Why I Write
I remember laying face down on the floor, sobbing, begging God to help me. I have heard others say they’ve heard God speak to them. But in those moments, as much as I wanted to, I did not. Through my sobs, all I heard was silence. Which end was up? Was I coming or going? Why was I even alive?
A few months later, when I could stop the tears for extended periods of time, provided I wasn’t thinking, desperation hit hard. Every book or article I could get my hands on was ravaged for answers. Maybe I could find more about my story by reading someone else’s, where she could tell me how to survive, how to exist after this betrayal. (Since you’re reading this, you guessed it; I never found my answer. I didn’t find it then, and now, years later, I still haven’t found that answer. But there’s hope. Along the way, I found out so much about life, myself, others, and God.
There is a commercial on TV for an antidepressant that says “depression hurts.” While depressed, the commercial asserts, everything hurts; laughter hurts, friends hurt, life hurts. After seeing the commercial, I asked someone very close to me who has been through some major life experiences if they had ever felt that pain, if they had ever been so depressed their entire being hurt. The answer was no. I admitted that I have. I shocked my friend by confiding that there were times driving down the road where I would have thoughts about driving off the road to end the pain; I wouldn’t have to cry anymore, I’d think. This would all be over, I’d tell myself. I wouldn’t have to think about what happened.
Sometimes, this journey can take you down paths you’d never imagine taking. For me, what I thought was a detour was the path meant for me, whether I anticipated taking it or not. Since I wasn’t able to find that story where I could hear my own echoed, I decided to write my own. If I’m able to touch just one person’s life based on my own experiences, I’d relive all of that heartache again.
Photo Credit: Cody Wiley Photography