More than a year.
I have to remember the tingling in my mind.
The needles in my brain.
Giving me no peace.
No time to be.
There was a hand gripping my heart.
A very large hand, and I woke up in the middle of the night
Only to see night
Struggling to see Light.
It was gone. Overshadowed by darkness and pain. He was gone.
“How could You forsake me”? I cried. And cried.
My tears went unanswered.
My fears kept demanding attention.
Implanted there by white men who enslaved my people with chains and whipped them with whips ‘til the skin peeled off their backs.
Nobody had their backs.
Nobody spoke their language.
I couldn’t have made it at the bottom of that ship because just the fear I was experiencing was only a portion of what they went through.
Just the awful grotesque darkness that invaded me for weeks
And more than a year, almost drove me to suicide.
Because a person needs their mind.
A person needs a sense of identity.
And when they don’t have that, then who are they?
Who are they but a wondering soul waiting for each day to bring them truth.
One day rolled into the next.
And I realized that if God keeps waking me up there must be a purpose.
There must be a reason.
He stood there–distantly–guiding me with His eye, showing me the way.
I trusted in His way because it had never let me down.
I sat down.
Peace in my mind.
Hope in my heart.
Love in my members.
I sat down, resting in that place and I had to be reminded of the needles in my mind. They threatened me with intensity and my propensity to give in to fear-lessened.
Just like the demoniac, I was touched.
In a way I didn’t want, but a way that needed to be.
I was free.