your posts. My heart was spoken to in this my friend, depression is a companion of mine and while my heart resonates with several of the things here, the one thing I most needed in reading this was the hope. Thank you for that so much. I am blessed to read your offering here. I hope that I will continue to return and read your journey! Keep on dear one!

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    1. I don't know what to say, friend, but thank you for your kindness. I'm grateful for the hope that you read here, for I know it's not very bright in this post, but that you saw it and it spoke to you... that's the grace of God. It has to be. I hope you do return here, too, and I hope that we can encourage each other on this wild journey. Grace and peace to you.

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  7. I came here from Emily's Imperfect Prose.
    Amber, i so understand and struggle with depression not being who I am but so much apart of impacting how I feel and how I engage with life. I pray that your husband continues to be gracious and seeks to understand your up and down times and give you grace.
    'i stand a skeleton of myself' tears me to pieces friends, because I see this in my life. I sees that there is a part of me that seems to have shriveled in on myself and i wish that I could fully express what is in my heart and flesh out what seems to be wasting away. Thank you dearest sister for sharing your heart. The imagery of doors and spaces between and the reality of doors to somewhere and doors to sadness seems such a real life experience and something that also takes place in our minds. Dear friend may the Lord wrap you in his embrace and may you be free to weep and heal in your fragility

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    1. Oh friend. I am touched by this, by hearing of your own struggle with depression and how you can see the parts of you that have shriveled... and I pray for you, too - for both of us - that God will breathe life into our shriveled places. My sister sent me the link to a song - "Worn," by Tenth Ave North - and I posted it at the end of my latest post. It spoke SO deeply to me, and I have a feeling it would you, too. The words could have come directly from my mouth - "I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life and all that's dead inside can be reborn..." Yes, dear friend, I pray this tonight for us both: that we will know this song rising and the rebirth of all that's dead within. How timely that we have the memorial of Jesus' death and the celebration of his resurrection just a week away...

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    2. Amber I also love that song. It was one of my blog posts a couple of weeks ago. It has pretty much become my prayer since hearing it.

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  8. Wow! Thanks for writing this...it's a hard place to live and even harder to describe...especially to those who are trying to love you there! I was there for almost 15 years...before the door blew wide open. Pray that you do stay so long. Lean into the Light...it's the only Hope!

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    1. Rosemary, this made me smile - "before the door blew open wide" - and I'm so happy that it did for you. Fifteen years, friend, I can only imagine. Thank you for reading this, for saying hi, for the words of encouragement and hope.

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