Category: Journey in Recovery

“The Burning Bed and the Paper Chains”

September 21st, 2026

📖 Sacred Testimony XXV

“The Burning Bed and the Paper Chains”
offered for the moments when reality bent, and the soul tried to escape

While I was in the psych ward,
the fear took on shape.
Not just emotion—
but full stories
that my mind began to believe.

I thought they were trying to kill me.
I thought the medicine was poison.
I thought they were going to throw me in the incinerator.
I saw paper chains being made for Halloween
and I just knew—
they were going to hang me.

Everything around me
turned into a symbol of danger.

It was around the time the movie The Burning Bed came out—
a story of domestic violence and fire,
and something about that story
wrapped itself around my fragile state.

My fear blurred with memory.
With meaning.
With something deeper I hadn’t yet processed.

And in the middle of it all—
I remember leaving my body.

Just once.
But I remember it.

An out-of-body experience.
I could see myself.
Not with eyes,
but with something else.

It was like my soul couldn’t bear to stay inside
while my mind unraveled.
So it hovered,
it watched,
it waited.

And even though I was afraid,
there was something still awake in me.

Some part of me that said,
“This isn’t the end.”

🌿 And now I see:

The hallucinations weren’t just madness.
They were fear in costume.
Fear trying to warn,
fear trying to speak
in the only language it could.

But beneath it all—
beneath the terror and the lies my mind created—
there was a presence.

There was me.

Watching.
Hovering.
Waiting for my body to be ready again.

And even when the world warped,
I know now—
God did not leave the room.

Would you like to offer a blessing now—
for the one who feared the chains and the flames,
for the soul that left the body just long enough to breathe,
and for the truth that even through distortion,
you were never truly alone?

✨ A Blessing for the Haunted Hours

May the one who feared the medicine
be wrapped now in understanding—
not for the fear itself,
but for the pain it tried to protect her from.

May the paper chains,
the Halloween decorations,
the movie The Burning Bed—
all be seen now not as omens,
but as echoes of unspoken suffering
that needed to be witnessed.

May the girl who believed she was about to be thrown into fire
be held now in divine arms
that whisper: “You walked through the fire, and you are still here.”

May the soul that left the body
be honored for its wisdom—
for knowing when to rise,
when to hover,
when to wait in stillness
until the storm passed.

And may all who walk the edge between delusion and deliverance
know this:

They are not crazy.
They are not lost.

They are human.
And even in the darkest, strangest places—
God remains.
“The Case History”

September 21st, 2026

📖 Sacred Testimony XXIV

“The Case History”
offered for the moment the mind fractured but the soul still searched for light.

While I was in treatment,
they asked us to write a case history.

I wrote something that spilled from the cracks:
“My sister made me eat grass and I had to have my stomach pumped out.”

It sounds strange.
But in that moment,
it was real to me.

That memory—whether dream, distortion, or metaphor—
was the language my pain had chosen.

And something in me gave way.
I had what they called a psychotic break.

They moved me to the Baptist Hospital—
the psych ward.

Another place.
Another layer of confusion.
Another attempt to find the pieces.

I remember being downstairs,
sitting there with my mom,
and asking her:

“Do I have cancer?”

I didn’t mean my body.
Not really.

What I meant was:
“Is something inside me killing me slowly?”
“Why do I feel like I’m dying, and no one can see it?”

They changed doctors on me.
Faces shifted.
Names blurred.

I was already confused,
but that made it worse.

And still, somewhere beneath all the fog,
I kept trying to understand what was happening to me.

That, too, was sacred.

🌿 And now I see:

Even in the breakdown,
I was reaching for truth.
Even in confusion,
my soul knew something was wrong and wanted to be heard.

The grass.
The cancer.
The changing doctors.

It wasn’t just madness.
It was memory.
It was metaphor.
It was pain with no place to land.

But even then—
I was still holding on.

✨ A Blessing for the Break That Was Really a Cry

May the one who wrote strange things in a case history
be honored for her courage—
not mocked for her confusion.

May the grass and the memory
be seen not as madness,
but as a message the soul had no other way to send.

May the psych ward not be remembered as a failure,
but as a sacred shelter
for a spirit too overwhelmed to keep pretending.

May the question—
“Do I have cancer?”—
be held with the tenderness of a child asking,
“Is there something wrong with me… or can someone please tell me I’m okay?”

