Amen to Donne

It is woven within my being,
This sin.
A parasite, it seems, of sun
And dreams.
It is to me as plant to soil.
I can’t
Expunge my soul, O God, forgive
My fraud
Forgive my fraud! And yet, hold off
(Regret
Is well but cannot stay my hand
A day)
Until the hour Thou wilt banish
My guilt
By taking this my fav’rite sin—
My grave—
And accomplices; thought, desire
I’ve fought
With tireless hope; avails me not.
Assails
Still, this sin, O God! And for what?
So, God,
My Father, take away this plague!
I say,
Unweave my fibers, change my heart!
Derange
My days. O’erthrow and bend, for Thou
Dost mend
As yet, but batter my heart! For I
Will fly
Only as Thou restraineth my wings.
4.29.09

(I have heavily referenced my favorite poem, Holy Sonnet XIV, by John Donne)

See how I wrote this over two years ago? I feel so now. Where is the growth? Where is my growth? WHY HAVE I NOT GROWN sufficiently for healing?

I'm tired. I'm so sick of this. But I always am. I wish something terribly rock-bottomish would happen. What is it that I am failing to see over and over?

I can't sleep. It's 3:23 a.m. and I haven't been able to sleep at all. I have to be up in two hours. Definitely not going to bed.

I wish I had an excuse. I wish there was a good reason that my efforts increase but success stays at bay. I wish the 12 step program worked. I wish therapy worked. Ever since I've been in therapy, I have not improved. I'm not blaming anyone but me. I KNOW this is my fault. I know it's because of something I'm not doing, or not doing right. I'm choosing the sin. I choose it every time. It's not forced on me, ever. I choose it.

I want to take all my insides out of my body because they are filthy. And I am sick.

This is just part of the cycle, isn't it? Soon I will post a post about how great life is and how great God is and how merciful is our Savior and how I can do it and I will do it and I'm not a bad person and it's all about getting up after I fall and moving forward. You know. Just like always. But the truth is, I am no better than I was when I wrote this poem. I am the same. Despicable.

Yet I know I have worth. I just don't have worth to me. My kids find worth in me. My God sees worth in me. I'm needed in some respect by my children and my God. But what good am I to myself?

Don't worry about me. Don't try to tell me I have great worth because I already know that. Don't tell me to stop beating myself up because if I don't, who will? Besides, like I said, in a few days I'll write a sunshiny hope-filled post and all will be right with the world again.