Yeah, that razor blade laid blood stained on the bedside table far too many times, little gobs of crimson regret staining the once shiny blade so that the pain on the inside could come out, all the hurt could be seen and felt in a physical way instead of being trapped in the crowded caverns in my head.
I wished I was dead. I begged God to release me. To whisper my name and call me home. Blood dripping down my arm in lines of three as my soul cried out in the only physical way it knew. I wrote out Job 3 and it read like a suicide note, ending with “I cannot rest, for trouble comes.”
As the shock would take over my body and my blood would clot I would find myself using antibiotic ointment and non-stick bandages to cover up the tortured flesh. I would also find myself no longer feeling like I needed a way out. I would feel peace knowing that God wasn’t taking me yet.
He was and is my tourniquet, the reason why I never bled to death, why suicide attempts never even placed me in the hospital. When the doctor told me after a very graphic and intense suicide attempt that the only reason I was alive was because God wanted me here, I called him, and God, some names.
How could being alive, suffering so much inside my own head and clambering to crawl out, be what God would want for me? How could a God whose command was LOVE allow so much pain? Over and over again.
The words of a priest from years before began to plague my thoughts (and all the meds must’ve started to work), the priest said that it wasn’t God who had tortured me but rather men cloaked in the word of God distorting it to do the works of Satan.
Satan held the key to my freedom -and I was letting him and worst of all, sometimes, I still do.
When I allowed this to set in it was easy to stop seeing the Bible and God and His love as some medieval torture device but rather that same old tourniquet that held me together. It reminded me that I have a purpose, a God given purpose for my life and that He was keeping me here (whether I liked it or not) so that I could fulfill that purpose.
Now, I don’t know what exactly that purpose is. BUT I do know it’s been several years since I have picked up a razor for any reason other than to shave. I take my meds everyday and work with my doctor and try to keep the past in the past and those 60 some scars on my wrist are something I don’t want to hide, because they are a part of my story that will bring God glory. He kept me here and those scars are an ugly-beautiful reminder that I have a purpose.
We all have a God given purpose. We just need to give Him a chance to change us and we need to be willing to obey.
Scars are like rungs of a ladder -helping us climb to the top.