On the Days When I'm Not Ok

 I'm not ok today.

I'm tired -- no, exhausted. I'm frustrated and weary and fed up. Everything feels too complicated, too overwhelming, too much hard work and not enough fun. I want to run away, but there's nowhere to run to because the cause of my weariness is everywhere. There's no one to talk to because everyone is dealing with the same thing. There is no "dumping out", no relieving the burden with someone who is further away from the centre of the crisis than I am because everyone is stuck in the same crisis. "We're all in this together" isn't a rallying cry; it's more like the cries of the hundreds of freezing, drowning souls who were in the icy waters of the North Atlantic as the Titanic sank. "We're all in this together" isn't very comforting when everyone is drowning.

And, frankly, I don't care that we're all in this together. Knowing that the entire world is suffering doesn't make my suffering go away. Knowing that everyone is struggling to figure out how to navigate these wretched horrible days doesn't make my struggle any less. Knowing, even, that I might have it better than some, or even most, doesn't make my hurt disappear.

But somehow, I'm supposed to be ok. Because we're all in this together. Everyone is struggling. It's hard for us all. People are counting on you. You're a leader. The implication is clear: you don't get to be "not ok". And that makes me feel even worse. I have been trying valiantly to be ok, to approach the increased workload with positivity, to try to make the best of a bad situation, to try to find creative ways around the mounting problems that COVID has brought. But it never ends. Day after day after day. New problems. More work. More bad news. More roadblocks and changes. But don't be sad, because we're all in it together. Don't complain because it could be so much worse. I feel like I'm conducting an experiment on myself to see how long I can go on like this without going completely barking mad. The tears, the frustration, the sadness are a great lump in my throat.

I'm not ok. I'm sad and lonely and isolated. It's been weeks upon weeks upon months since I've had any physical contact with another human being on anywhere close to a regular basis. It's been months since I've been able to sing and worship with my brothers and sisters in Christ. It's been forever since I've been able to sit down and talk with friends without having to shout across a 6' gap, to see colleagues, even to see human faces. Oh, I know, my lot is common to humanity right now. But being not unique does not make me feel better. I'm still sad.

I'm not ok today. I'm really not ok.

Oh, now you sound depressed. 

So I need to pretend to be ok now to prove to everyone that I'm not depressed. Because if I dare to say that I'm struggling, it must of course mean that I'm depressed. How about we're in the middle of a blasted pandemic and a lot of life really sucks and things aren't much fun and everything is harder and saying so doesn't make me depressed, it just means that I'm facing the truth? And how about facing the truth and feeling sad about it doesn't make me depressed, it just makes me human? I hate this. I hate it. I hate that everything is harder and nothing is as much fun and everywhere I turn, I have reminders of COVID shoved down my throat (or up my nose). It sucks. Can you honestly say it doesn't? Most days, I can say that it sucks and I can carry on.

But not today.

Wow, where is your faith, girl? You call yourself a Christian? How can you be so pessimistic and down and cynical and angry? You even sound like you've got some swears in there you want to let loose.

Yup, yup, I do. Because I actually think it's pretty godly to be angry and sad about a world that is so very far removed from what God created it to be, so ravaged by sin and death and all that is evil. Because I think that my dear, dear Father knows exactly how I feel anyway and pretending that I'm not feeling this way only distances me from him, and I might as well just tell him how I'm feeling. You know what? He's not going to say to me, "Everyone feels that way right now." Because he doesn't feel that way. He's not overwhelmed by the problems he's facing. He's not lonely and isolated. He's not weary and frustrated and ready to throw in the towel. He is, literally, the only One who is not struggling right now. He is the only one who can pour into me instead of draining me. So why would I not tell him? Why would I not fall flat on my face and say, "I'm not ok today"?

But you know what he does say? He says to me, "We're in this together." Not drowning together like the poor steerage passengers in the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. Not saved together like some of the rich folk floating in the boats on the North Atlantic. Not like that at all. When my Father says to me, "We're in this together," he is telling me that he's the life preserver keeping me afloat. The wetsuit that will keep me from hypothermia. He's there to save, powerful, able, not affected by the waves and the cold but in them with me and able to save me from them.

Where is my faith? It is in my cry.

I'm not ok today.