Numb

by: Princess Bonsu

Content Warning: Brief mention SA/Suicidal ideation

The ancient door squealed on its hinges as she turned the rusted knob, letting out a sigh as she entered her home. It was quiet–a sharp contrast to the three services she attended this morning. Being a deaconess in the church is stressful and at times she forgets why she accepted the position. Her keys crashed on the kitchen table after she tossed them from the stairs. For some odd reason she felt particularly drained today. Her usual glass of wine and couch time could wait. She was tired.

Immediately upon entering her bedroom, she stumbled over a pile of laundry that’s been festering and taunting her for weeks now. With a grumble and muttered curses, she picked herself up and angrily kicked the pile of clothes to the side, causing even more of a mess than in the first place. 

“God…” she trailed off. Though she said the Lord’s name in frustration, there was a bit of genuine pleading in her voice. How had her room gotten this bad? Water bottles, empty food containers, and a mixture of dirty and clean clothing were strewn about. She felt sick to her stomach looking at the garbage, but she felt even worse at the thought of cleaning it up. 

God knows my heart, she told herself. Cleanliness was next to godliness, but she didn’t see why she should be made to feel bad about such a small sin when people lived their lives in a perpetual cycle of it. God understands. She cringed at herself for even using such a phrase.

She stared at herself in her floor length mirror, which leaned precariously against the wall. Her dress was crisp, ironed to perfection. It covered her neck and fell just below her calves. A blazer made her shoulders look broad and a tulle hat made her feel tall. In one swift motion, she took the hat from her head and released her hair from the tight bun holding it together. Soon, the rest of her clothing followed, until she was left standing bare before her reflection. 

It was not uncommon for her to stand in front of the mirror this way. It was never out of vanity–no–more out of disbelief. Disbelief as to who she’d become behind closed doors. Days-old love bites cascading down her neck and bosom served as a cruel reminder of the only way she knew how to escape her trauma: returning to the very thing that caused it. Over and over again. She didn’t know what else to do anymore and the raised skin on her inner wrists were a testament that she’d tried. 

She looked herself in the eyes and noticed tears had been welling there against her will. Despite that, not a single drop fell. This was common. God is a healer. There was no reason for her to allow herself to spiral over pain that she already committed into his hands. Though the tears seemingly stopped, the pain she felt in her chest began to spread and her breathing became shallow. The tears she tried to desperately fight were now burning her eyes as her legs grew heavy. 

Somehow, she stumbled to her bed and fell sideways, head hanging off the edge. She was thankful to be in only a bra and underwear as her body began to heat at the onset of panic. Every thought was fleeting and incoherent, and her mind ran off without her. And all too suddenly, she could see that man was on top of her again. The full weight of his body refused to let her lungs expand. In her head, she was screaming at him to stop, to get off of her. But in reality, the room remained deafeningly silent. A brutal concoction of PTSD and panic brewed inside of her, and tears now freely streamed down her face. The room felt like it was viciously spinning as hidden memories began to manifest themselves as hallucinations. It was happening to her again and again but she couldn’t stop it.  God, why? She begged, shakily pulling herself up and tucking her body into the fetal position. God, please, tell me why.

Somewhere deep in her heart she knew that she resented her faith. Each Sunday, her chest boiled with anger as the pastor fed the congregation  lies about the goodness of God and how he would not want us to struggle. Yet here she was. Lost and fighting this battle alone it seemed. This anger has been brewing inside of her ever since the incident. Unlike God, she was human, and like most humans, she held a grudge. She didn’t have an infinite reserve of forgiveness like the Lord. Any semblance of mercy within her had died along with her spirit that cruel day. And maybe she was fine with that.

Despite being alone with her thoughts, she couldn’t help but to hate herself for thinking this way. God loved her, Jesus died for her, and the Holy Spirit was present within her. So why did she continue to feel such pain? 

By now, her tears had dried and her eyes were glossed over. Only the vague feeling of emptiness remained. Her body was weak from the prolonged tension in her muscles. Drained from her delusions, she lay still in bed until sleep eventually consumed her.