[Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you will forgive my hiatus from the blogosphere but there have been many things moving and then again not moving in my life that I lost track of this particular portion of my routine. Then again, for 12 weeks it was nothing but routine and I think I needed the break. I hope you’ll read the previous post as it sort of illustrates a new movement in my prose/poetry. Or don’t. That’s the beauty of the blog, I guess.]
Lately, I’ve felt this chasm in my soul, a longing, if you will. It was as if someone reached down my throat and ripped out this vital piece of myself and left an open wound. Every now and again it would ache like it was ulcerated and the pain and the longing would become all the more intense. There is something altogether indescribable about a wound in the soul that will not close on its own or heal. There is something to that ache that makes you want to give up on trying to fight through life and to just acquiesce to the apathy the world calls for in this situation. Or even worse would have been to bow down the world’s standards for repairing things and try and replace it with a prosthetic or something else altogether. This hole, this gaping wound inside me lately brought me to depression I had forgotten existed. Mind you, I am no stranger to affliction and depression and I are altogether too familiar.
And this depression that struck me was one of such fine precision it was like the women in the black dress that has haunted my dreams on and off for years and took part in ruining my life in a way. She stays at a distance just close enough for you to be comfortable but just far enough away that you can still feel that longing for her decision to end the ache by either closing the gap and putting you in touch with that old, cold feeling or going away completely which, in this case, would be the more welcome of the two options. I really don’t know if that makes sense but that’s the analogy I will use. Depression is the person who pours salt in the wound when your soul aches. I’ve heard from more than one source that depression is anger turned inward but I don’t know if I can come to terms with that definition. Wouldn’t that mean I’m turning my anger on myself? I’m not angry but it feels like anger all the same. So, who’s angry at me?
I started feeling the tug of healing in the wound I was nursing a few days ago watching The Neverending Story. That sounds strange because that’s a kid’s movie, right? Yes, it is. But I marveled at the parallels between that story and the story of the Bible. That’s not what this post is about but go watch that and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It was the spark of those thoughts, the contemplation on the story of that movie that ignited a small flame in my heart and mind. I recalled that the movie was based off a book (which is way better, I recommend it) and I owned it. So, I went back and picked up my copy of the Neverending Story and finished it in a few days. I tore through it and then I remembered something about myself.
I love stories.
And I don’t just mean kids stories. Story is what drives me more than anything else in my life. The story of the Bible from Genesis to Revelation which can be found in almost any other story with a start and a finish is a driving force for me. I have been challenged to look for it in the lives of people I meet which is even more interesting now that I am currently thinking about it. I have been tossing around the idea of what I’m going to do after I finish my undergrad and counseling seems to be my calling. Where’s the connection? Getting to hear the story of people’s lives and helping them tell a better story. Now, right now as I’m typing this I see puzzle pieces falling in together and God is faithful!
Let me see if I can put this together in a coherent fashion. I love stories. I took Steve Saccone’s “Relational Intelligence” quiz a while back after reading his book and I tested really high as a “Story Collector”. It means that I relate best to people through story and by asking questions. Story drives my life in the craziest of ways from wanting to know all I can contextually to the weird and fine details that are the spice. It’s why I delve more into the OT than NT. Most importantly, it fuels the relational part of my life. I prefer most to listen than to speak and when I speak it’s most often calculated. I am built for stories. And I remember writing a long time ago about how I want to help write a better story. I’m realizing more and more now that the profession I have been doing my best to avoid for years is the one I’m best suited for and it scares the hell out of me. Can someone who suffers with their own psychiatric issues serve and help those with theirs in a professional setting?
If God says “Go” then I guess the answer to that question is, “Yes”.
What a ride this is going to be.