Someone He Loves

During the past few months, I’ve been in a season of intense physical pain. I don’t say that to complain, and I don’t say it for pity; it’s just a fact of my life. I have an autoimmune disease and a chronic pain disorder, and lately, the pain has been nearly unbearable. Last week, I was lying on the couch with my cat Seamus, listening to music. A song came on that I’ve heard before, but this time, as I listened to the words, they took on a different meaning:

“I’m going under and this time I fear there’s no one to save me
This all or nothing really got a way of driving me crazy
I need somebody to heal
Somebody to know
Somebody to have
Somebody to hold
It’s easy to say
But it’s never the same
I guess I kinda liked the way you numbed all the pain—
Now the day bleeds
Into nightfall
And you’re not here
To get me through it all.”
– from “Someone You Loved” by Lewis Capaldi

It’s a break-up song that resonated deeply with me because, almost eight years ago, I made the decision to break up with drugs. And almost eight years later, I’m still sometimes haunted by the ghosts of my past that whisper, “Wouldn’t you like some pain relief? Some oblivion? Something to get you through the night?”

I don’t hear those whispers during the day. But when the hands on the clock move towards nightfall, and pain hits me so hard that it literally leaves me breathless, I dread the coming hours. I know what those long, lonely stretches of darkness bring—the times when my face feels wet, and I reach up to find that I’ve been crying from pain without even realizing it. Times when I can’t read or watch TV because the pain in my eyes is so intense. Times when I begin to give up hope that I will ever be healed. Logic flies right out of my head when I’m in pain like that. I forget that the drugs I was abusing were also abusing me—they were killing me physically and draining me of every last emotional spark I had. They were causing problems with my family and hurting Monty terribly. And yet . . . there is still a part of me that longs for the oblivion they provided. That’s when I remember these lyrics from the song I mentioned earlier:
“And I tend to close my eyes when it hurts sometimes
I fall into your arms
I’ll be safe in your sound ’til I come back around.”

Throughout the course of my life, it has always been pain that has driven me into God’s arms. The comfort I receive from Him when I let go, surrender, and fall into His arms is immeasurable. The pain doesn’t go away, but neither does He. He is with me as the day bleeds into nightfall, reminding me that because of His great love for me, He has a plan for me. And that reminder gives me something that I cannot overstate in its importance: hope. Without hope, I would have no reason to keep holding on in the face of such suffering. Hope tells me that even if God’s plan for me always includes pain, He will redeem it and somehow use it on my journey.

Whether I get to each next step in that journey is solely up to me. Yes, every day is a fight. And sometimes, winning that fight means that I made it from the bed to the couch. Sometimes it means that I focused on the hope of God’s promises instead of letting my thoughts wander down the dark alleys of “what if?” And lately, it’s meant reminding myself of the truth about drugs: they wear off quickly, but the regret and shame don’t. So I fight to stay sober and not let the pain drag me under to a place so dark I may not come out again. I celebrate every pain-free moment that moves me giant steps forward, and I accept the pain-filled moments when all I can do is tiptoe.

Whether I’m tiptoeing or leaping, I’m fighting to keep moving forward. And I can. Because I know this—there have been so many things in my life that I thought I couldn’t do. And I couldn’t have, on my own. I’ve been enabled, which is an ugly term that every addict is familiar with. But God has enabled me in a different way: “The Sovereign Lord is my strength; He makes my feet like the feet of a deer. He enables me to tread on the heights.” (Habakkuk 3:19) Moment by moment, God’s strength enables me, in thoughts and in deeds, to go higher than I ever thought I could. Higher than I ever felt when I was on drugs. Higher than the intense joy of knowing how deeply I am loved. So high that pain becomes enmeshed with hope, as even the darkest night fades into dawn.