As a teen she found that cutting helped to dull her mental illness. The stabbing fear that she would drift off unnoticed could be abated with a slice. Though unseen, a sliver of hope dwelled there, the anchor to sanity. If she could no longer take it, there it was. Evidence of her torture would have to be believed... wouldn’t it?
It wasn’t so bad... heavy on denial, time would heal those wounds, and so it seemed. Popping up at mindless moments perhaps, but with a mighty will, they were mostly bound. And when she could no longer think, a drink would still the voices that shouted her shame.
But sweet! Those mid-twenties changed her life, she thought - marriage, kids, and the mark of stability... Jesus. Finally silenced, the cuts and pain were gone (surely they were gone) for who is the Great Healer? So glad, so glad that she was the calibre to be found in Him. Amen, and amen.
Scars and stitches hiding,
tucked away with razors
buried deep beneath
this new life.
‘Till the blade slipped against the fabric of her mind and it began to bleed. Anxiety, pain, and depression were resurrected in full power... all the things a Christian is not supposed to have, if they are doing it right. But the more she tried to overcome, the more things came undone.
Girl, do not reach for the hidden things.
Fresh cuts, fresh hope. Not in the Mighty Saviour, but in aching desperation for a human anchor. Sin. The fleshy mind not healed but broken. Denial stripped away and every hidden thing revealed. Who is this Christian who sins in such ugliness?
Does a Christian mother cut? She bleeds.
A follower drinks along the Way... and falls. She bleeds.
Does a woman have hope in Jesus when she sees no light of day? Amen. Finally empty, she is be filled with the blood of the Lamb. Look up dear girl. Through pain of dying mind, the Son shines through, and covers you. It is not the healthy who need the Doctor. It is the bitter, who need the Sweet.
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