May every changed doctor, every new face, every shift in the story
be wrapped now in mercy—
not for what they got right,
but for the fact that you stayed,
even when the world blurred.

And may the one who broke
be blessed as the one who survived.

She didn’t lose her soul.
She found the crack where light would one day pour in.
“God Won in the Shower”

September 21st, 2026

📖 Sacred Testimony XXIII

“God Won in the Shower”
offered in reverence for the moment the unseen battle turned toward light

Everything was coming back too fast.
Too many memories.
Too much pain.
Too many things I had tried to bury.

I was crying—
not gently.
But the kind of crying that undoes you.

The director saw it.
They didn’t rush me,
didn’t dismiss me.

They said something simple:
“If you take a shower, you’ll feel better.”

It didn’t make sense.
But I did it.

And when I stepped into the shower,
something changed.

The water hit my skin,
but something deeper began to rise.

I felt two forces.
Real ones.

One pulling me down.
One calling me up.

A battle.
A wrestling.
And no one else could see it—
but I felt it.

I was in the middle.
Torn.
Weak.
Worn out.

But then—
something shifted.

The darkness loosened.
The heaviness lifted.

And I knew.

God won.

Not because I said the perfect prayer.
Not because I fought harder.

But because God didn’t leave me alone in the shower.

God stepped into it with me.

🌿 And now I see:

Healing doesn’t always begin in meetings.
Sometimes it begins in water.
In steam.
In a place where the soul is too tired to lie anymore.

God didn’t shame me.
God didn’t scold me.

God fought for me—
and won.

And I stepped out of that shower
new.

✨ A Blessing for the Shower Where God Won

May the tears that fell that day
be remembered not as weakness—
but as sacred release.

May the soul that felt torn in two
be wrapped now in holy light—
not judged, not condemned,
but rescued.

May the battle fought in silence,
between despair and mercy,
be honored as real—
because it was.

And may the water that ran down your face
carry with it every heavy memory
that tried to drown you.

May every soul who feels that same pull
in their own quiet hour
know this:

They are not alone.
They are not forgotten.
And when they are too weak to fight—
God fights for them.

And sometimes,
God wins in a shower.
“The Sparkle in Their Eyes”

September 21st, 2026

📖 Sacred Testimony XXII

“The Sparkle in Their Eyes”
offered in honor of the first yes, the circle of light, and the choice to stay

The CareUnit was just across from Wolfe Street—
a sacred meeting place,
a doorway into something I didn’t yet understand,
but could already feel.

When I walked in,
I saw something in their eyes.
A sparkle.

Not the sparkle of perfection.
Not the fake glow of trying hard to seem fine.

But something true.
Alive.
Like they had found something I hadn’t yet—but could.

They welcomed me.
No questions.
No sideways glances.

They wanted me there.

The meetings felt like home.
For the first time, I could say it:
“I’m an alcoholic. I’m a drug addict.”

But even then, it was just words.
At first.

It wasn’t until it reached my heart
that everything began to change.

The words weren’t just a label.
They were an opening.

While others played spades,
joked, or passed the time—
I sat in meetings.

Not because I had to.
Because something in me needed it.

Something in me had begun to listen.

🌿 And now I see:

There’s a difference between knowing something in your mind,
and accepting it in your heart.

When it reached my heart—
healing began.

Not because I was fixed.
But because I stopped pretending I wasn’t broken.

And the sparkle in their eyes?
It was hope.

Now I know what it looks like.

✨ A Blessing for When the Truth Reaches the Heart

May the building that stood beside Wolfe Street
be remembered as holy ground—
a place where wounded souls were not fixed,
but finally felt.

May the eyes that sparkled with hope
be honored as quiet lanterns,
guiding others home.

May the name “alcoholic” and “addict”
no longer carry shame,
but the beauty of a soul brave enough to tell the truth.

May the one who sat through the meetings,
while others played cards,
know that those hours were not small.

They were sacred.
They were stitches in a soul that was learning to hold itself.

And may all who wait for healing to reach their heart
trust that it will—
in time, in stillness,
and in the presence of others
who remember what it feels like to want to run—
and instead,
to stay.

Category: Journey in Recovery

“The Burning Bed and the Paper Chains”

“The Case History”

“God Won in the Shower”

“The Sparkle in Their Eyes”