Soap for Jesus?
I came home thoroughly discouraged today.
I really get that doctors want to work normal hours too.
But when you leave work late after a very bad day, practically run to the train on a wrenched ankle, have to buy a ticket only to miss the darn thing by twenty seconds, run back upstairs to the tram, have to work out which one is fastest, head back down to the train which will get you to the station right at your appointment time, have to upset your mom’s evening plans to request a lift so you can get there as fast as possible, upset your husband, and call the doctors to tell them you’ll be five minutes late for them to tell you they’ll leave a note for the nurse but you might have to rebook, they could be a little more forgiving.
Also. They could allow you to buy tickets at the gate instead of having to rush halfway up the station.
Also. The train was late by ten minutes and my poor Mom, who had to be in Newcastle-under-Lyme for 7:30, was delayed by a good twenty minutes without a word of blame. And then the nurse rebooked. I didn't even want the stupid appointment anyway. (Smear test).
Also. Who cares.
I don't think anyone reads this blog anymore. Or shall, unless I do have unwittingly more of a public life and people go looking for nasties.
It's kinda funny, remembering how blogs became all the rage back in my teens, and we all got one on Blogspot...now Blogger. Then Wordpress was the new must-have. Now some friends are on their third or fourth blog, or their own website, or so much in their own lives that they have no time to maintain it. (I get that, this is what, my second post this year?) I miss those years. Now I'm actively in the life I dreaded - work, home, tea, tv, bed, repeat. So I'm trying to cram it full of extra stuff, politics (which I do seriously love), a degree, more dreams, frantic social life (hahahaha I can hear from some of my friends I've not seen in years) in the four hours between work and sleep.
Is this what life is all about?
(This long moan does have a point somewhere, I promise.)
This blog, started around 10 years ago, began as 'Cadet for Christ' - something I seriously flunked up, as I fell hard for someone at cadets and became anything but a good witness. I trickled out of the ATC as a 21-year-old cadet, my last event being my AWO's presentation with the ultimate cadet award, showing up rushed after work in a creased, oil smeared 'best blues' and missing my tie. Yay. The head of the ATC was presenting, and asked me if I was new. Yeah. Ouch.
Then 'Walk With Us': an invitation into my walk with God and my fight to keep going like I was some kind of good example.
Why does everything feel like a failure?
One of my old friends said, a long time ago, that my life was like a soap opera. He didn't mean it as a compliment - he thought I enjoyed it. I didn't; it left my teens and early twenties in ruins as I had to grow up too fast and figure out what the heck was what.
It's been a long time realising that along with my mood swings that I struggle with PTSD. What is a horrible side effect of that is realising that my mind is stimulated only by intensely stressful situations because of living in them; I feel bored or lethargic or irritated by day to day 'work-home-tea-tv-bed'. (I don't when staying at home, because there's a variety of jobs and different challenges to keep beating.)
I don't know how to cope with that. That's partly why I 'cram' so much.
'Soap for Jesus'.
Well, mainly because my life was like a soap, and now it isn't, but the after effects of handling the mess are still coming out very much like a soap opera. In waves. Like a flood. Like too much negative in one bundle leaves me feeling suicidal still.
Because soaping for Jesus can mean cleaning for Jesus, and doing all the basic day-to-day of living for Jesus. That's a lot harder than dying for my benefit.
Because Jesus is still cleaning me, somehow. Even when I'm lost in a puddle of self-pity.
Some days I notice when I'm very depressed I'm walking along looking at the ground. One long stream of grey after another. Looking down.
The sun is too bright and I don't actually want to lift my head.
Looking up hurts. Looking up distracts me.
Looking up reminds me it's not all about me and my emotions.
Hey, I'm suicidal some days. And I beat myself up about it, because if I talk or post about it, I'll be looking for encouragement. I'll be looking for an uplifting hand. I'm looking at someone else for help.
If I post about it, I'll be self-seeking and attention seeking.
I'll scare people and hurt people.
I'll inspire depressive thoughts in other people.
If I don't talk or post about it, it bottles up and gets worse. There's a residue for next time.
But apparently, because I still think rationally about the outcomes of suicide, that means that I'm not suicidal - according to some people. If I was suicidal, I'd just do it.
Doesn't always work that way though. I'm not going to jump off a bridge as a cry for help because you won't believe I'm serious unless I do it.
It would hurt people.
I don't believe I make a difference in the world, but people love me.
God obviously believes He can use me for something in this world, or I wouldn't have another breath to draw.
So it's time to look up. Uncomfortable.
Even on cloudy days, I can see different patches of light and dark and maybe, if I'm lucky, even some blue.
Every step forward gives me a different view on the building, the street, the sky. A totally new angle. A different shape.
Just like life.
I know that I'll get through today's pile up of negativity and feel ashamed of my weakness tomorrow.
I know I'll get through my shame and create my thankfulness list so I'm praising instead of moaning.
But I still moaned.
But I'm human.
But I'm still being refined and will be for the rest of my natural.
The fact that I'm nearly thirty and still blogging may mean I'm an irresponsible adult.
That my life is so screwed over and I haven't just bucked up and got on with it may mean I'm just emotional and weak.
Hey, I think so often enough.
The fact that I'm going to leave myself vulnerable and exposed on here may mean you think I'm dumb.
Means I think I'm dumb.
But I want you to know you're not alone. Keep encouraging you to lift your head up.
I'm still here, and so can you be. I'm not a good example, but I'm someone just like you.
Let's keep on walking together.
