Hymns
2026-02-13
My heart has been beating so fast lately. I feel it pounding constantly.
I've been drinking too much coffee lately. I've gotten to the point now where I have caffeine all day, even at night. I can still fall asleep okay, but now, when I don't have coffee, I get headaches and become extremely tired. I slept in until noon again today. My health feels so fractured, and even though I'm taking steps to improve it through the gym and medications, there's still so much wrong with me.
I'm too young to be feeling this damn old.
I also started smoking again. I went through a whole pack yesterday and have been smoking today, too. The impacts have been readily apparent: my heart is beating even faster; my stomach churns with nausea. I feel so bad after smoking, but I keep coming back to it. There was this phrase I heard: "Recovery is giving up one thing for everything." Well, I feel like I have to give up twelve things, and they're constantly fighting for my attention. I don't have a monkey on my back but a whole troupe of them.
I've been trying to pray more. Throughout the day, I say the Jesus Prayer. I pray every morning and evening. I try to keep myself as close to God as I can because I'm afraid—of what might happen, of what won't happen, of what shouldn't happen. I do everything I can to assuage my anxiety, but it feels like it's not enough. Even when I feel close to God, I still have demons screaming at me from the periphery.
Life has been good. Despite these problems, there's still so much I have to be thankful for. I felt horrible not writing the last few days. There are all these thoughts on my mind; my inner dialogue never stops. I want to share this experience with you all, but it can seem like there aren't enough hours in the day. Coming here every day to make my mark is tough work. It's work that I love, but I feel myself putting so much weight on it.
There's so much more to life than what I feel like I can handle. Every moment of every day is a visceral sensory experience. My nerves constantly tingle as my mind zips through every minutia of experience. Down to the last millisecond, there's always something happening. I want to slow it down and take it in, but I constantly feel consumed. My intention isn't to say that I'm struggling, but to say that I'm afraid, tired, and not sure when I'll find that moment of rest.
I want to slow down, but I'm not sure if that's possible—in this moment, that is.
I know God hears my prayers. Whatever is helping me write these thoughts is trying to tell me that I don't have to be so vigilant. Yet in spite of that, I still find myself going through the process. It's something that doesn't feel real. I constantly feel as if I'm under siege, that little bugs keep buzzing all around and that there's something inside of me that they're flying to. Why do I feel as if there's something out to get me? The paranoia hurts. It's as if, at any moment, I'll just spontaneously combust, and I'm trying to prepare myself for it despite the fact that there's nothing there.
I don't want anyone to worry about me. I am safe, protected, and comforted. I know that there is boundless love everywhere I go, even if I can't always feel it. Even when I'm alone, there's always something I can turn to. I can always pray. I can always seek. I will keep knocking—I must. My internal world is in progress. I will cultivate it in whatever condition I find myself in. I know that rest is coming. Even when I find myself in a perpetual all-night vigil, I will keep praying.
If God wills it, I might even hear the angels sing.
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