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| "Hope", by myself, 2005. Charcoal and conte crayon on paper |
I've not updated this blog in several months. Part of that has to do with a variety of things that have kept me very busy: kids, marriage, sickness, job, the usual. There have been weeks where I've hardly had a moment to breathe. But part of it has to do with the fact that, in order to write on this blog, I'd have to share the nihilism that I continuously encounter in myself. And it's not like these tendencies come out of nowhere. PTSD is a hard thing to deal with, not to mention all the incidents that caused the flash backs in the first place. But it's time to admit that there's a part of me, the part that creates, the part that loves, the part that feels joy, that is utterly tired, worn out.
Let's get this out of the way: I'm not in any real emotional turmoil most days. The days of constant and utter despair are pretty much behind me, except when they're not. And those days are hard, so very hard! I know now that these days are the result of a body that's been hijacked by pattern and habit, that I have to learn new patterns and habits, and that this darkness will eventually change back into light. But that doesn't change the fact that, right now, creating anything is an act of agony, born of despair over long running exposure to darkness. But some times my soul reacts against this lingering darkness, to disastrous results at times. Those are the days I stare at the entirety of existence and wonder why the heck I even bother. These fade much more quickly than they did before, but I'd be lying if I said that they weren't still a thing at times.
Even with these returns to the horrific bleakness it still isn't the same. My mind has gotten clearer with each flashback and I've become more aware of the subtleties of the darkness I'm in. The hardest part of it all is to sit in the darkness and wait for the light to return. I want to try to grab a torch and light up the darkness in my mind, to fight my way out, to do everything I absolutely think I must to get out! But none of that works; the old man, with all his foibles and problems, must die. Trying to stop the darkness is not the point, because to fight the darkness is to accept that it is a legitimate part of me. And, contrary to popular liberal opinion, it is not. I am not this darkness, and I never was. That may sound naive, but at this point any and all classical liberal and Enlightenment claims about the nature of humanity ring incredibly hollow to me.
I am not this darkness; I am Christ's. I am, by virtue of my baptism, a god by grace, and like Christ, I am meant to suffer a long and slow death as the old man, the one who refused the baptism that I underwent, dies, little by little. The fact that this is uncomfortable is nothing in comparison to the fact that my Prototype suffocated to death under His own weight, literally. Most people have told me that I need to understand my depression and PTSD, but understanding has not done me very much good. If anything understanding has made the PTSD more dangerous in some cases, as I can see where the fallenness comes from and I feel the want to sympathize with it. There are no lessons in the darkness, only something to endure as I go to Hell with Christ, die, and come back, over and over again. One of these days the process will kill me, and on that day I pray that I am found worthy to move beyond it all. On that day there will be no more tears, no more horrific cycle of death and pain, because I will not want it anymore. On that day I will be free. I will be Home, in the arms of the God Who has gone along with my craziness all this time, Who respected my choices to a degree that I cannot do for myself.
But that day is not yet. And, as hard as it is to talk about it, that is my life in a special way right now. Christ is with me and knows my pain better than I do, since He is the one supporting my ability to feel it. Pretending that my pain is special is a poison, a lie that feels so cathartic, but has no actual worth. Christ holds all our pain, and thus mine. While my pain is prized by our Lord, it is hardly unique. Wounds are wounds, sores are sores, they are a deficiency, not my substance. It only has value because I have value in Christ's eye. It's hard to see a point on some days, but maybe that is, indeed the point: this world is not worth a thing in the end. And one of these days I will be free of that disappointment. For the moment, I've got my cross and Golgotha calls. Our culture abhors suffering, but so far the only time I've seen the light the clearest is when it turns the darkest gloom I find myself in into something beautiful, wonderful, and tragic. On those days the sorrowful Alleluia escapes my lips and I find that, just for a moment, my existence becomes something more than me. Alleluia for that!
