This Is Okay

 I think I might be doing okay. Not in an 'I feel okay all the time' kind of way, I'm not sure that's possible. But in a 'This is okay, even if I don't feel it' kind of way. 

My instincts with any big any feeling at all feelings is to run. My internal monologue screams and cries and kicks and 'I can't do this. I need to disappear. I need to be less. I need to quiet this.' 

And. Breathe.

This is okay. 

I am safe; even if my nervous system suggests otherwise. I am capable; my history of surviving every difficult feeling testifies to this. I am held; there's a big book of many little books and a slightly bananas story of a Creator willing to die to draw us near that evidences that.

One of the most underappreciated skills one can possess to support their self-regulation is to sit through the difficult, awkward, just not nice feelings and remind oneself, 'This is okay.'*

Because, quite frankly, it is. 

I hear you - it's not it's awful I want this to stop I need to work out why I'm feeling things and I need to fix it and I should run away from it and I want to throw up or hurt something or change something or be someone else and make this stop and I can feel it everywhere in my body and it's never going to stop I can't breathe I can't relax I can't cope I need to runrunrun; etc. 

Feelings can be really big. and all-encompassing, and there has to be space for that. It is okay to feel what you feel; actually, it is vital to feel what you feel (and not intellectualise it - I see you, intellectualisers). I'm not saying to stamp a plaster over it and pretend the not-okay feelings are okay. Truthfully, I don't have the answers on how to feel the big feelings or what they mean or how we should handle them. Breathing is a good first step I've found, mind. 

The Bible, however, models how big feelings can be handled in big, grace-filled, compassion-fuelled ways; you want to die, Elijah? Here's some physical fuel, and some rest fuel, and some water fuel, and then some soul fuel. Some soul fuel in a gentle, quiet whisper. The Psalms that we read today are handcrafted, carefully chosen representations of what we can say to God. He speaks to us through confessions like 'darkness is my closest friend' (Psalm 88) and says, 'You can say this to me' (don't ask me about the practicalities or the theological implications - I recommend 'When Darkness Seems My Closest Friend' by Mark Meynell if you want more solid footing on this).

Your feelings are not too big for God. Your thoughts are not too big for Him. The unbearable weight of all of this is not too big for God. It's okay to take it to Him. It's okay to struggle to take it to Him too, I might add. 

This is okay. 

I was probably meant to get some work done today. The to-do list does not stop, and the boxes to be ticked keep coming. Instead I'm listening to a handful of songs on repeat, writing this, and thinking about buying a coffee. 

This is okay (to everything except my bank account, I reckon).

I don't drink enough water and I don't eat enough fruit and I very rarely know the answers to things. 

This is okay. Worse things have happened. 

Be where your feet are. 

This. Is. Okay.

I'm doing okay. 

I hope you are too.

* I'd also like to quietly add that I am by no means an expert in self-regulation, or regulation at all. Or on what you're meant to do. I haven't a clue, truthfully.