In Christ,
Jane <3
I really get that doctors want to work normal hours too.
But when you leave work late after a very bad day, practically run to the train on a wrenched ankle, have to buy a ticket only to miss the darn thing by twenty seconds, run back upstairs to the tram, have to work out which one is fastest, head back down to the train which will get you to the station right at your appointment time, have to upset your mom’s evening plans to request a lift so you can get there as fast as possible, upset your husband, and call the doctors to tell them you’ll be five minutes late for them to tell you they’ll leave a note for the nurse but you might have to rebook, they could be a little more forgiving.
Also. They could allow you to buy tickets at the gate instead of having to rush halfway up the station.
Also. The train was late by ten minutes and my poor Mom, who had to be in Newcastle-under-Lyme for 7:30, was delayed by a good twenty minutes without a word of blame. And then the nurse rebooked. I didn't even want the stupid appointment anyway. (Smear test).
Also. Who cares.
I don't think anyone reads this blog anymore. Or shall, unless I do have unwittingly more of a public life and people go looking for nasties.
It's kinda funny, remembering how blogs became all the rage back in my teens, and we all got one on Blogspot...now Blogger. Then Wordpress was the new must-have. Now some friends are on their third or fourth blog, or their own website, or so much in their own lives that they have no time to maintain it. (I get that, this is what, my second post this year?) I miss those years. Now I'm actively in the life I dreaded - work, home, tea, tv, bed, repeat. So I'm trying to cram it full of extra stuff, politics (which I do seriously love), a degree, more dreams, frantic social life (hahahaha I can hear from some of my friends I've not seen in years) in the four hours between work and sleep.
Is this what life is all about?
(This long moan does have a point somewhere, I promise.)
This blog, started around 10 years ago, began as 'Cadet for Christ' - something I seriously flunked up, as I fell hard for someone at cadets and became anything but a good witness. I trickled out of the ATC as a 21-year-old cadet, my last event being my AWO's presentation with the ultimate cadet award, showing up rushed after work in a creased, oil smeared 'best blues' and missing my tie. Yay. The head of the ATC was presenting, and asked me if I was new. Yeah. Ouch.
Then 'Walk With Us': an invitation into my walk with God and my fight to keep going like I was some kind of good example.
Why does everything feel like a failure?
One of my old friends said, a long time ago, that my life was like a soap opera. He didn't mean it as a compliment - he thought I enjoyed it. I didn't; it left my teens and early twenties in ruins as I had to grow up too fast and figure out what the heck was what.
It's been a long time realising that along with my mood swings that I struggle with PTSD. What is a horrible side effect of that is realising that my mind is stimulated only by intensely stressful situations because of living in them; I feel bored or lethargic or irritated by day to day 'work-home-tea-tv-bed'. (I don't when staying at home, because there's a variety of jobs and different challenges to keep beating.)
I don't know how to cope with that. That's partly why I 'cram' so much.
'Soap for Jesus'.
Well, mainly because my life was like a soap, and now it isn't, but the after effects of handling the mess are still coming out very much like a soap opera. In waves. Like a flood. Like too much negative in one bundle leaves me feeling suicidal still.
Because soaping for Jesus can mean cleaning for Jesus, and doing all the basic day-to-day of living for Jesus. That's a lot harder than dying for my benefit.
Because Jesus is still cleaning me, somehow. Even when I'm lost in a puddle of self-pity.
Some days I notice when I'm very depressed I'm walking along looking at the ground. One long stream of grey after another. Looking down.
The sun is too bright and I don't actually want to lift my head.
Looking up hurts. Looking up distracts me.
Looking up reminds me it's not all about me and my emotions.
Hey, I'm suicidal some days. And I beat myself up about it, because if I talk or post about it, I'll be looking for encouragement. I'll be looking for an uplifting hand. I'm looking at someone else for help.
If I post about it, I'll be self-seeking and attention seeking.
I'll scare people and hurt people.
I'll inspire depressive thoughts in other people.
If I don't talk or post about it, it bottles up and gets worse. There's a residue for next time.
But apparently, because I still think rationally about the outcomes of suicide, that means that I'm not suicidal - according to some people. If I was suicidal, I'd just do it.
Doesn't always work that way though. I'm not going to jump off a bridge as a cry for help because you won't believe I'm serious unless I do it.
It would hurt people.
I don't believe I make a difference in the world, but people love me.
God obviously believes He can use me for something in this world, or I wouldn't have another breath to draw.
So it's time to look up. Uncomfortable.
Even on cloudy days, I can see different patches of light and dark and maybe, if I'm lucky, even some blue.
Every step forward gives me a different view on the building, the street, the sky. A totally new angle. A different shape.
Just like life.
I know that I'll get through today's pile up of negativity and feel ashamed of my weakness tomorrow.
I know I'll get through my shame and create my thankfulness list so I'm praising instead of moaning.
But I still moaned.
But I'm human.
But I'm still being refined and will be for the rest of my natural.
The fact that I'm nearly thirty and still blogging may mean I'm an irresponsible adult.
That my life is so screwed over and I haven't just bucked up and got on with it may mean I'm just emotional and weak.
Hey, I think so often enough.
The fact that I'm going to leave myself vulnerable and exposed on here may mean you think I'm dumb.
Means I think I'm dumb.
But I want you to know you're not alone. Keep encouraging you to lift your head up.
I'm still here, and so can you be. I'm not a good example, but I'm someone just like you.
Let's keep on walking together.
In Christ,
Jane <3
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Thanks for sharing your thoughts. :)