The Mire

By Nicole Hilton, Thursday, July 16, 2020

Surviving Trauma can be an extreme roller coaster–lots of lows, some highs and not a lot in between. Survivors can experience spiritual highs which balance out the terrible lows. It’s possible to become accustomed or addicted the extremes which give meaning and definition to a traumatic life. To adjust to a life of peace means to become accustomed to a much slower and simple ride. Survivors may struggle to accept and find meaning in a more stable, peaceful life.

            I was getting my TMS treatment today when my technician Trevor told me that in order to have meaning in my life, I need to be using my gifts and talents—even if it’s for five minutes a day. I told him how I haven’t been writing every day, because I feel like there needs to be a big “ah-ha!” moment in order to write—that everything needs to be “blog-worthy”.

          But that can’t be true. I’m fighting my own thinking here, but I’m starting to realize that life isn’t really composed of the big, exciting ah-ha moments. Those moments are markers, if you will, that show us where we’ve been and where we need to go. They stand out. But they are not the slogging-through-the-mire roads that we walk everyday.

            Going back and re-reading how I’ve met so-and-so in dreams and visions, how I’ve seen my perfected body, and how Satan has so obviously attacked me isn’t going to help me or others all that much when we are suffering from day-to-day debilitating depression, from the anxiety we feel when night falls, or how our self-esteem seems to be in a forever-slump. This is what I’m dealing with every day, and this is where I need to find meaning.

            So here I am, going out on a limb, trying to use my gifts and talents to find meaning or have some sort of expression which will lend purpose to the mire. Here’s the truth: yesterday, I was so suicidal that I cried in front of strangers. I was so lost and felt so purposeless that I had to force myself to perform Story Time at the Children’s Museum. I clung to comforting thoughts given to me by friends I had reached out to, then repeated them over and over in my mind in order to survive. I kept on saying prayers in my mind to God, but the doors stayed shut, and I couldn’t hear anything. I was so depressed. I couldn’t remember ever not feeling that way, and I had no hope that it would ever end.

            But it did come to an end. Or, at least, I feel 50% better today. It got better without an awareness of heavenly angels visiting me, Jesus Christ showing up, or any other amazing vision to snap me out of it. I just…slogged through. And I was able to because I asked for help. From my boyfriend to my sister-in-law to my mom to my therapist to a YouTube pastor to the lady behind the counter, I got just the right amount of help to get me through the next minute. And then the next. And then the next. And pretty soon, those hellish minutes gave way to a respite. It’s all I can do to just be grateful for it…until I go through the mire again.