Here I am

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth; like a lamb that is led to the slaughter, and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent, so he opened not his mouth. (Isaiah 53:7)

Jesus died for me.

Quietly. Carrying all my burdens, grief, doubts, fears knowing the days I would turn away, hide, and bury everything away. He knew how fear cripples me way beyond my disability. How when you look in the mirror, you can’t help the thoughts. “You made me with a purpose, but I can’t see anything other than a broken body.” How silence is more of a safety net because your mind is so full of thoughts you can’t say. The pain you would carry. to let yourself be someone strength because they need a reason to keep going, and hey, your smile, and a slew of hugs will make everything okay.

It doesn’t. No matter how many nights you spend in sadness and fear, running to Jesus asking, “Why? I’m so afraid, Where are You?” Silence for every question. So, you turn to poetry. It was always easier to communicate everything you never could/should say. Anything really. Yet, you’re still afraid, but you need someone to hear. Somewhere to run away. Maybe they will understand. Maybe you’ll encourage someone. What you get though: Your poetry is so amazing and lovey! You have such a way with words! For the first time, it’s as if you’re getting the freshest cups of water to drink, but still whispers in the night tell you: you are full of unworthy, why else would you be so afraid of the dark?

This is good for you. You have an escape, you can be yourself finally. Until one day, that cool drink of water becomes a silent craving for you. It follows you. Always hiding out in your thoughts. People may actually like you. And on top of it, respond to what you have to say. There is no look to cut you up inside, to make you wither like a flower not yet ready to plucked from the safety of where the roots have been growing. There is nothing to stunt you anymore. But honestly there is, you have just become really well at hiding.

Words are still so hard to find. What can you expect when all your life your voice wasn’t worth anyone finding? That’s what you told yourself. And that’s what you still do. When you talk, everyone seems so far from you. Some look at you and whisper, you don’t have to change anything about you.

In your mind: you’re most likely not comparing yourself to me as I am to you, and it doesn’t feel like it’s killing you.


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