Humility and mental wellness

art carving close up crown

I read the fourth chapter of The Book of Daniel this morning.

I wondered if King Nebechadenezer had immediately humbled himself before God, as Daniel suggested, if things would have  been different for him. Specifically the dream he had (a prophetic picture of him ‘going mad’ and his kingdom being taken from him) — could that prophetic dream have been avoided?

Well in the end, King N didn’t listen to Daniel and the dream came true. Quite suddenly too. One minute the King is on his palace roof gloating over all he accomplished and the next minute he is out of the palace and out of his mind eating grass and letting his fingernails grow like eagle talons.

After a long time of that King Nebuchadnezzar ‘looked to Heaven’ and ‘his reason was returned to him.’ As was the kingdom and his humility before the one true God.

I have written several times now about a book I am reading, by Patrick Carnes, called The Betrayal Bond. 

He goes into some detail about the role of hubris in forming a trauma bond. An example being a child believing she is special because daddy has ‘chosen only her’ to have a special (abusive) relationship. I could relate very much. I just shared with my therapist that as distrustful as I was of my own family I believed the world ‘out there’ was what I really couldn’t trust.

It is difficult to admit but when I look back at my childhood, no matter what happened in my home, I believed we were better than other people. I’m not sure if that was an unspoken rule thing or just my own sinful nature trying to hide from feelings of shame.

For much of my life I was like a queen, walking the rooftop my ancestors had built, surveying all that was going on and still having the hubris to declare that it was better than anything else on earth.

In light of that delusion I was under, I am actually thankful that my mind broke. There probably wouldn’t have been any other way for me to see the truth of it all.

Gods Kingdom is the only good Kingdom. The things man builds are rife with betrayal, abuse, hubris and all sorts of other madness.


When the exhausted mind lies. Like an overtired toddler: but I’m really not tired!

adolescence adorable blur child

Life with an overactive mind: I have a strange pain in my back and I start to obsess that it might be cancer. Or, the muscle twitch in my chest could be the beginnings of a heart attack. Or, right before bed I think of a minor irritation I had with my BHH two days ago and I bring it up with an accusatory edge in my voice; even though we are both tired and it wasn’t that big of a thing.

It is sort of a ‘somatic’ thing, but not really. The medical term for body pain originating in the mind is: somatic (or psychosomatic symptoms). I’ve mentioned several books and theories about somatic symptoms in the past. Dr. John Sarno coined something called TMS — wherein the mind distracts a person from painful emotions by causing a random pain in the back, or neck, or leg. Thereby distracting you from that which is even harder to bear. Like the emotional heartache of grief, stress, or an unsuitable-to-you career choice. Those deeper issues can disappear when your mind is focused on whether or not you will be disabled by the pain in your neck, leg, back, etc.

During my thought processing time today–wherein I was again going over old journal notes  — I came across something intriguing that I had written down. I think it came from my therapist originally. She likely took the note down from someone else.

“An overtired child will insist it is not tired. In reality you KNOW the child needs a nap. But the more tired the child is, the more the child will declare she is NOT tired. A wise parent ignores the child’s protests, removes the stimulation from the child and gives her a space in which to rest and sleep.”

My notes continue to say that I need to treat the obsessive thoughts popping up into my mind, usually about health concerns or my marriage or that I am not doing enough with my life, just as the parent treats the overtired toddler. Ignore them. Don’t give them air. Consciously give my overactive and extremely tired mind the rest it is actually telling me that it NEEDS.

I’m not sure if there is a word for that kind of thing either… Some might call it ADHD, or OCD, or PTSD or C-PTSD. All I know is that I know my mind, my emotions, shoot — even my spirit…is tired. And that it keeps insisting it can ‘still do this’. This being: maintain a high intensity, high stress, highly productive existence. In reality, my mind has been overworked by years of trauma, and then years of denying trauma, as well as some addictions to control and intensity–things which I keep fueling. I have listened too many times to the inner-toddler insisting she wasn’t tired and made myself even more exhausted as a result. I fear that what has resulted is a middle aged crank case who desperately needs a break but won’t give herself one and thereby makes everyone else around her…miserable.

This morning I do recognize that my mind is overworked, overtired, in need of a break. But just like that toddler I can also see how it is STILL insisting right back to me, “I’m NOT tired!”

