I’d had enough.
I sat alone, curled up in a corner with my knees to my chest. I didn’t know how I could continue like this.
I had done everything I was supposed to do: I was praying, I was reading the Bible, I was going to church and serving in ministry. I felt like I had given God all I had and still had come up empty.
I wanted to die.
I didn’t think my request for God to take my life was too out of line. Elijah had felt the same way. After facing opposition from Queen Jezebel, he ran away, sat under a broom tree, and prayed that he might die (1 Kings 19:4). He’d had enough too.
My mental health had been deteriorating for several months at that point. What had started out as anxiety had morphed into distress, depression, agitation, and fear. Through therapy, I had made progress in several areas. I was proud of that progress, but there was still something nagging at the core of my being that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I clutched the necklace I was wearing as I pushed myself further against the wall, hoping it would suck me in. Taking some deep breaths, I tried to calm myself from the panic rising in my chest. What if I felt this way forever? I couldn’t handle this constant state of distress. I had tried to get better and failed.
Maybe it was time to give up.
God didn’t answer my prayer to take my life that day. He didn’t answer it the next day either. Or the day after that.
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