A letter to nobody in particular...

I am kind of struggling right now. I have been here before, different circumstances, but similar feeling of helplessness. A year and a half ago I was in a similar place. One night I sat down at my desk, and between tears wrote a letter to nobody in particular. I ended up sending it to a couple of people who eventually helped me and my frustrations. I don't really know why I feel compelled to put this on here, maybe it will wring true for someone...maybe it will help me to better understand the struggles I have been battling with lately. This was a letter of frustration to nobody in particular:

To whomever,

I am sitting at my computer right now and I am stressed out about WyldLife, I am stressed out about classes, I am stressed out about working at Lowe’s, I am stressed out about my dad coming, I am stressed out about this summer, and I am stressed out about Nikki and my relationship. I have no idea what my next move should be, it feels like I am wandering further and further into a dark labyrinth. I have no idea which way I should even point to run, or which task I should begin to work on. My grades aren’t doing very well, and the person who I talk to about things is hurting too badly to hear anything I have to say about my own worries and struggles.

My dad is coming out next weekend and I found out that he will only be here for 48 hours, which is substantially less than I had originally depended on. This is not to say that I am not excited about his arrival, but I am stressed about the fact that one of the two nights that I have to see him I will be working at Lowe’s. I will be pushing shopping carts and dealing with angry contractors rather than residing in the comfort that comes along with spending time with my father. The comfort that I crave so badly right now, the comfort of home, is thirteen hundred miles away. Home has been correlated with refuge and rest. When I go home I don’t have to worry about classes, I don’t have to worry about tests, work, girlfriends, failed friendships, housing, roommates, soccer, ministry, or anything that has previously brought me joy. I crave the comfort of my basement. I crave the tranquility that the sun brings as it dips below the Rockies. I desire to be secluded, in the middle of nowhere, miles away from any distraction. I crave alone time with just me and my creator, basking in his glory. Free from online quizzes, the sound of the Lowe’s security system going off, free from the heartache that comes with your girlfriend not wanting to be with you but rather be at home.

I feel like I have failed at more things than I can admit too. I failed my roommates, I was unable to reach the level of community and intimacy that I knew was attainable. Every time I get a test back I feel like I have failed myself, and the thousands of dollars my dad has spent on my education. I feel like there were so many potential friendships at the end of last year, and with graduation approaching many of them have ended in nothing. I was hit with the brutal realization that great fellowship takes work, prayer, and above all dedication. One must be dedicated to the point of humbleness, and I think I have failed at that as well. The feeling of failure has caused me to reach a level of numbness. I don’t find joy in loving somebody on my team, like I used to. I don’t find joy in really great worship, or fits of laughter, or a good movie on a Friday night. Joy has become a relative term; it doesn’t mean the same thing it did a year ago. Rather than joy being its own state of being, it has become the absence of another …hurting.

Never in my life have I seen or felt the pain that a person can bear. I have never embraced a person sobbing so hard that they must be carried away in an ambulance, because they just killed their best friend. I have never held the hand of somebody who has just lost one of the people that they love the most. Helplessness has become something that I can finally understand. I have been experiencing the feeling of helplessness that is found only in not being able to help the person that I care about the most. There is something that is unexplainable in loving somebody who is incapable of loving in return. I don’t even know what it is like to have a real sibling, so how am I capable of bringing any comfort to someone who has just lost one? It is simple…I cannot.

I have never experienced what it is like to be slowly or abruptly nudged from the comfortable household that I grew up in. To return home to find one’s bedroom filled with paperwork, to expect the perfect homecoming, but rather find a totaled car in the driveway and an empty house. My dad who I can safely say is someone who knows more about me than anyone else doesn’t have a clue as to my struggles anymore. The comfort in knowing that somebody else is aware of your struggles has become non-existent. In the same way, the comfort that once flowed through the book of Corinthians has simply become letters and words.

My faith has changed from an intricate relationship with the son of man, to a basis for my decision making. A relationship between me and Jesus no longer presides over everything else, but instead what the next crucial decision I have to make will result in. How can you say do not worry about tomorrow, when the things you decide today will directly change tomorrow. Do I end a potentially amazing relationship? Do I drop out of school and do nothing? Should I really tell my dad how I feel about his new lifestyle? Should I go home tomorrow? Do I really need to study for this next test? Every single thing has reproductions that I am not ready to experience. Physical repercussions, emotional repercussions, financial repercussions, and spiritual repercussions are all waiting right around the corner of every decision I make.

The point of this is not to scare whoever reads it, if anybody reads it, but rather for me to finally put into words some of the things that have impacted me the last couple of months. Somebody who I care about deeply just reminded me of the fact that it will be alright. Things will be better. Joy isn’t found in smiles and laughter, clichés and fun experiences. Joy is found in being able to say, while wandering through a maze of shit, that you trust in the one holding you safely in his hands.


Chris

Vulnerability can be incredibility difficult. Right now it seems difficult to be vulnerable with myself. The emotional tapestry that is Chris is hardly recognizable, which brings its own confusion. I hope that I can hold onto the last two sentences of that letter. I have hope.