Proof The Bible Is True

So this is what the end feels like. I stared out the window of my parents’ living room. The sun shone brightly, but I couldn’t feel its warmth. The light felt harsh and unforgiving.

 

Winter’s typical days—cold, gray, overcast—had been slow to arrive that December in southern Missouri, but I was in a kind of darkness, lost in my own personal blizzard. I could barely find the will to get out of bed. I didn’t see the point.

 

I’d been here a month, mostly staying in my room, blinds closed, or wandering the house like a ghost. Daddy had brought me home from New York City. I’d moved there with big dreams. At 25, I’d been accepted into a writing program.

 

But the city was so fast, so busy, so loud, like no place I’d ever lived. I couldn’t stay focused. A harsh review by a professor sent me spiraling downward into a sadness that never lifted. Finally, I checked into a hospital.

 

“Clinical depression,” the doctor said. The call home was so hard to make. I felt like a failure.

 

Daddy looked up from the book he was reading, a thin smile on his face. “Honey, you feeling okay?” he asked. I knew he was trying to help. But it felt like my parents were constantly hovering. I needed to get away from their worried expressions.

 

I looked out at the sun again. An urge struck me. I should go outside. “Guess I’ll take a walk,” I mumbled.

 

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