Blue

Blue has always been my favorite color. It’s representation in my mind belongs to the vastness of the ocean, and how it’s reflective waters mirror the vastness of the heavens. It reminds me how little our we are, and how unsurpassed the knowledge of God is to mankind.

Blue is the color of the waves that crash against rocky shores, humming their sweet melody to me while tired feet sink into the innumerable grains of sand. It’s the deep color of the night sky that has no end, with stars that shine brighter and more beautifully than anything my eyes have ever witnessed. I stare, in awe, gratitude, and fear of how small I am, and how precise and unlimited the Lord’s handiwork is. I am afraid.

Blue is the color of my sadness, the kind that matches the vastness of the ocean, the infinity of the sky. I never knew a tiny vessel could hold so much, and blue tears spill out of my eyes when I am filled to the brim. Sometimes everything makes me afraid, and sometimes nothing does, but it is all the same as the ocean and the sky: I can see no end to it.

I never wanted my life to be a complete consumption of grief and fear, and I surely never intended on telling the world about it. I will not try to paint you all a lovely picture of my truth, because then it would not be completely honest, and I want people to know that even solitude has company, and there is hope to be found even where it is not seen.

A lot of what has been going on is no doubt the condition of a brain that has been eating away at itself for years, and that I cannot help. Many people think that because they can’t physically see the symptoms, that the disease simply doesn’t exist to them. This is the farthest thing from the truth, and I knowingly suffer from it every day. It’s a lonely place to be.

I struggle with a lot more than that, though. All of these dreaded internal disasters inevitably spill out of my interior and affect what I do and how I live. I have not made the best choices, and fear has caused me to self-medicate, self-harm, and find comfort in manically induced behavior. I fall, I get back up, and I fall again. It’s always been cyclical.

Since the beginning, I have loved the Lord, and I know in my heart that I belong to Him. But Christianity is not always a joyful journey, filled with psalms that overflow from the heart and fulfilled thanksgiving, although those things are wonderful. King David, in Ecclesiastes,“set [his] heart to know wisdom and to know madness and folly, [and] perceived that this also is grasping for the wind,” and “hated life because the work that was done under the sun was distressing to [him], for all is vanity and grasping for the wind. Then [he] hated all of [his] labor in which [he] had toiled under the sun.”

Are these words not God breathed, and inspired by the Holy Spirit, as the Bible says? And this is the same David who wrote “great is the Lord! He is most worthy of praise! No one can measure His greatness,” in Psalm 145.

So, I suppose that a broken spirit can praise God just as beautifully as the full in heart, even if the beauty is hidden to them for now. I cry out daily in groanings too great for words, and I still hear no answer and see no end in sight. But this light, however dim it may be, keeps me from getting lost in the darkness.

Sometimes I don’t sleep at all, and sometimes I’m so afraid to leave my room that I curl up in bed for days straight with the shades closed. I don’t know what I’m afraid of, but I do know how I feel. Sometimes I don’t even know how much longer I can go on like this, choosing to live a life of solitude, thinking about blue memories of the dreams I had as a child that got washed away in the storm that took over my life a year ago.

I have a lot of rage, self absorption, and fear of watching my family suffer from my same, inherited fate. I know there are people out there like me, and I hope they know that they are beautiful to Jesus even in their darkest, empty moments. He came for the sick.

I am not writing this for sympathy, recognition, or for the flawed label that people put on me as “brave.” I want people to know I am a broken vessel, helpless on my own accord, and loosing myself everyday; but God can, and is more than willing, to use me still. And here I am.

Blue is the color of the bracelet I wear around my wrist. I bought it today at a cute little junkyard station at the Third Monday trade days, and my sister bought a matching one for me. It’s the color of my disease, maybe because that’s what it fills people’s head with: blue thoughts. But it also represents all of my brothers and sisters out there who are suffering from it too, and fighting hard for themselves and the people around them. They are amazing, beautiful people who have blessed me with many scholarships and opportunities to receive help, and I am forever grateful to them.

I wear blue to fight with heavy hands, and a head that hangs low…but it’s fighting none the less. We are not alone, and the One who made us this way will not allow us to suffer forever. There will be a time of healing someday, but for now we press on.

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