JUST STAY

I wrote this essay almost a year ago...I hope it can help someone because it will get better!

What do you do when you’re so angry at everything that you just want to scream?

I mean the kind that rattles your bones.

The kind that makes your hands shake and your throat ache and your chest feel like it’s about to split open.

You eat something you don’t even want.

You cry.

Then you get mad at yourself for crying.

Then you get mad that you’re mad.

It becomes this ridiculous little circle of fury and shame until eventually you can’t even remember what started it.

What do you do when everything feels like a setup?

When it feels like God, the world, and your own shadow have somehow joined forces against you?

When every decision you made was the wrong one, and you made it confidently, repeatedly, like you were auditioning for the role of Man Who Never Learns?

What do you do when the world you used to see in color goes gray?

No sunrise.

No blue sky.

Just static.

What do you do when you can’t stand to see another person because you can’t bear to be seen?

When everyone else looks better, kinder, cleaner, and you feel like the stain no one can wash out?

When nowhere feels safe because all the exits have collapsed?

Then comes the worst part.

You finally admit the truth.

You hurt people.

You failed people.

You lied.

You let down people who counted on you.

And some things cannot be fixed just because you’re sorry.

You look in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.

And strangely, that almost feels easier.

What do you do when you’re trying to take life one day at a time, but every day feels heavier than the last?

When hope starts sounding like something invented by people who have never been gutted?

You stop wondering when things will get better.

You start wondering whether you even need to be here when they do.

And that thought should terrify you.

But it doesn’t.

That’s what terrifies you.

When the idea of disappearing doesn’t even scare you anymore.

You want permission to stop.

To disappear.

To become quiet enough that nothing can hurt anymore.

You want God to say, It’s okay. You’ve had enough.

But He doesn’t.

He says nothing.

And somehow the silence feels worse than an answer.

So you do the last thing left.

The thing you swore stopped working.

You pray.

Not the Sunday school kind.

Not the polite kind.

You pray with clenched teeth and shaking hands.

You pray like someone pounding on a locked door.

God, are You even there?

Because I can’t do this anymore.

I’m done.

I’ve ruined things I cannot repair.

And if You’re still here, You need to do something.

Now.

And then...

nothing.

No voice.

No sign.

No light pouring through the ceiling.

Just your own breathing in the dark.

But maybe that is something.

Because if you’re breathing, you’re still here.

And if you’re still here, maybe God hasn’t left either.

Maybe He doesn’t always fix the mess.

Maybe sometimes He just sits in it with you until the fury cools and your hands finally unclench.

Maybe that’s grace.

Not rescue.

Presence.

So you breathe again.

You whisper one more prayer, mostly because you need to know you still can.

God, please… just stay.

And in the silence that follows, something becomes clear.

He already is.