The feel and weight of it.

All of this is much like rubbing my palm into broken glass or the time I did the splits during dance class and a perplexingly long sliver of wood that had popped itself up from the floor entered my bare leg.

I received stitches for that one.

The pain was measurable but this one, not quite. I’ve dissected myself and posted my findings on the internet. Everyone knows my heart, the feel and weight of it.

I’ve always been prone to perfectionism. I’m OCD and have struggled with body dysmorphia most of my life. I’m learning that these things are things I can give to God. I don’t have to hold them any longer. And what relief to anchor into Him and not the psychosis of my own mind.

But now that I’m me yet not anymore, the new version that’s shadowed behind my Jehovah’s mighty arm, I can’t refrain from shouting the truth of who He is and what He wants even at the cost of my own life.

It’s not like this for everyone. That’s the hard part. And knowing where I am now, knowing I’m the very person I used to mock, I can understand as far as a damaged mind can what it means when the world grows colder and the pain reaches places you can’t even see.

And here I sit, pained beyond measure, the whole of me in my right hand reaching out towards His.

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