Falling through the Cracks...

I have recently come to understand that pieces of my life have fallen through the cracks, pieces that when viewed as a collective whole paint a completely different picture than when viewed as individual pieces. Specifically, the pieces that I'm talking about are the panic attacks, insomnia, ongoing nightmares, and the chronic anxiety that all still plague my every day peace. The question is, what do I do with this bigger picture? What do I do with these four letters that finally explain the collectiveness of experience? And is there a way for the PTSD to rearrange itself into an acronym with less friendly fire?

I can't run from this. There is no place on this earth where I can escape this anxiety, no place where a peaceful night's sleep exists waiting for me to arrive, and no place where the images of my dreamscape are filled with warmth and light. I can not run from what happens on the inside of my existence.

I'm done self accommodating. I'm tired of the distractions. And I'm exhausted by the journey in search of a therapy that will finally heal these wounds and dry up this never ending sadness like a stagnant pool across a deserted oasis. It's all too easy to say, "You need to move on...why do you dwell on the past?" But it's not that simple...because it's not in the past...it's in my every day present like tiny invaders in cells that remain invisibly flowing through me, but ever and always just outside of my awareness.

No one wants to hear the dark stories of childhood filled with real life monsters and silent dualities that leave me cut off still from truth and power. The book of my life sits upon the shelf covered in dust, while the books filled with happy stories and smiling faces are checked out daily by readers in need of the warm and the fuzzy. The little story of a depressed and lonely child just isn't filled with Rockwellian images, so I carry this sad tale tucked far beneath the surface in search of the one who is not afraid to read this dark little book of me. But there's no one to listen, because there's no one to tell. And so the story remains locked up inside my body while the whispers of its truth evaporate through anxious moments and quickly passing thunderstorms through the mind.

I have fallen through the cracks, both above and below, both in light and in darkenss. Is it enough that there is only the One who is not afraid of my truth, or afraid to walk with me as I make my way through the remnants of dust and shadow?