Lines, Vines, and Trying Times

For someone who loves to write I have a strong hatred of words. Compared to how we feel, the language given to describe those feelings just doesn't seem sufficient to me...at all. When counselors and physicians threw words at me like "depression", "bulimia", and "addiction" I would just stare at them. It seemed so trivial not to mention degrading when anyone tried to summarize the constant torment and enslavement I felt into words. Those aren't just words to me...they're death. They're mixtures of insanity and humiliation that chain my hands behind my back and slowly rip my organs out through my throat.

In the past I needed those three words in order to survive and although I hated them almost as much as I hated myself I used up all my energy just trying to cling onto them. I fought for everything I had like it was all I'd ever get...so I never let go of anything...even if what I was holding onto was the very thing I was spending all my time trying to run away from. The only thing I truly wanted out of my life was death. I had completely lost all reliance on anything humane.

It's only by the grace of God that I'm here and it's only through love that I'm not in a jail cell, a psych ward, or a coffin. I have amazing friends who show me daily what it means to walk in truth and joy. I have friends who are honest, who teach, who ask, who seek, who find...together. I have friends who pull me down when I'm floating away and pull me up when I'm falling down. I'm able to receive the kind of love that's unconditional and because I have it I can finally give it away to the people who need it just as much as I do.

I can't deny that God is miraculous because I can no longer deny that I'm a miracle. Without God my life has no purpose, without a purpose my life has no meaning, without meaning nothing about my life carries any significance or hope, and without hope I perish...we all do.