ten·sion /ˈtɛnʃən/ [ten-shuhn]: the act of being stretched or strained

by rrim17

I am a thousand ropes.

Thin. Fraying at the edges, taut in the middle. Gridlocked, constantly gridlocked in a strain so intense that it does not waver even an inch to the left or to the right. Held rigidly in place by its elastic counterpart. Weak because each of the two halves is so strong.

 A rope.

 Meant for tying.

 Is unraveling.

I am a thousand ropes, and the tension, the tension is what defines me. I am a thousand ropes, but not only that–I am each end of the thousand ropes. I am pulling, pulling, pulling against myself, and if one side were to win I should be afraid because my winning will also mean my losing, but if neither side were to win I should be even more afraid because the strain of the rope and the pain of the burns is more than I can bear… It is more than I can bear.

Ropes. A thousand of them. A thousand chances to rebind. A thousand chances to unwind. A thousand connections. A thousand knots. And the more knots, the less of me, until I am smaller…and smaller…and then nothing.

It’s not about you. If there’s one thing you know, it’s that it’s not about you, and that is the most beautiful truth that exists, because if it were all about you, you would have left a long time ago. And yet…it has to be about me. My “I” refers to me, this person, this heart, this mind, this questioning existence, this questionable existence. How can it be about me? But how can it not be? Look at all this pain…just, look at it. Look at the nights of suppressed tears, look at the loneliness that all the words in the world could not deny. I want to help them… Of course I want to help them. But how can I, when I can’t even help myself? It’s not about me. But it is about me. Because me is my “I”.

Tension.

You know that this is all true–the things that people have been telling you, for months and for months, those same things that you’ve been telling yourself again and again…you know it’s true. That you are not alone. That He will be faithful. That there is a reason. That you are loved, no matter how elusive that love seems to be, no matter how meaningless it seems to be. You know it’s true. You just don’t believe it. Don’t understand it. Don’t trust it. It’s all up there, in your head, in your mind, in that place of rationality that you have always exceled at. Until it came to this. To the here and now. Then suddenly all those people who have told you that you are a thinker are made into liars. Because suddenly rationality and logic–those twin cores that defined your existence for so long–no longer mean anything. The cool thoughts and isolated beliefs are nothing compared to the onslaught of emotion–the anger, and the fear, and the hurting. Is truth defined by your mind or by your heart? I don’t know and so the half of me pulls and pulls and pulls, and the other half of me retaliates and I am at war against myself, and there are no survivors, no survivors.

Tension.

And the difference between desiring what will satisfy my humanness and desiring what You desire for me…the difference is enormous. A couple of miles could fill the gap between the two. I want out. I want escape. I want a release from the hurting and a stalemate between each half of me to stop fighting, stop fighting… Yet the tiny, microsopic part of me that wants what You want desires that I grow. That I learn. That I become more like Jesus. And I cannot have both. I can’t both escape the pain and grow. The human part of me wants to be strong. The spiritual part of me says that Your strength is made perfect in weakness. The human part of me says this is the end. The spiritual part of me says I already know the end, and it doesn’t sound like this. And I must choose. Which voice to listen to. Which desire to feed. I must choose. And the battle in me sounds something like this: God, it hurts…please stop the hurt. But maybe this is causing me to grow. I should “rejoice in all suffering”…. No, no, no more. Get me out…just get me out. Yet not my will but….y-y-yours. But please, God…don’t break me more than I can bear. And they fight, my human desire and my spiritual desire. And I feel more human than like a child of God. I feel too human.

Tension.

I don’t want the thousand pieces of rope to split because then I will split, and I will be broken, so broken… But I don’t want the thousand pieces of rope to be locked in an eternal struggle of self against self because my strength cannot last forever, it cannot last….

 And so the last tension…is the tension.

My last words are borrowed. The best ones always are.

 “In the darkness..

 Lord my God, who am I that You should forsake me? The child of Your love, and now become as the most hated one, the one You have thrown away as unwanted, unloved. I call, I cling, I want..and there is no One to answer, no One on Whom I can cling, no, No One. Alone.

 My God, how painful is this unknown pain. It pains without ceasing. I have no faith. I dare not utter the words and thoughts that crowd in my heart and make me suffer untold agony. So many unanswered questions live within me-I am afraid to uncover them–because of the blasphemy.

 When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven, there is such convicting emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives and hurt my very soul. Love, the word, it brings nothing. I am told God loves me and yet the reality of darkness and coldness and emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul.

 In spite of all, this darkness and emptiness is not as painful as the longing for God. The contradiction I fear will unbalance me. What are You doing my God to one so small? When You asked to imprint Your Passion on my heart..is this the answer?

 If this brings You glory, if You get a drop of joy from this, if souls are brought to You, if my suffering satiates Your Thirst, here I am Lord, with joy I accept all to the end of life..and I will smile at Your Hidden Face always.”   -Mother Teresa