anxious moments
Thursday, February 10, 2005 by niebuhrian
My chest heaved as pain filled the left side of my ribcage. Doctors floated above me trying to figure out what was wrong, until they could do no more. Finally, I saw them reach out and tug at my chest. Ribs snapped like twigs underneath a heavy boot as they separated from my breastbone. My skin tore and my muscles were exposed to the cool air. Pain washed down the sides of my body like a shower of ice. My voice crackled with fear and I begged them to stop. But it had already started and I was laid bare before them. My heart exposed, beating rapidly as they stared. Fear drew close like a black cloud over my head as I struggled to close my chest. My breath came in quick staccato bursts. It was hard to get air and my body trembled at the thought of my exposure and the pain that came with it…
I am in my house and it is time to go, to move. This time there is only a small trailer outside. My parents are here and there is a sadness behind their eyes. I wander through the house with my wife and point at chairs and tables. These are my things, my grandfather’s leather chair, the la-z-boy given to me by my parents for Christmas, as I point they are taken to the trailer attached to my parents’ car. My books are loaded alongside the bookcases my dad and I built. I can’t help but feel overwhelmed at the task before me. I finally realize why it hurts so deeply to pack, she is not coming. She can’t come, this home is her home and I have to go. My legs tremble uncontrollably as I find myself in the car. We drive away and I am alone, but I don’t want to be…
I have a terrible imagination, vivid, detailed, distressing. It is what makes me a good counselor; it is also what haunts me when my fears win. The pictures of my mind become all too real, and the situations are inescapable. I lay in bed trembling last night as my fears turned the pruning hooks and plowshares of my heart into spears and swords that cut and pierced my soul. Fears of loneliness and sorrow, fears of pain and regret set up shop in my mind and would not leave. Like teenagers when their parents leave town, my fears leapt and danced and trashed the rooms of my mind and heart; they rampaged through my carefully ordered self, paying no heed to my vain attempts to calm them. It was spring break in the core of my being and I was not invited.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!” I know these words well now. The attacks of my anxieties have left me wounded. My fears have pierced my flesh and scarred my mind. Even now my feet tremble and my heart races as I remember. The pictures were so real, the loneliness so great, how did I get here? How is it that I am alone, when I know that I am not? Is there no one that can save me from the stabs and wounds of fear? I try and fail to find God in this fearful place, there is no God that I can seek, no God that can save me from myself.
She lies there with me as I stare frightfully into the night. Her words are soft and her touch is gentle. She brushes away my tears, and tries to soothe my soul. I find some solace in her words, her invitations to enter the pictures with me. Mostly, it is the quietness of her presence that grounds me; it is the gentle reminders that I am not alone. I do not confuse her with God, but through her presence I know that I am remembered, that I am loved and valued. She could not give me that on her own, and the peace she offers is greater than she can know. She is not perfect, but she is enough, enough to know that I am not forgotten or forsaken; enough to sense that I can be still and know again…
I am in my house and it is time to go, to move. This time there is only a small trailer outside. My parents are here and there is a sadness behind their eyes. I wander through the house with my wife and point at chairs and tables. These are my things, my grandfather’s leather chair, the la-z-boy given to me by my parents for Christmas, as I point they are taken to the trailer attached to my parents’ car. My books are loaded alongside the bookcases my dad and I built. I can’t help but feel overwhelmed at the task before me. I finally realize why it hurts so deeply to pack, she is not coming. She can’t come, this home is her home and I have to go. My legs tremble uncontrollably as I find myself in the car. We drive away and I am alone, but I don’t want to be…
I have a terrible imagination, vivid, detailed, distressing. It is what makes me a good counselor; it is also what haunts me when my fears win. The pictures of my mind become all too real, and the situations are inescapable. I lay in bed trembling last night as my fears turned the pruning hooks and plowshares of my heart into spears and swords that cut and pierced my soul. Fears of loneliness and sorrow, fears of pain and regret set up shop in my mind and would not leave. Like teenagers when their parents leave town, my fears leapt and danced and trashed the rooms of my mind and heart; they rampaged through my carefully ordered self, paying no heed to my vain attempts to calm them. It was spring break in the core of my being and I was not invited.
“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!” I know these words well now. The attacks of my anxieties have left me wounded. My fears have pierced my flesh and scarred my mind. Even now my feet tremble and my heart races as I remember. The pictures were so real, the loneliness so great, how did I get here? How is it that I am alone, when I know that I am not? Is there no one that can save me from the stabs and wounds of fear? I try and fail to find God in this fearful place, there is no God that I can seek, no God that can save me from myself.
She lies there with me as I stare frightfully into the night. Her words are soft and her touch is gentle. She brushes away my tears, and tries to soothe my soul. I find some solace in her words, her invitations to enter the pictures with me. Mostly, it is the quietness of her presence that grounds me; it is the gentle reminders that I am not alone. I do not confuse her with God, but through her presence I know that I am remembered, that I am loved and valued. She could not give me that on her own, and the peace she offers is greater than she can know. She is not perfect, but she is enough, enough to know that I am not forgotten or forsaken; enough to sense that I can be still and know again…
