Someone asked me what it was like to survive such near-fatal suicide attempts and how I feel about the stigma attached to it, while also asking what life is like under the blanket of post-traumatic stress. Talk about some heavy questions with some not-so-easy answers. I do not believe there even should be a stigma attached to the suffering so many across the world endure, regardless of which form the suffering takes. You see, the Lord Jesus Christ took on our suffering so that the sick and dying could be restored to health. To look upon the sick with scorn and judgment, only to discard and dismiss them, violates the very covenant that the sacrifice of the Lamb created with His Blood (1 Corinthians 11:25). The sick and the wounded might be sitting in church, preaching from a pulpit, camped on the side of the road begging for food, walking in an expensive suit, bound by a sickbed, glorified on the big screen, or even in a position of power. We are all the sick and wounded, even if it is not recognized due to the many veils and masks we parade ourselves around in. If I am stigmatized, then we are all stigmatized. The only stigma attached to me is the one this world finds offensive; my passionate love for the Lord.
There have been many occasions where I have turned to expressing the depths of certain things in poetry and prose; this is one such occasion…
I screamed silently into the dark void where my voice was swallowed,
Tossed into the depths of a great pit, my mouth sealed with mud and mire;
My eyes were blinded by such depths of great darkness,
My vision hidden there, completely sightless beneath a grimy veil.
A hand reached up from under the pit, gripping and twisting my heart…
Death strangled out life…
I was sealed beneath the weight of an empty abyss,
A prisoner and a slave, chained and bound by thieves;
Sealed within a silent tomb, my bones crushed by the anguish of emptiness,
Into an ash heap of nothing…
… as if I never were.
A Lion’s roar pierced the void, tearing away the veil with the gnashing of
His teeth and the thunderous sigh of His Weeping;
The Breath of Life began to move like a breeze, whispering my name,
As the Lion’s tears fell onto the ash heap, where I waited without form.
The death grip of a thief released a brittle heart of crushed stones,
As a Lamb was placed on the altar; a Ransom for my ashes.
As the Blood of the sacrifice poured out into mire,
Light began to rip through the void, striking at the emptiness like fierce lightening,
Igniting death like a wildfire, consuming the brittle heart of crushed stones,
And my ash heap without form.
My ashes were commanded to take form in the midst of the flames;
A soothing oil was poured out over me as the air of a thousand voices rejoicing
Lifted me out of the pit, cleansing me of the mud and the mire…
My feet were planted on a Rock, a Sword placed in my hands;
The seals were broken as my vision absorbed a radiant Light.
My voice was released from the depths of the pit,
Formed into a litany of praise by Hands I could not see.
I was sealed and tattooed with a New Name as a dove cried out over head.
The Lion climbed upon the Rock beside me and roared with great might,
Conquering and sealing the deep, dark void with the very stone that
Kept me prisoner in a tomb that was never meant for me.
We stood together there and looked in triumph over the ground where my enemy once stood.
This post appears in the book: Shattered in Him © 2016 JD Mays