This is what it looks like when I fall for that lie: I google what a heart attack feels like and get even more concerned about this weird pain in my chest. Or I watch that thriller murder story at 8PM instead of reading a subduing book so that my sleep cycles can maintain their regular-ness. Or I start another round of the WWIII fight I had with my husband last week.

I do all those things over and over because I allow my mind to fool me. It tells me in this excited you-can-do-anything-you-want voice: you are not tired of this emotional roller coaster you’ve been on your entire life! You actually love it!

Yeah. Right. 

A Cracked Christmas…and why I am addicted to being in control.

blur close up crack cracker

My mom was a hoarder. Although I didn’t have a word for it in my childhood as the TV show, Hoarders, didn’t exist. I just knew something wasn’t right with her. We had two deep-freezes full of outdated butter and other things. Mom bought more boxes of butter (and fish sticks and ice cream) on every grocery run. When a freezer got too full, she added more freezers.

Each December I would beg to decorate. My school friends’ Moms put their trees up the day after Thanksgiving. Eventually Mom would nod with a dramatic ‘fine’, and I would climb into the attic to the boxes marked x-mas. I would sift through them and only put out the newer decorations. The cracked silver bell door hanger and the dusty choir boy candles from the 1950’s  stayed at the bottom of the box with the burned out lights, broken tree ornaments and stinky wax poinsettias things. Mom hoarded everything she ever received that had anything to do with anything; and especially Christmas. Yet it also seemed she hated everything to do with Christmas–at least when I was around.

I am an artistic type and so I enjoyed the entire process. All alone I would put the tree up–pushing the stacks of hoarded stuff to the corners of the living room. Mom stayed busy in the kitchen. Dad would come home and declare it looked good; and then now you just need to leave it that way. Then he’d turn to mom and tell her she always over did it and put too much stuff out. I would sing inside at the rare praise, hoping that Mom would listen to Dad.

A few days later, I returned home from school to the harsh reality of my life. Mom had oodles of cookies piled up in the kitchen. She’d already done her work in the living room. The tree sagged, overwhelmed with too many ornaments, many cracked, glued together, and dirty. The bookshelves overflowed with grimy candles. The counters in between the two rooms were covered with nut trays and waxy poinsettias (with layers of dust– too old to come clean). She had redone my decorating; putting it just as she wanted it–and how she wanted it was to have the entire house overflowing with broken, old, fused together…stuff.

I didn’t actually process what that felt like, until I started therapy a few years ago. Yesterday I found my therapy notes about my childhood Christmases. It was insightful to re-read. I could still feel the raw emotions that I felt when I first penned the ‘exchange’ between my younger self and my adult self. But the hard feelings were subdued now; less painful.

I also realized, as I read through the memories: this is why I am addicted to control. This is why I became co-dependent.

There was no submission to one another in our household, and no respect. Boundaries were non-existent. There were ongoing power plays and codependency followed by reluctant obedience followed by retaliations to prove who was really in control. Mom hoarded and ignored. Dad screamed and hit. The uncles molested and assaulted. They were all perverse with one another. And they lived, willingly, with all of it. Controlling their own little worlds, oblivious to the damages done to themselves or others. Just so long as they remained in control of something and/or someone. (Children being the easiest to control).

I decided that most things were my fault, or my responsibility. Now I see that was a form of maintaining some sense of control. In reality, I was in danger. I was abandoned and neglected and outright abused. That truth was too scary to realize, though. I chose the easy lie–that I had deserved it all for being bad.

As an adult my efforts to be in control of the narrative did double-duty each Christmas season as the stress and expectations mounted. I tried to make the holiday into a Hallmark movie for the entire family; hosting gatherings and making nice. I had my own boxes in the attic marked x-mas–yet Mom’s tired junk made its appearance anyway in my own home. She reminded everyone of what a fussy baby I had been. She asked catty questions about how much ‘that new bedspread had cost’ (even though my bedroom door was kept closed, and eventually locked, during family gatherings)…but…. So long as the house and the decor looks nice I can make everything inside of me, and others, be nice as well!!

Nope. I could never control my family. They won every time. Sadly, I still let them win sometimes- even though I have estranged myself now.

As a child I fluffed out that fake tree and made things pretty and believed it could work. I thought Mom would let me have some say, that she would honor my need to have a pretty home, that she might honor ME. She let me get by with it for a day or two. Then she showed us who really ran the house. I’d return from school, see those cracked silver bells on the front door and knew I couldn’t win.

