Are You There

Journal Entry One: August 2, 2023

Are you there, God? It’s me… I don’t even know what to call myself anymore.

I’m not sure if You exist. And honestly? If You do… I don’t think You care. Because if You cared, why would everything in my life be falling apart?

I wasn’t always like this, you know. I used to hope for things. I used to laugh. I used to believe that pain had a purpose. But now? Now it just feels like I’m bleeding out from wounds I didn’t ask for. And You—you, this supposed loving, omniscient being—just watch. Or maybe You don’t. Maybe You’re just a story people tell themselves to cope with the fact that no one is actually listening.

I don’t want to wake up tomorrow. I’m tired of pretending. Tired of saying “I’m fine” while I’m screaming inside. Tired of carrying the weight of my own mind like it’s some kind of punishment for being human. People tell me to pray. They say, “God has a plan.” Well, if this is Your plan, it’s cruel. It’s cold. It’s breaking me.

I cry every night, God. Every. Single. Night. My pillow is soaked, and still, I wake up and pretend. I go to work or school or wherever, and I smile like I’m not shattering. People walk past me like I’m invisible. Or worse—they see me, and they still don’t care.

Is this what life is? Is this the grand purpose? To suffer in silence until we die?

There’s this voice in my head, and it tells me it would be better if I just disappeared. That no one would miss me. That people would be relieved not to have to deal with me. And I believe it more and more each day. I don’t want to die because I hate life—I want to die because I don’t think I belong here. Like I was a mistake. Like maybe I wasn’t supposed to be born.

But here’s the part that messes me up the most: even though I’m not sure You’re real, I still find myself crying out to You. Like now. I still whisper prayers into the darkness as if You might answer. Why? Why do I do that? Is it instinct? Desperation? Or is it the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, You’re listening?

If You are… please take me. Please. I can’t carry this anymore. I feel so alone. So broken. So hollow. I don’t even know how to ask for help. Everyone’s tired of hearing about mental health. They want you to be strong. To bounce back. But what if I’m done bouncing?

I’m writing this not because I think You’ll fix it, but because it’s the only thing I haven’t tried. And I’m scared. Not of death—but of living like this forever. If this is all there is, then I don’t want it.

Please. If You’re there—say something. Do something. Anything.

Just don’t leave me like this.

Signed,

No one worth naming

Journal Entry Two: August 2, 2025

Are you there, God? It’s me. Your child. Your miracle. The one You rescued from the edge.

I don’t even know where to begin, Lord. It’s been two years since I last opened this journal. Two years since I begged You to end my life. I found the old entry this morning, tucked between books I don’t read anymore, from a life that feels both far away and painfully close.

I read my own words and wept—not just because of the darkness I was in, but because of the goodness You have shown me since.

God… You saved me. You didn’t do it in one grand miracle like I used to imagine. You didn’t tear open the sky or send thunder or angels or lightning. You met me in the quiet. You waited while I fell apart. You stayed while I cursed You. And You loved me when I hated myself.

I remember the night it all changed. It wasn’t even a Sunday or a revival or some mountaintop experience. It was 3 a.m. I was sitting on the floor of my room, surrounded by the kind of silence that screams. And for the first time, I didn’t ask You to take me—I asked You to stay.

And You did.

I didn’t feel fireworks. I didn’t suddenly feel better. But I felt… held. As if something bigger than my pain was cradling me, whispering, “I’m not leaving.”

You led me gently—so gently—toward healing. A friend texted me the next day. Not just a “Hey,” but a “You’ve been on my heart, are you okay?” That was You, wasn’t it? And then a co-worker invited me to their church. And I went, not because I wanted God, but because I had nothing else. But You were there too.

You were in the song that said, “I’m not enough, unless You come.”

You were in the sermon that said, “God is close to the brokenhearted.”

You were in the stranger who hugged me like she knew how empty I felt.

And slowly, through Scripture, through community, through moments of quiet prayer, You rebuilt me. Not the old me—the one who thought joy was for other people—but a new me. Someone who believes that pain can be holy, that scars can be sacred.

I still get sad sometimes. I still battle anxiety. But now I have weapons. Now I have You.

I look around my life now and I see evidence of You everywhere. I see it in the sunrise You painted outside my window this morning. I see it in the journal I write in, no longer stained with desperation but with gratitude. I see it in the people You brought into my life—people who speak truth over me, who remind me who I am when I forget.

Most of all, I see it in my heart, which used to be so cold and numb, but now beats with purpose.

I want to be used, God. I want the pain I went through to matter. Let me be a voice to someone else who’s still in the dark. Let me be the one who sees the silent tears, the one who says, “You are not alone.” Let my wounds become windows to Your glory.

Thank You for not giving up on me. Thank You for choosing the long road to healing when I begged for an escape. Thank You for mercy I didn’t earn, and for grace that caught me every time I fell.

I used to ask, “Why me?”

Now I ask, “What for?”

Use me, God. Send me. Let me love the broken, because I was once the most broken of all.

You are real. You are kind. You are not afraid of our darkness. You step into it, and You bring light. That’s what You did for me. That’s what You’re still doing.

So yes, I’m still here. Not because of luck, not because I figured it out, but because You stayed. Because You spoke. Because You healed.

Are You there, God?

Of course You are.

You never left.

Signed,

Your daughter. Your beloved. Your living testimony.