Days I Haven't Died

It occurred to me that I may be, in fact, losing my mind. Life seemed all too fast to slow down, but there was no one around who could understand. Fearless. It was once a word I used to describe myself. Now, walking the same sidewalk on the same street I’d walked hundreds of times before, I felt fear. I felt fear because things were too nice. Besides myself, nothing seemed out of place. I kept looking up from my phone, as if someone were going to be running towards me with a knife, or driving at 60 miles per hour off road at 5 PM. I felt like I was going to die. I was afraid I was going to die, but not afraid because I trusted I’d rest in Jesus’ arms. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the one thing that I feared more than anything. Peaceful acceptance of the fact that I am in fact human, mortal, dying, not a God, and now dead, in the Son of God’s outstretched arms. I feared for my daughter. But at the same time, the calm was so promising that I knew everything would ...

Amelia meant everything to me. Unfortunately, for someone who found meaningless meaning in nothing and everything all at once, knowing what to do with that ‘meaning everything to me’ put forth a very difficult predicament. I’d wound up missing therapy because I’d felt too sick to move. Luckily I made it to the toilet before I exploded upon myself; after that I laid on the living room floor, contemplating whether I’d call into work as well and risk the meager amount of money I’d make but certainly needed or simply go in and risk having to leave. I chose the latter, luckily, because I woke up to Emily coming home from errands with more than I expected or even deserved. She’d gotten me tee shirts, pants, even socks (which I’m sure were to the benefit of everyone in the household, as my feet had begun to smell like rot), and I couldn’t express my gratitude enough. Hell, I felt so happy because of what she’d done for me that when she came by my job later to drop off something else ...

"Call me," had been the signal to shut my phone off. Sorry, Kristen. ~Carnivorous Cats~ My left forearm looked as if it'd been used as a shield to fight off a relentless onslaught of cats whose claws had never before seen clippers. There I was, that fateful night, out far past my bedtime, wandering in the woods. The moonlight played with the wind and trees to create monsters and mythical beasts in the corners of my eyes, but little did I know the real danger lurking all around me. I could hear the hoot of owls, the flutter of wings. Nothing out of the ordinary, I'd been here many times. If I'd listen carefully enough, I could hear the soft skittering of mice as they cautiously crawled beneath fallen leaves and logs to avoid becoming late-night snacks. The mice. It must've been the mice that had attracted them, the smell of their weak, tiny flesh that had led the bloodthirsty kittens to those woods. Tripping over a broken branch, I landed hard on ...