Swinging furiously

I’ve always been one for wild mood swings. In high school, I remember flying high on the town one night–and then lying on the kitchen floor the next day thinking I would be better off dead.

I’ve evened out quite a bit in the past dozen or so years. By the grace of God, I’ve grown more responsive to His Spirit–and less inclined to follow my emotions.

But stress and sleep deprivation have a way of increasing my emotional sensitivity. Which means that I’m currently just one drop away from overflowing.

So I hear something disappointing that I would normally brush off? Now I’m close to tears. I hear good news and I’m through the roof. I stop to think and I’m in the depths of melancholy.

The difference between my 27-year-old-swings and my 15-year-old-swings is that my teenage melancholy had plenty of time to produce poetry and self-reflective writing–whereas my 27-year-old self barely has time to eat, much less write poetry.

Nevertheless, I rifled through my notebook today and found one little bit from the past five months that might be considered poetry (actually, it’s just writing in verse, not poetry at all).

My brother is getting married tomorrow
I had a tough day at work
I am single
Other women don’t have to work

I am tempted to look at this life
and feel sorry for myself
Poor me, without anyone
With only a job that drives me nuts
Poor me. Sad me. Woe is me.

The snake sinks its fangs into my flesh
Its poison courses through my veins
Poor me. Sad me. Woe is me.

And the prophet cries out:
“Lift up your eyes,
Behold the curse.”

Shuddering, I lift my eyes
to the snake on a pole
a Man who waited longer than I
who died single and still waits for His bride
A Man who had a task no one could covet.
The Cursed Snake upon a tree

I gaze on Him, the poison drains
My suffering’s small
compared to His
My suffering worthwhile
so long as I am His.

Since the day I wrote those words, my work has only intensified. My loneliness has only increased. It’s not just that I’m single, it’s that I’m alone. I feel isolated from family, friends, coworkers. I’m in a struggle none of them can grasp and I don’t have time or energy to be or have “fun”. I spend time with people, but it’s rarely heart-nourishing time. Sometimes I wonder if I have a heart to be nourished anymore, or if I’ve dumped it all into my work.

The feelings that inspired my melancholy words have only grown–the poison entering my heart so it can be pumped through my veins.

Do I really dare open my heart to you? I’m not sure. I wouldn’t want to poison you too.

So I cover my pain with smiles and the assurance that someday this will end. Maybe in six months, a year? Then I can be again.

Working to keep the pot from boiling over, working to keep you from seeing the emotion roiling beneath the surface.

Now I’ve let you see.

Please, please…point me to Jesus. ‘Cause when I get stressed and sleep-deprived, I have a hard time pointing myself.