“Rach… I think you’ve been putting too much pressure on yourself about being okay – it’s fine to be sad and work through it.” Her gentle text message made my eyes flood with tears.
I’ve tried to be so strong this time. So okay.
I’m a different girl. I’m healthier. I believe more truth. I understand more about who I am and who my Father is.
And if I’m telling the truth, I’m terrified I will slip into the well of sorrow and not be able to climb my way out of it. So I choose every day to fight to be okay. Which is good. But also exhausting.
Over and over I’ve heard affirmation from people in their amazement of how strong I am and how well I’m handling this.
Can I just be totally honest with you?
I laid in my bed for three hours the other night and sobbed. I cried for my broken heart, for the pain I’m walking, for the frustration I feel at being broken. My cheeks were stained with mascara as I listened to music and let my soul empty itself of grief.
Because I am grieving. Something was lost. Something was taken away. Something broke.
I am not okay.
And it’s okay. It’s completely okay.
Because this time not being okay looks completely different. I’m making better choices in my not okay-ness.
Some nights it takes every ounce of strength to not text this Missionary man. I have to sit there and tell myself all of the ways he didn’t choose me and all of the ways he didn’t want me. Which.is.awful.
But it’s truth.
And the truth keeps me from walking into dangerous territory.
Almost every day, I used to drive south to get home on the single interstate running through Colorado Springs. And sometimes as I would approach my exit I would find myself wondering “what if” I kept going to the Jock’s city a mere 45 miles away. What if I showed up at his house in the middle of the night, tear stained cheeks. Would he turn me away? Would he kiss me? Would he be convinced we should be together? Would I be convinced?
So then I would say out loud of some the terrible things the Jock said to me. I would tell myself all of the hard things and awful things and painful things. I would cry as I would give voice to the words which would haunt my dreams.
But never once did I drive past my exit.
And it wrecks me. The reality of the truth destroys me. I have to convince myself I am the only one suffering loss and heartbreak. I have to slam into the wall created between my heart and his. I don’t know if it’s the healthiest coping mechanism? But it’s something that helps me fight forward.
My friends, I am not okay. I am not alright. I am a broken weepy hurting mess. I am disappointed and frustrated and confused.
But underneath those layers is a steadiness and strength I’ve come to appreciate. It’s a resolve that I will keep choosing to be okay until someday I am okay and it isn’t a choice anymore.
I hope you know it’s okay to not be okay. I hope you know you’re in good company. I hope you know it is safe to be a mess. I hope you know there is beauty in the breakdown. I hope you know, whatever is breaking you, that you are loved and seen and cared for. Your mess matters. The shattered pieces of your heart are in the hands of those who love you.
Because you are loved.