Black Scribbles

That’s my brain right now. Just a black scribble. Like in the cartoons, when there would be a thought bubble above someone’s head but only a black scribble instead of thoughts. That’s my mind. I’m just…scribbled.

I mean, I have thoughts. I have thought processes. But they don’t amount to much. They don’t give me any truth, or answers, or even fragments of peace. There’s just a big, black nothing where my soul should be. Like in the Police song, King of Pain. That’s me right now.

My children are going through tribulations. I feel every bit of it, but have nowhere to put it. No handy pockets or spare pair of pants where I can stash all the excessive amount of turmoil and fear and doubt and anxiety that is overflowing onto me from every corner of my life. Every corner. I don’t know what to do with it all. I try to pray but I get no relief. I lay awake at night, staring into the darkness, hoping for some respite but none ever comes.

I know nothing about trust. I freely admit that. I don’t know if I ever have. I trust no one and nothing. Not myself. Not God. I thought I understood surrender, but I feel like I got raped and beaten when I put my hands up, so I’m not doing it anymore.

And that’s how I’m doing. On the verge of a breakdown, or a breakthrough? Your guess is as good as mine.

 

1 Comment

  1. I wish I had words to straighten out some of the scribbles into at least one or two coherent, meaningful, soothing, easy-to-digest lines. But. I don’t.

    Not at all.

    But I hear you. I hope it’s okay that I’m listening as hard as I can.

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