Mom sat wordlessly during dinner, ignoring my dad when he yelled, veins popping in his head, because he couldn’t find his reading glasses with all the bleeping Christmas $*^! on the countertops.

I barely touched my dinner. Then I ate cookie after cookie, their rotten butter and outdated flour putrefying with everything else inside my guts. The next day I’d likely have to skip school, again, due to stomachache.

Dad hit with his hands and cut with his mouth. But in her own way; Mom won the fights. She got what she wanted and what she wanted was to hang on to every old thing she could and to insulate herself from everything. Misery loves company; as they say.

But some things are actually better cracked — like nuts. So the real question is: can I let go of my own need to insulate myself from pain; letting the cracked parts of y life reveal the tender flesh within?

I think so. Probably for the wrong reasons though. Oh, I think I have healed a lot in my recovery process. All I have to do is read some old journal entries to realize that. But, well, mostly I think I am just stubborn enough not to let my mother ruin another Christmas.




Some things were easier when I was living outside of reality.

rear view of a boy sitting on grassland

So my son lost his job. He was fired the week before Thanksgiving. His dream job… Well, all right, perhaps it was not his dream job. Let’s just say it was my dream job. One that I would have loved to have had myself. My stomach is still in a knot as I write this post; a week after first hearing the hard news.

He seems ok with it. It seems he’s learned from the mistakes he made. The work wasn’t fulfilling him anymore. He would have quit soon anyway had he not gotten fired. Still. I felt like I’d been smacked in the gut by a bear.

After a day or two of pain, I found myself longing for the foggy dissociative haze that was once my brain. A numbed out holding place where nothing hurt deeply. Everything could be minimized (well, he was going to quit anyway!), spiritualized (God’s got this! Surely this was meant to be!), or blamed (those dirty pigs, firing someone right before the holidays!?!?), OR, (my unique speciality), DOING ALL THREE AT ONCE.

I no longer deny the reality of my abusive childhood, nor my present mental-health-struggles. Living in those truths is changing my brain. One might think that things would get easier when one is getting healthier mentally. It is a bit trickier than that for me. I denied reality (as an unhealthy coping tool), for so long that there are consequences. Bad news is harder to handle than it was prior. The pain is sharp. Foreign. It tempts me to return to the emotion-less-void that is still so familiar to me. On the flip side, exciting events can, literally, be overly stimulating. I also have to enter into those slowly and with caution.

All of which makes the holidays, err, interesting.

Very early in the morning on Thanksgiving day, I put a turkey in the oven with my heart heavy over my son’s situation. The feeling of loss had eased some, but not enough for me to host a gathering with a smile on my face. I knew I had to pull myself together before the turkey was done. The familiar ‘place’ in my mind was waiting for me to return. I entered into the numbness with relief, because, well, have you ever hosted a Thanksgiving dinner at your house?? It is a ton of work!

The scary part is I didn’t even notice, or feel, the burn on my arm that happened when I put the turkey in the oven. An hour or so later I saw the ugly red gash and only then did the wound begin to throb.

That’s when I realized that it is better to be in reality after all. Because to harm yourself, or to have another harm you, and not even feel it, is scarier to me, now, than anything else. Denial is not a place I want to be anymore.

I thought of Jesus weeping outside of Lazarus’s tomb. The shortest verse in all of Scripture: John 11:35. A mere two words: Jesus wept.

Dead Lazarus–whom Jesus knew would be raised from the dead in mere moments. Why the tears? Why not  focus on the miracle, which was literally about to happen, and which Jesus alone knew was about to happen. It seems strange–why He would cry. Everyone else, who had no idea Lazarus was about to come back to life — sure — it makes complete sense that they would cry and wail and mourn. But why was Jesus crying over something He was about to fix?

Perhaps it is because Jesus didn’t deny any truth. Not for a second. And in that moment, wherein Jesus wept, there was death and loss and hard changes and grieving people all around Him–and so He cried too. He felt the pain. The God-man who is full of Grace AND Truth… stayed in reality.

Scripture doesn’t record Jesus’ reaction when Lazarus emerged from that tomb moments later. But I suspect Jesus was shouting, laughing, dancing, hugging and crying happy tears along with everyone else. I have a hard time believing that He was just standing there, aloof and removed. I think He engaged fully in the celebration which likely ensued.

