This, my dear friends, is life.

The void grows, and consumes the very being of this heart. This heart that would once beat. Beat in a rhythmic flow. A flow that would know peace. Peace, courage, hope, resilience. Resilience that would carry on, carry through. Carry through the darkest of nights. Nights that would eventually turn into morning. Morning that would reflect on the terror of night. Nights that were seemingly endless. Endless. End. End of life. End of hope. End of...everything. Redemption, at this point, seemed impossible through anything other than synthetics that changed the chemical makeup of my neuro-being. However, the pilgrimage of the incarnation is one that steps into the very void of us. The very essence of the void is that of mess, yet the essence of the sacrifice surrounding the incarnation is that of love and honor. Only He can take this void, and fill it with hope. He is ending the void with His abundance.

PTSD. Those four letters. Those four letters that a doctor said to me in January of 2018. Those four letters that were supposed to answer so many questions, but only created so many more. Stay tuned to hear the journey of being diagnosed with a mental illness that is commonly thought of as hopeless, and the thoughts of, "it's only a matter of time" plague those that have experience with loved ones that have PTSD, as well as being in a profession in which I am to proclaim hope in light of suffering and resurrection in light of hell. These four letters will not overcome. They will not have the final word.