Sundays

The words inside me are quiet today. As they are on Sundays. Less activity, less going on. Just less.

I lay in bed staring out the window. The rolling hills of Melville look back at me. The quiet almost tangible. I promised myself this morning I'd do everything on my to do list and I'll go to church tonight.

I lie in bed watching time to by: the sun shift and the moon make its way into the night sky after the sun set. I didn't go to church.

I don't know what to say anymore. I honestly don't have a good answer to the question “Hows the jobhunt going?”

Because it's going: going on, yes. Going well, I don't know – I don't have a job yet, if that answers the question?

I appreciate the concern and the inevitable pep-talk. I appreciate the outreach. I just don't have an answer.

Im tired of keeping the happy front: the one where I smile and agree with the inevitable pep-talk. The one where I hug and say thank you. The one where I say the right thing will come along.

Because, really? Will it? I trust and I pray and I manage the job hunt like I manage TV productions: with a to-do list, a schedule and aims.

But sometimes, just sometimes I'd like to tell people that I crumble and cry because I wonder whats going to happen when the Grace money (as a friend of mine called it) is finished. I wonder how long this process will take. I wonder where it will lead and if I'll need to leave my beautiful, blue-sky Jozi to work elsewhere.

I can't tell people. So I nod, smile and say thank you. And attack this job hunt like I do TV productions.

A friend of mine checks in on me every day: she sends love, motivation, little bits of laughter from her life and prays.

So in the meantime: I pray, she prays and my mother tells me weekly that she is praying for me.

But an answer, no, I still don't have one.

Broken

I’m broken. I was diagnosed with depression a couple of weeks back. Me: the person that never quits.

This feels like breaking. I broke my ankle when I was 15 and I remember the absolute shock that my body could break… Up to that point I haven’t considered that our bodies are amazingly made, but when you push too hard: it breaks.

Hearts. Ankles. Hair. Minds: we are so incredibly breakable.

Laying in the bath last night, crying, again, like I did for three months this year I realized that even with therapy, yoga, healthier eating habits, a wonderful mother and loads of prayers I’m still broken.

I remember the day my therapist asked me if I’ve ever considered suicide. The answer was a very clear no.

This changed yesterday: I considered suicide, for a moment. I was at the receiving end of an outburst, from my superior, that happens ever so often.  I remember looking out the window thinking, what would happen if I wasn’t here anymore…

It was brief, but it happened.

My logical mind jumped to who was going to clean your apartment?

I week ago I would’ve classified as healing.

Glass half full stuff, because I was feeling better.

This week its glass half empty stuff: broken.