Living outside of reality works to escape the pain of life, in your mind at least. But the body knows when an injury has occurred, even when the mind is somewhere else. The body always knows. Books have been written about that (The Body Keeps the Score. When the Body Says No.). I’ve read them both in my recovery. They make some very good points; I dare say: chilling points about the importance of living in reality. Indeed, just like my Thanksgiving day oven-burn, it can’t be ignored forever. The body will get the mind’s attention eventually and then it will hurt. We think we can ignore it as a way to deal with it, but it won’t disappear like a salesman at the door. It waits and waits, even though you never invited it in, the pain doesn’t leave. The saddest thing is that a whole lot of restorations and resurrections might happen while you are ignoring the door.

It would be a tragedy to miss those while hiding from pain. And so, while part of me still wants to numb out, a bigger part of me wants to experience all of life. The pain and the joy. The sadness and the celebration. So I placed the good china on the table with a gash on my arm, tears in my throat, and a smile on my face. I felt it all that day. My emotions looked like the heaping bowls of sides, the platter of turkey, and the four kinds of dessert. Or was it five?

There was too much of everything.

But it was good.

pastry on cake stand


Extending forgiveness to those who ran the other way when I broke.

broken green wooden pallet
Photo by Francesco Paggiaro on

Yesterday morning I was looking down into the watery bottom of a hotel’s oatmeal container. A man beside me, with leather loafers and tanned ankles, started telling a female hotel guest how to use the toaster oven so that it didn’t spark like that.

I turned in alarm toward the toaster oven (my sensitive nose was overwhelmed with burnt toast). I was surprised there wasn’t any visible smoke. It sure smelled like raging fire. But that’s just my overdrive-sense-of-smell (common in sexual abuse survivors). What did surprise me was the girth underneath the man’s large t-shirt and athletic shorts. His feet and legs had seemed average-sized. But I didn’t want my shock to show and thereby cause someone to feel shame. So I just laughed along with the others about the quirky toaster oven, hoping he hadn’t seen the look on my face before I forced it away.

He followed behind me as I found a seat in the breakfast room. Then he sat down across from my line of vision. His chair creaked and the cushion let out air. The wood lathes on the bottom swayed. I was very uncomfortable. I didn’t want to see that chair break. I didn’t know what to do. He moved forward and the wooden legs seemed to visibly shake. I didn’t want to be in that room if that man landed on the ground. I gulped the oatmeal and went back to my room in haste.

On the elevator God peeled another layer on the onion.  Did you see that? What you just did there? Could it be that no one really knows what to do when people break?

Is that why so many people fled from my life when I broke?

Maybe they weren’t mean. Or dumb. Or uncaring. Or ‘pedestrian in their understanding of life’. Or not good Christians. And maybe they weren’t rejecting me.

Maybe fleeing was their way of caring for me. Because they didn’t want me to feel any further shame. Or they may have been reacting as I just had. They simply didn’t know what to do and were self-preserving themselves.

Until that moment in the elevator, I hadn’t even realized how much resentment I was holding onto. Resentment at feeling stigmatized and misunderstood and unsupported by the people in my life who disappeared when I was at my worst with PTSD. I am owning it now and forgiving it. And, obviously, there is a stigma which remains toward all mental health issues. There are also abusive people who prey on people who have just fallen on their butts. It’s just that something about seeing that man nearly break that chair made me wonder how many people just don’t know what to do when we witness someone breaking– or about to break.

What would I have done had that chair broken under that man? Offered to help? Walked away pretending I hadn’t seen it happen? Asked him if he was ok? What would I want done?

There is a scripture about not breaking a bruised reed. Walking away pretending you didn’t even see the reed getting bruised can be hurtful–at least to me. I would want someone to inquire after me or offer to help me up. I would see the backs of those who were walking away in haste. That shunning would hurt me as much as the fall. But, that’s me. I don’t know what others want in such moments.

With other bruised reeds, perhaps they’d prefer you did just that–walk away pretending you didn’t see them in their broken state. My BHH is one who likes to suffer through physical maladies alone; without witnesses or offers of help. That is tough for me to honor as I’m the opposite.

