I am imperfect.

A completely jagged woman, of imperfect puzzle pieces, held together with string, crazy glue and some duck tape. Imperfect puzzle pieces that make up – me.

With ruined skin holding in a physically impaired body, a broken soul that wanders as if its been locked in the desert for all of eternity searching desperately for water, a brain that often feels as if it has turned against me and is an entity unto its own self.

Brokenness and imperfection mar every part of me.

Almost two years ago, I was diagnosed with some hefty demons that reside inside of my brain. Since then, I’ve become better at managing the darker parts of myself, pretending a little better, fighting a little more to retain normality and project a falicy to those that look on.

The thing is though, there are cracks.

Mighty crevices settled deep within my skin.

A raging river storming through those cracks.

My mental illness’ are an uningnorable thing. It’s completely impossible for me to ignore the insanity inside my own head.

I am imperfect.

I can feel that thing inside of me, that broken thing, creeping forward, taking over. It’s familiar, like an old friend come to visit for awhile. It’s never unexpected and always seems to spend time somewhere in the vicinity, for awhile that awful thing inside of me will flit and float and then it decides to land, set down roots, build its tent, stay for awhile.

And then it begins.

The depression, the suicidal itch beneath my skin that I can’t seem to scratch for if I do, it will end in only one way.

It all feels inevitable. The deep seated feeling. This knowing that something is wrong with me, knowing that I am not like everyone else. Knowing that that thing inside of me, that uncontrollable thing is taking over inch by inch.

It feels like I’m trapped inside of my own head – screaming. Just screaming, clawing at the walls in desperation, until my fingernails are ripped from the ends of my finger tips and all that is left is blood. Blood where my nails used to be, blood pooling in the back of my ruined throat from screaming it raw. And yet I can’t stop. Can’t stop clawing. Can’t stop screaming. If I do, when I do, I am covered in the old blood of my injuries, defeated and broken upon the tile of my mind.

Over and over, locked away in a box that not many understand. And it’s all happening inside of my head. When others look at me, I don’t know what they see.

I do know what they don’t see.

They don’t see the broken girl inside.

The screaming, the crying, or even the times when it becomes so silent that I think I may just die from it all. That I pray for death, I plan my death in delicious detail and welcome it to consume me, take me away.

They don’t see when I’m so numb, and tired, and sad, and done, that its a struggle to even engage in anything with anyone. That to feel – anything – is impossible. Because nothing matters and everything matters, until I’m on a carousel of crazy that will not let me depart. I’m glued to the seat going round and round, watching the world drift by me and not caring that I no longer reside amongst the ‘normals’.

It’s a circle, and my illness’ and I have it down to a routine.

It always lives. And grows beneath my skin.

I sometimes want to claw it out from under my pores, dig deep and rip it out. But I can’t. It’s my permanent companion, stitched into my DNA, cemented into the recesses of my conciseness, to take it out would be to take a piece of my very being and remove it. I wouldn’t be me.

Sometimes it is no longer just a backseat driver, sometimes it forcibly takes the wheel. Other times I gladly give it up or I apathetically do not care what these demons of mine will destroy next.

Nothing matters. Everything matters.

And around and around we go.

Round and round.

How do I explain this murkiness to anyone. How do I describe how afraid I am. Of everything. Of nothing. Of me.

How do I detail how sad it feels, how heartbreakingly ruined I feel.

How do I detail the nothing. The everything. When there is nothing to feel or think, it’s catatonia mixed with a void that can never be filled. Other times it’s overwhelming in its magnitude of anger and crippling frustration and fear.

When the phone rings, and all I can do is feel nothing except, desperation. Desperation that whoever it is will let it lie, will stop trying to reach me, will let me be. Leave me to lay in my grave and not think and not move.

Oh how I wish for moments that include no thought – at all. No worry, no fear of things that I cannot control.

No thoughts consuming everything – decimating everything in its path.

For me those moments are only when I sleep. Which means that I want to sleep forever.

I am imperfect.

I can feel it coming back strong. I can feel myself slipping into my dug out, empty grave, screaming, and crying, and then rocking in the corner while I numb myself to everything. Cutting myself off from the world so that I don’t have to feel – anything. Think anything more, add any more worries, or fear, or unknown, or pain to the avalanche of despair in my head.

Combine what goes on inside my head and add in my lack of a healthy body and it all adds up to this….

I am imperfect.

An imperfect woman with a broken body, covered in ruined skin, with a brain that works differently then others, and emotions that crack under the pressure of it all.

I am imperfect.

As I roll towards the darker side of my spectrum, as I fall back down into the rabbit hole of my life and my brain, I am faced with my imperfection. Faced with travel companions that have been with me my entire life, and will continue to travel with me for the rest of my days. However long that may be.

I am imperfect.

I am broken. Sad. Depressed. Suicidal.

Slammed into an imperfection that permeates my skin, my thoughts, my actions, my feelings.

Locked in a box that I will never escape.

A living dead girl playing in her grave.

Her only company the demons of her mind, running rampant and off a leash that is flapping in the wind from the break of years ago.

I am imperfect.

I’m hanging on a ledge of imperfection and my fingers are slipping, I am going to fall and when I do I have to trust that God knows.

That He knows.

That I am imperfect.

That He knows this fact about me and He doesn’t care. Not one tiny bit.

Being the way that I am, I have to believe that there is a reason. A reason for this messed up brokenness. A purpose for a life that has almost ended over and over.

The reason, the purpose escapes my grasp. Slipping through my fingers, sifting like sand that can not be grasped.

I have to have faith that no matter what…

I am perfectly imperfect.

Perfectly thought out.

Perfectly imagined.

That all of my dark brokenness is all apart of a bigger picture that I do not have the pieces to.

I have to trust that God will use the pieces of me that I deem unlovely (which would be all of me) and that he will ultimately do something, anything with it.

I am struggling to tread water and swim amongst the muck and mire of mind.

I am slipping and falling back into the darkness.

A living dead girl playing in her grave.

Locked in a box that I can never escape.

I am perfectly damaged.

Perfectly broken.

Perfectly imperfect.

I shall be gone for a bit, so as I wander in the darkness I trust that the Lord will guide me back through to the other side were the light shines, and then I will begin this awful process all over again.

My sunlight will always be permeated with darkness.

And that is okay.

It’s okay that I am different.

It’s okay that I am imperfect.

Cuz’ there are things that I know.

That my Jesus loves me, even when I am dark and strange, scary and broken.

He loves me.

And the other thing I know.

I am not alone.

I am not the only one that feels this way.

We are imperfect.

And that’s okay.

We are perfectly imperfect.

I wouldn’t know how to be any other way.

Black Sheep Girl 

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