Stop Fighting

I gave up.

I have been fighting for some strenuous, draining, back-breaking years. I have argued until my brain turned to melted into mush. I have cried my eyes out until my tear ducts ran dry. I have yelled and screamed my way to sore throats and hoarse words that were always quieter than the voice in my head, even at full volume. But more than that . . .

I have spurred myself to the edge of death.

The voice in my head is what fueled the fight, and sometimes, it still tries to. It shouted at me and declared itself my personal drill sergeant for this war. I felt as though there was nothing else I could hear. When my loved ones cried out back at me in desperate attempts to divert my attention, they were never quite loud enough. I was deafened by the thought in my own mind for years.

It was not enough. It was never enough. I was never enough. I gained value by shoving away the plate in front of me, and while my stomach growled in protest, the voice praised me for a few short hours. It tore away the pieces it deemed ugly or unhealthy, and soon, the pretty freckled girl that used to be able to smile in the mirror was unrecognizable. The smile on my face had vanished, my freckles were faded, and even my hair lost its striking color turning instead into a dull shade like moldy hay. The story my eyes told had clouded over and appeared more grey than Caribbean blue.

I had lost the beautiful body I possessed before the fight, because I listened over and over to the voice that told me it was the exact opposite. Every layer of fat that fell off stripped away with it a portion of my personality. Eventually, what people saw were the shredded remains of a once healthy little girl who potentially had only months to live.

I was the walking dead.

The fight lessened as what was left of my body protested in moans more frequently. I hit the bottom of the barrel. Suddenly, it became clear to me that either I died, or I lived to save others. What told me this? This was not the same voice I heard over the last few years.

No. This was the Voice.

I found that Love was louder than death's shriek. It resounded not with a yell but a soft whisper. Love found its way into the tattered depths of my heart and restored value. Jesus lifted me from the dirt, and the tears I cried then were tears of surrender.

I gave up.

I gave up fighting for the lies that I told myself every day. I gave up hating the body my reflection revealed. I gave up torturing my body. I gave up killing my spirit. I gave up control.

On a daily basis, I still struggle to listen to the whisper of Love instead of the screaming voice in my head, but I press on with a new fight. Here is what I have gathered in my journey to recovery thus far: Sometimes, the fight you're trying to win is what you have to lose. When you surrender to the love of Christ, He instills a new fight within your heart, one that burns with passionate fire that cannot be contained. I press on to recovery. I cry, I scream, and I argue, but now it is against the voice that I once listened to. No longer will I wallow in my own dirt, awaiting death.

I gave up to get up.

If that's how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and thrown into the furnace tomorrow, won't He do much more for you-you of little faith?

-Matthew 6:30