As in many things, so much comes down to strong relationships and knowing the people in your life. Asking them those questions before they actually walk headfirst into a light pole. (A friend did that and got a concussion and she was further troubled when nobody who witnessed it offered to help her or even asked her if she was ok–meanwhile my BHH told her that he would have been glad that no one acted like that had just happened).

Another scripture also comes to mind: When the woman was caught in adultery. Abusive religious leaders used her to try and trap Jesus (and it seems they let the man who with her entirely off the hook.) Meanwhile, Jesus wasn’t at a loss. He stooped down and started writing on the ground. Theologians have all sorts of theories as to what He was writing. But what struck me, and others who wrote about this in some commentary or sermon where I took this insight from, was the simple fact that in bending down like that He was likely avoiding looking directly at the woman. That woman was probably naked or half dressed or hastily trying to cover herself up in some manner (since she was ‘caught in the act’).

It stands to reason that Jesus was respecting her by stooping down like that; giving her time to compose or cover herself. Yet, He wasn’t avoiding her distressed state nor at a loss over what to do or say. He was able to draw her out and drive off those who tried to bind her up with shame. He stooped but He also stood and leveled with both her accusers, and with her.

Likewise with me. When I break He gives me a moment to compose and cover myself; without judging my nakedness. And then He levels; with both my abusers and accusers and with me. People rarely do this well. They either want to exploit your shame further, stand and gape at your mess, or run away as fast as they can.

I’m accepting that. I have done it myself. It is time to forgive it.

Deciding on the ‘rice’ that I want to avoid.

man in water
Photo by Pixabay on

Early on my therapist told me that part of her treatment plan for my PTSD was to get me to stop being triggered by so many things. Mopeds. Kleenex boxes. Wooden church pews. The smell of pickles. A dog bowl. It was exhausting. Each time I worked through the underlying roots; felt the pain; accepted; forgave; confronted; shared my feelings; and moved on. Some were erased; others grew new roots and had to be ‘faced’ and ’embraced’ all over again. (Face it, embrace it, erase it, is a common CBT motto).

I was so co-dependent and self conscious, or something, that I just listened to my therapist’s advice. Until I realized that since I was paying for our hour together, I could take the wheel when things didn’t feel right. So one day I’d had enough and let her know it:

“O.k. what if I don’t want to overcome all these triggers?! What if some things that I avoid are just how it needs to be for me? What if I WANT some of these things to bother me forever? What if I decide not to avoid the avoidance with every little thing that’s bugging me??!!” I leaned forward in my chair; my heart racing from a sudden need-to-be-assertive rising up inside.

“What do you mean?” She asked; her eyes a little surprised but her voice soft and careful.

“Our neighbor Jake avoids rice. He didn’t touch the casserole I made him when he came to our house one evening as it had rice in it. Told me he doesn’t eat rice. Then added that he had ‘had enough rice in Vietnam to last two lifetimes.'”

I looked pointedly at my therapist, “Clearly he had some PTSD from that. And he didn’t make a big deal of it. He just didn’t eat the rice. Luckily I had some bread and vegetables for him. So, can’t some of these things bugging me just be my rice?”

She leaned back. Narrowed her eyes and told me something she said often, “I hope you wrote that one down somewhere. You could use that in your novel.” Then she continued, “Do you really want to be debilitated by mopeds and pickles for the rest of your life? I mean, you can, if you want to. But, I don’t think you’d be showing up here each week working so hard if you were ok with avoiding so many things.”

I nodded, realizing the truth in what she’d said and feeling my confidence get washed dry from guilt–as I hadn’t been writing at all (and she kept talking in sessions as if I was actually writing all the time or something). She continued, “But, yes, later on as you keep going with your recovery, you may find that there are a few things that are easier to just avoid. It may be empowering at that point to make those choices, actually. Like your neighbor avoids rice. That’s all part of PTSD: figuring out what to keep avoiding and what to shelve for later and what to conquer now.”

I think I am getting down to my ‘rice’ now. Even though they are not very many anymore, when a trigger hits me now; it’s a doozie.

I’m wiped out for days. One of the major triggers that remains is contact with my family of origin; particularly the ones who perpetrated abuse. God gave me a love for them; a natural inclination; that will never go away. I feel broken that our relationship remains broken. I will still pray for them.

But it’s time I leveled with myself. They have not changed. And until they do; I’ve had enough ‘rice’ in my life to last two lifetimes.

There are other things to eat for dinner.

