Her Evening Ritual

Depleted, having yet again combated her way through the everyday duties that exhaust her, she returns home.
Having labored through a day under the pretense that she believes that what she does matters, she covets her solitude.
It’s a familiar feeling, one she uses medication to help normalize but one that, nevertheless, remains problematic.
With her face scrubbed clean and wardrobe flung to the floor, she eases into her pajamas before the clock strikes five p.m.

Participating in evening activities takes too much effort while prepping for tomorrow entails far too much concentration.
Instead, she sits listlessly on her couch and closes her eyes, doubting her purpose, needing life to be simpler. 
Five minutes become fifteen, fifteen become thirty, and still she remains curled up in a ball, glued to her cushion.
And so she picks up her Bible, turns to a bookmarked page, and begins to read, disengaged but doing her best to focus. 

O Lord, I call upon you; hasten to me! Give ear to my voice when I call to you!

The little hope she clings to seems to slip away on bad days like this when everything feels like it is crashing around her.
Reflecting on her day, her week, her year, unsure of when or how she got so sidetracked and completely turned around. 
Her mind begins to fill with unwelcomed scampering thoughts, convincing her that she’s unwanted, that she’s a mistake.
Drained of the resources to fight back, she instead wraps her arms around her legs and hugs them as tightly as she can. 

Periods of prolonged isolation do her no favors, her reflections driving her deeper into her madness.
Her paranoias suffocate her, preconceived notions that she can’t rid herself of; others are watching; others are judging.
Her chest thumps louder and louder, notions delivered by Satan narrating her to tuck herself away further from the world. 
Boisterous voices swirl through her head, echoing decisively and demanding more of her with each passing day.

O God, be not far from me; O my God, make haste to help me! 

The walk to drape herself in the covers of her bed, a usual daily occurrence, is one at which she fails.
She falls to the floor and coils into a fetal position, overwhelmed with guilt, the ruthless thoughts roaming her head.  
It becomes too much; her lips begin to quiver, her eyes start to blink uncontrollably, and this newer regular ritual begins. 
Her heart beats at levels previously unattained while her head spins wildly, today’s ride steers violently towards the unknown.

Cemented to the ground, she feels as if she has been gut-punched, her lungs sucking helplessly for oxygen.
The discomfort feels like it’s clutching her around her throat, gripping it more tightly with each successive breath. 
Manifestations of a trauma-filled existence that offer no trace to an acidic origin and, thus, haunt her even more.
A definition of hell on earth, if only she had something she could consume to numb her pain forever.

O Lord, I call upon you; hasten to me! Give ear to my voice when I call to you!

She stands momentarily and starts to make her way towards the haven that is her bed.
But after two steps, she stops in her tracks, unable to move, her back sliding down a nearby wall.
Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly; a routine that sometimes works, but today she is too edgy and paralyzed by fear. 
Her fingers comb through her thick dark hair and serve as unsuccessful attempts of calming the silent war in her mind.

Clenching her fists…not because of anger, but because she feels so ready to abandon hope altogether.
Dropping her head between her legs, the first sounds of soft whimpers emerge, despite her attempts to suppress them.
But the tears soon begin, slow and large at first, running from her dark brown eyes and onto a favorite bedtime shirt.
She grabs a nearby pillow and buries her face, any hope of a night without crying is now just a relinquished thought.     

You are my help and my deliverer; do not delay, O my God! 

The sobbing stifled at first, but it’s a delay of the inevitable, the giant wave of fear and hopelessness prepares its attack. 
Teardrops silently slip down her face, powerless she is to the avalanche that is about to occur. 
Frivolously she tries to alter her mindset, fighting frantically, in vain, for today not to be a repeat of so many others.
Distraught and exhausted, each passing day this cycle of despair swallows her more, emptying her of her will to fight.

The sights of her world are so dark and dreary, no longer can she even remember the color of days past. 
She searches her mind looking for pleasant memories, coping mechanisms, anything to rekindle some faith.
Taking a deep breath, she stutters on the exhale, shaking violently before floodgates open.
The tears spill out, the pressure in her head begins to release, her customary evening routine is in full swing.