There was a rainbow over my house yesterday afternoon. A full, proper rainbow. Not half a one, or one half-hidden behind the clouds. A rainbow: reflection of the refraction of light through the rain. Beauty in broken light.
[CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDE]
And I am stopped. Because of what the rainbow reminds me. Because it is a symbol of trust. I am supposed to trust. Just as I was supposed to trust my feet to the pedals of my bike earlier that day (and found I could not, anymore), I am supposed to trust that everything will be OK. That all shall be well.
I can no longer function like this. My mind is a tangled chaos of suicidal ideation, constantly voicing thoughts that I am hated and that it would be better for everyone if I were dead. That people would be better off without me. I wouldn’t hurt them anymore. My mind has given up on me. I hate me, too.
Five months from when it was requested, the church elders are “discussing ways that I am allowed to communicate”. Meanwhile, the sanctioned ostracism continues, adding to the despair, affirming the hatred. It makes anger roil through me, that I am at a loss to control. But I am supposed to trust that those elders have my back. Despite the fact that it was breaking my trust that led to this ostracism, I am supposed to trust that someone is on my side to help sort it out. I find it hard to trust.
I have learnt not to trust. Not to trust high school friends who invite me to places (and stand me up, purposely, laughing). Not to trust parents who say they’ll stay together (and now live in different countries). Not to trust those who are supposed to keep confidences because their profession requires it (and tell as many people as they speak to what I have told them). Trust is bad, it get’s broken, and then it hurts. I have had enough of trying to trust. I don’t expect to be able to trust anyone, anymore.
I am spent. The title of a poem, one of two, that will be part of a poetry reading this coming week; the result of a university competition. I must have written it well over a year ago now. Still there has been no healing. Still, all I can offer to God is brokenness, emptiness, hopelessness. Still, I ask that God sorts this out. Still I wait on God. It feels like God wants me broken. It feels like this brokenness is punishment for all the anger. It is hard to trust that this is not true.
But I can do nothing but consent to trust in God; leave things in Christ’s hands. In manus tuas Pater, commendo Spiritum meum. Trust that He will sort this for me. I can do no more.