"I don't care if anyone comes for me," said Edward.
"But that's dreadful," said the old doll. "There's no point in going on if you feel that way. No point at all. You must be filled with expectancy. You must be awash in hope. You must wonder who will love you, whom you will love next."
"I am done being loved," Edward told her. "I am done with loving. It's too painful."
"Pish!" said the old doll. "Where is your courage?"
"Somewhere else, I guess," said Edward.
"You disappoint me," she said. "You disappoint me greatly. If you have no intention of loving or being loved, then the whole journey is pointless."
Isn't it strange? The way a kids' book can provide the best comfort when you are deeply not OK? How the seemingly simply storyline just touches your hurting heart with the right amount of tenderness and love?
And my heart does hurt. Not just emotionally, but physically too. Too often these days do I feel as though a hand is reaching into my chest and squeezing it. My heart, and sometimes my lungs. And the pressure, it will sit there. Sometimes for hours.
And perhaps the physical pain is just a symptom of emotional pain gone unacknowledge for too long. For too long I have said that I'm OK. I've said it to others. And I've said it to myself. And I've believed it.
But tonight, as I sat in church, with an unseen weight crushing my heart, my lungs gasping for breath, dreading the coming school lesson, I realised it.
I am not OK. I am deeply, deeply not OK. My heart hurts.
And it's the anxiety over my grades. It's the fear I won't be able to catch up after being sick at the beginning of semester.
It's the longing to hug the middle sister, and swap jokes with her, growing as her birthday nears. It's the knowledge that I don't know the younger sister well enough. It's the grief over losing dear friends as they move to another country.
It's the fear that I'll let love pass me by. It's the fear that I've built a stonewall around the deepest crevace of my heart. A wall built to protect this bruised, battered thing I call my heart. But is it too thick? Too high? Will anyone be able to climb it? Will I be able to let them in?
It's the pain of 'Am I good enough?'. It's the fear of being a failure. It's the fear of hurting and being hurt. It's the certainty that I can't succeed. The terror that I can't love enough. The quaking that I'll turn away, withholding love. It's the fear of falling that chains me to the ground.
It's the ache that wonders 'but who will hug me?'. It's the loneliness that longs for connection. It's the desire to bake and the question 'who for?'.
It's the screaming for God and the knowing I won't hear an answer, because I've blocked my ears. It's the not knowing how to open them, and being too afraid to ask.
It's the half steps to ask for help. It's the stopping short, because 'I'm OK'. And even if I wasn't, who'd have the time anyway?
It's the not knowing how to finish this, and the not knowing how to sit with it.
It's the haunting question 'Where is your courage?'. It's the quiet indictment 'You disappoint me', whispered in the very depths of my soul.
It's the promise of home. It's the not knowing how to get there.
It's knowing that I'll wake up tomorrow. I'll go to uni. I'll talk with friends. I'll even laugh.
If you ask me how I am, I'll probably say OK. I might even truly believe it.
And all the while the pain in my chest will come. And go. And come again.
But I really am OK...
