Bed in Sheol

I slept for 8 hours again on Friday, waking at lunchtime. I do not sleep easily these days. I lie awake worrying, and struggle to keep my eyes open at my desk. The words of essays swim in  front of me; I am not sure if it is the students’ writing that does not make sense, or whether I am no longer able to make sense of the students’ writing. I’m not sure whether I read this earlier – in  a different essay – or this one. I am exhausted.

I know of some of the things that are exhaustig me. I know that each time I am asked to relive the pain of the past 18 months at church, I am left dishevelled and shattered, in a tear-stained heap. That this has dragged on, and on, and on. That relationships feel more strained than ever. I feel as if I am on trial, about to be judged as ridiculous and stupid. I am desperate for it to end, peacefully. I only have one option to end it peacefully, without help. I have made my bed. I can’t sleep.


I know that the stress of the past few weeks of house-hunting has been fruitful. That I will soon be able to move nearer to the London bus route. And I know that this should be a good thing. I am moving to live with a very dear friend; we look after and out for each other. We know each other. And we are allowed to have a cat. We  always wanted a cat. But I dare not relax. What if it doesn’t work out? When one of us has to change jobs? If there is some flaw in the property neither of us has spotted? The landlord keeps changing his terms. We haven’t even signed a contract yet. Where am I going to find the time to move? I can’t sleep.

I know that I have more work to do than time to do it in. That I must prioritise carefully. But what if I am prioritising the wrong things? I know that the commute is further detriment to my ability to concentrate, to work. I am hallucinating more and more. Spiders, mice, people, radio voices. The voices on the bus go round and round. I am tripping up. And panicking with no discernable reason to panic. I am exhausted with worry.

And I can pile it all up at God’s doorstep, hand it over. But that doesn’t stop it from circling my mind over and over, round and round. I feel like I am right on the edge. Put a toe wrong, say something out of line, and everything will be ruined forever.


This entry was posted in church, faith, mental health, mental illness, plans, trust, work and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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