Written in March of 2022
My mind is foggy, like nothing that I am processing makes sense. My phone registers 35 unread messages, but I cannot even begin to read them, they are like a foreign language.
From downstairs, I can hear music from Encanto lofting up the stairway. I hear giggles, squeals, and little voices of my almost two-year-old and almost five-year-old. They squeal and scream, “Chase, Daddy, chase!” My ears hear this stringing together of noises that normally comprise the ballad of our every day life. Not anymore. Now I am upstairs, sitting in a chair in the corner of our room, draped in a blanket. In one moment, my body so desperately wants to be able to be downstairs – dancing, making dinner, cleaning up the kitchen. And the next moment, I cannot imagine living another minute. It feels like it would just be easier to be gone, vanishing from this world, no longer a burden to anyone. My husband and kids wouldn’t have to worry about what they would find behind the door. They wouldn’t have to come visit me in my room because I would just disappear.
I can hear them outside the door. I try to pull myself together as they come running in, quickly climbing up to fill my lap. I feel so distant, like I am just a shell watching them as they reach for me. I don’t feel like the kind of shell that it’s cracking means a savory over easy egg (that used to be my favorite when I had an appetite). Instead, my fragile exterior is like the one that cicadas shed and leave behind—lifeless.
I try to acknowledge God‘s presence in this moment but the depressive fog feels too thick. I whimper, tears rolling down my face. If this is you, friend, and you are reading this through blurred vision, let’s claim God‘s presence and let’s rest in the fog, knowing He is there. His presence brings life to our cicada like shells, even if we can’t feel him. You are not alone; He is there.