Rough Road

 
Dread seeps into every crack in my faith, every chink in the joy in which I wrap myself, every positive thought to which I cling. I suddenly feel unsure of myself, of my life, of my plans, of everything. It weighs down my fingers, making it difficult to type. It slows my mind, wrapping my thoughts in fog, making everything unclear. Is it foreboding or senseless worry? 
 
I seek silence, but cannot find respite from the what-ifs that waft through my mind as I meditate. 
I pray, but have difficulty stilling my thoughts so I can listen to what God has to tell me.
I seek comfort; feel exhausted; alone.
The weight of it is crushing me. 

I keep busy tending to children, cleaning, cooking, playing, losing myself in the lives of others in a Who Do You Think You Are YouTube marathon. No longer wanting to think, lest I'm overcome again with this horrible feeling, I busy myself instead. 

An end is in sight. Or maybe not. I could leave tomorrow's hepatology appointment with more questions than answers; more possibilities for bad things to come than good. Not having answers to my health issues is agonizing for me. 

Have faith, they say. Don't worry, there's nothing you can do about it anyway, they say. 

I know. I have faith. I try not to worry. My OCD has other ideas. I'd take meds for my OCD when it gets this bad, but they could cause liver issues. And so it goes. 

So I answer the what-ifs with affirmations and live in joy despite the insanity as much as I possibly can. And when I can't, I wrap myself in the comfort of God's love and cry, letting the dread and the doubts and the worry flow from me in a river of sorrowful prayer. 


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