Courage, Dear Heart

​ I sit across from you.  A table is between us. You’ve been leading this hopeless investigation, listening as I am forced to spill my inmost shames to a man I’ve never trusted. Sure enough, I feel my shoulders fall in defeat as you read me the verdict that I know will change the trajectory of my life. You deem the liar; the girl who cried abuse. With that one sentence, you subsequently tell the world that my abuser is innocent and the victim in this story.  … I walk past you.  I watch as you quickly look away, knowing that you - my professor and mentor - lied. I see your shame as I refuse to stop looking at one of my own Judas’s. The first person I ever trusted with my story.  I feel a seed of hatred in my heart as I secretly hope it haunts you for the rest of your life, knowing that you chose your job over a girl you were supposed to protect. … I walk up to you at your table with your family.  We’d just talked yesterday; you’d taken my side in his abuse before...

​ It is not well with my soul. Not this morning. This morning, my soul is so tired. My soul is lost and exhausted and an empty well. Perhaps my Father has a well that does not run dry, but the water in mine  is gone.  Evaporated.  Dissipated without a care of leaving my spirit to die.  “The waves and wind still know His name.” But does He remember mine? Does He remember  me?   Or am I left pounding on Heaven’s door, screaming until my voice runs out? How am I worth anything when I bring nothing to the table? In a Nation where overworking is the ideal, the proof of a life well-lived, then is my life even worth living?  I want to work, to volunteer, to be a good friend. I want to be a sister who’s actually there for her siblings instead of hanging on by a thread. I want to be a wife who can provide something besides emotional support. Because what am I worth in a society where emotional support is a triviality?  “My God, my God, why have you ...