Chest pains

Sadness leaks into my ribcage, causing me to catch my breath. The kind that doesn't disappear after a night's sleep or a great kiss. You still wake up with a teeny tiny sense of dread. Just a hint. It gnaws.

I still giggle. I laugh loudly, causing people to turn. I make faces. It stretches for hours, days or weeks. "How can I make it stay forever?" I wonder aloud.

I flicker. My face falters, you catch the shadow. My reassuring smile does not reach to my eyes.

I am put together. Professional. Aged. Mature. Hire-able. Date-able. Marry-able. I show all the marks of having gone through the training. Every hair is in its place. My lashes are mascara-ed, I am five minutes early. I lack vocal fillers and speak confidently. My handshake is firm. I have memorized the material. I ace the tests you have created. The hoops you make me jump. The ice you put under my heels. I jump the trapdoor that wreaks of doom. I reach the top of the stairs before they turn to a plunging slope. I run away from the unknown terror in my dreams.

But sometimes I fall. Glass shatters somewhere.

I pull my legs up towards my chest. I yank the covers towards me, so that I don't have to depend on you. I don't have to share. I can't share. I hate sharing. I scream. I throw my fists. I can't breathe.

I walk to the edge of the shore, and put me toes in the ice cold water. The sand is rocky. I pull my sweater close and nostalgia takes over. I remember when colors were primary and doors were open. Paths were wide and clearly marked. Bonds were direct and strong. I had companions, and no empty Friday nights to fill. Our songs were simple.

I dream about weddings to faceless men, the guests wearing raincoats. I dream about plays and shows where I never learned my lines. I try to explain what is happening, but the words will not come. The other actors look at me with even stares, watching me falter. They do not show worry in their eyes, only waiting. The audience jeers. Someone in the corner holds flowers, waiting for me anyway. Someone in the very back believes in me.

I misspell things, my makeup is smudged. I am two minutes late. My watch ticks too loudly. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead. I give my speech. I can't remember what I am wearing. How did I get here? Did I drive? Did someone take me? I can't remember. They can all read my thoughts; I can tell. It's the big secret no one ever tells me.

I look up at the stars, and wish I could see them better. I know they are so much clearer outside of the city, beyond the mess of humanity. I imagine the clouds parting around the stars, piercing little holes in the sky. Unfamiliar music plays softly from old fashioned speakers, bright against the indigo sky. It sounds foreign to me. Someone is next to me, and he puts an arm around me. My shoulders relax. He reaches over and pulls something out of my pocket, something I hadn't even known was there. It is small and heavy, and I feel as though a burden has been lifted when it is gone. Without hesitation, he puts it in his own pocket. I worry suddenly for the man, and look him in the eyes for the first time. His face is not what I recognize to be beautiful, but I suddenly feel like maybe it should be. That this, this is beauty, and everything else I have known is false. I glance back at the stars, and they seem clearer.

I wake up far before the rest of the world. My pillows are scattered across the room, I am uncovered.

My chest aches. I can't remember why.

Protecting me from monsters.

I like to push people away. I go home early, cancel first dates, ignore phone calls. I plan evenings all by myself. I dismiss opportunities, run away from conflict, and avoid hospitals and nursing homes. I hate change. I can be bossy, controlling, critical. My mood changes quickly, and I am deeply affected by the feelings of those around me. I get lost and frustrated and angry and don't communicate well. I shut down and become despondent, give up easily. I over-analyze everything. I whine. I put myself first. I can't make decisions on my own, and take it out on those I love. I make snap judgements, and find excuses to skip school, skip town, skip life. I feel guilty. I have regrets. I fear the future. It is incredibly difficult for me to depend on anyone else. I rarely ask for help. I get jealous and disheartened whenever I feel compared to those around me, particularly the beautiful and talented. I am messy.

I'm a pretty broken and screwed up person, if you want to know the truth... But there is something I have found that takes it all away.

The love of my creator is radically beautiful. Remarkably, impossibly, beautiful.

My Lord turns his face from my past, and makes me new. He thinks about me often. So often, in fact, that He has written me a love letter. His love pours into all my cracks, and I am whole. He knows the number of hairs on my head.

I screw up time and time again, and he patiently takes it all away whenever I ask. Like an indulging parent, he lets me run around screaming my head off, writing in permanent marker all over the walls, throwing my gifts from Him everywhere like an ungrateful little brat. I kick His shins, pout, whine, throw fists. I rip at my hair, stomp my feet, and curse Him for making me the way I am. He just sits patiently, never folding His open arms.

When I finally fall asleep from throwing my temper tantrum, He picks me up gently, kisses my forehead, whispers how much He loves me, and tucks me in. He reminds me that He made me, and I should honor his creation, for He makes everything glorious. He brushes the hair out of my eyes, smiles, and takes away all the pain. Time and time again, He holds nothing against me.

He sits outside my door, listening to me sleep, protecting me from monsters.