My Testimony

This is a piece of my story, a piece of God’s story. I promise it ends in hope, but there are dark parts. I’m sharing this season of life with you because I want to tell of God’s goodness. I want people who feel stuck deep in the abyss to know that God is Mighty to Save. My story is unfinished. I’m still in the midst of this battle, but I believe there is power in sharing your testimony. My prayer is that this story can encourage someone else in their own journey. Praise the God who uses broken vessels.

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I thought I knew myself, until I lost myself. I lost myself in doing, in trying, in theology, in relationships, in work, in my head. I was lost.
 

This fall I woke up to see just how lost I was. An important relationship in my life came to an end and I realized that I needed help. I couldn’t deny the anxiety anymore. I couldn’t deny my depression. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t focus. I was on autopilot. On the outside the lights were on, but inside no one was home. I was wrapped in the shame and guilt of believing I’m not enough, I’ll never do enough, I’ll never be enough. How could anyone love me? How could God love me? Why does anyone trust me to do my job, to be a friend, to be an aunt, to be a Christian?
 

On a Friday night, the first wave of suicidal thoughts washed over me. I figured that if I could never do enough, then why bother? If it will never change, then why try?
 

I reached out for help. I called mentors and friends. People prayed with me. I told my counselor. I met with a doctor. I took a week off of work. I read my Bible. I tried to get better. I tried to heal. I did the things everyone told me to do. That should work.
 

6 nights later I snuck out of my mom’s house with a bottle of alcohol and several bottles of pills. I just wanted rest. Forever. I was so tired. All of the trying wore me out. I drove to a park. I poured the pills into my hand. I held the bottle of alcohol. I stared at them for ten minutes. Finally, I called a friend. They picked me up. They took me home.
 

The next day I was admitted to an inpatient psychiatric care facility. I was met with kindness, acceptance, grace, strength, and love. I met people who could encourage me in my faith, to build self-esteem, to know I wasn’t alone in my struggle. I learned to take care of myself. It was beautiful and hard. I was there for 10 days. I felt good when I left.
 

In less than 24 hours I had made a checklist plan to end my life. I faked my way through the morning around my loved ones. I went to Walgreens for supplies. The cashier was so kind and concerned. He asked me several times if I was ok or if I needed anything. I now see Jesus in that cashier’s face. I remember thinking I was so glad he was the last person I’d talk to.
 

I drove to another park. I wrote a letter. I went to get into the back seat. I looked at the trail. The fall leaves were perfectly golden and formed a tunnel. I could hear Jesus beckoning me, “let’s go for a walk, come to me.” I ignored him. I got into my backseat. I took pills. I drank. I thought I would finally have peace.
 

The world vibrated. My vision shook. My stomach roiled. I puked. Praise God that I puked. I instantly regretted what I’d done. I instantly remembered the tiny, glorious beauties of life that I would miss: my nieces’ laughter, warm sand, Monday night tacos, singing at the top of my lungs, and so much more. I didn’t want to die, “O God please don’t let me die.”
 

I laid in my car for an hour. I decided the shame of getting help would be too much. I just got help. I messed it up. I learned my lesson. I would just go home. Praise the God who got me home. I should have crashed. I should have hurt myself or someone else in the state I was in.
 

I made it home. After an hour of faking with my roommates, I finally told them. They called 911. Everyone was so nice. Why didn’t they hate me like I did? How could they treat me with mercy? All of my same nurses, therapists, technicians, and doctors were just happy to see me in a place where I could heal. I didn’t get it, and I was still grateful.
 

I don’t get it, and still I’m grateful.
 

God rescued me. When I believed I was beyond the desire or capacity to save, God saved me. When I believed I was worthless, unlovable, never enough, He treated me as his beloved child. He gave me a second chance to live. There was no stomach-pumping. I didn’t spend days in critical care. I just needed an IV and lots of sleep.
God showed up. He got me home. He sent me encouragement through letters and phone calls. He taught me about myself, about my condition, about the validity of my struggle, about the hope and help that abound. He gave me community.
God revealed his goodness in a room with a view of beautiful fall trees; a reminder of his call to, even now, come to him. He put verses in my head and songs in my mouth. He restored my soul.
 

He is still restoring my soul.
 

The work isn’t all on us. The weight isn’t all on us. It may feel that way. It is an illusion. Jesus carries the cross. Jesus defeats death. Jesus rolls away the stone and reveals life. I am a recipient, an often unwilling one. Praise the God who is patient and who fights for me when I won’t or can’t fight for myself.
 

It is hard, and I can do it with Jesus.
 

I can do it. Say it, even if you don’t believe it.
 

It’s ok to be weak. It’s ok to be broken. It’s ok to feel lost in the dark.
 

God is strong. God is able to redeem and restore. Even the dark is as light to God.
 

If you ever need someone, I am here. No one should ever feel alone, lost, abandoned, less than, unloved, ashamed, guilty, or forgotten. No one should feel that their only way out is death.
 

You are worth the effort. You are worth happiness. You are worth being around.
 

God loves you. God LOVES you. GOD LOVES YOU.
 

And so do I.
 

Thank you for reading. Go and spread Light.