Niggling Through Hell.

hi way road

The country song, “If you’re going through hell, keep on going” was released in 2006. At the time it was released I switched the dial whenever it came on the radio. Its catchy lyrics stayed with me anyway… “If you’re going through hell, keep on going…don’t look back… if you’re scared don’t show it…you might get out, before the devil even knows you’re there…”

Nearly a decade later, my life came to a halt with anxiety disorder, and an eventual diagnoses with PTSD. While learning cognitive behavioral therapy, my therapist instructed me to watch for any niggling things. Then examine those during my daily containment and journaling times. I laughed. Niggling? What kind of word is that. Is that even a word? I wondered aloud. She tried to explain its meaning. I searched niggling on google.

Then I ‘got’ it. I was to mark those moments which caused slight but persistent annoyance, discomfort, or anxiety.

Huh. That niggling feeling occurred so much it would have been easier to mark the moments I didn’t have any niggling feelings.

And it was just that–a niggling feeling, that I had the first time I heard that country song about going through hell. A nudge from the Holy Spirit that something significant was just said, or that something is off in my life. A pentecostal friend of mine calls those ‘checks in the spirit’. At the time, it was easier to turn the dial and pretend things were fine. Going through hell? Not me. My life was good! I hadn’t asked directions from a genie in a bottle of Jim Beam. I had found Jesus!

Now I know that I’ve been going through my own private hell and I find the song empowering. Even though I haven’t heard it on the radio recently, it is on repeat in my spirit.

In the early stages of recovery, it was all I could do to maintain some normalcy in my life. To do daily care of my body and get through my work obligations and then a bit of therapy homework. I cut most ‘extra’ things out of my life. Scaled back my work and social commitments. Stopped communicating with peripheral friendships. Tried to explain to closer friends what was going on. Separated from most of my family of origin. And I avoided most known triggers. Rested and took care of my body and tried to calm my mind. Then, bit by bit, I faced things.

Going to the grocery store alone. Going to doctor visits alone. Being left home alone. Owning my story without my voice shaking. Confronting past abusers. Finding some enjoyment in living again. And after each obstacle: retreating to my safe place in my comfortable home with soft lighting, a trickling waterfall scene on the TV Screen, scented candles; and the door locked.

I needed to do that. And it’s strange how so many commitments and people just sort of disappeared and gave me space to do it. I think God had a hand in that.

At this point, the door on our comfortable home has gone back to how it was prior–there are a lot of knocks. And several people who feel comfortable enough to just walk in if the door isn’t answered promptly. Bonus children. Friends. Friendly UPS drivers. It is almost back to how it was before I got sick. So I am digging through the piles of obligations and peripheral associations that I let slide. It’s messy. And I’m changing my job title at work. Doing more leisure pursuits. And looking into publishing some writing again.

It’s overwhelming to reclaim a life. Especially when the life you had prior never really was your own. I was enmeshed with my abusers to the point of not knowing who I was; or wanted to be.

I couldn’t have done this six months ago. And here I am. Doing it. Nothing has been resolved with my family and I’m learning to accept that pain and to not anticipate apologies or reconciliation there. I think part of me didn’t want to get better. As long as I remained ‘too sick to deal with the mess which has become my family situation’, I didn’t have to accept that things might never change there. I stayed in that ‘bargaining’ phase for a long time.

And I am a lot better now. Even though my body is still having stress symptoms. My brain too. The other day at work I could feel the heat rising and the familiar urge to duck and run out the door. I was worried my coworker noticed the sweat on my forehead. Cortisol sucks. I had thought my stress hormones had gone down as I am back to ‘always being cold’ and ‘taking an extra sweater.’

I know what it is to be in the deepest pit. And I’m not there anymore-inspite of some moments where I need to remove my cardigan. I’m afraid that if I do not keep moving forward through the intense heat; if I run the other way every time I start to sweat–that I will never get out of this hell I found myself in.

Strange thing is–I was already in the exact same hell back in 2006. I was just denying that I was there.

Well I been deep down in that darkness
I been down to my last match
Felt a hundred different demons
Breathing fire down my back
And I knew that if I stumbled
I’d fall right into the trap that they were laying, yeah
But the good news
Is there’s angels everywhere out on the street
Holding out a hand to pull you back upon your feet
The one’s that you been dragging for so long
You’re on your knees
You might as well be praying
Guess what I’m saying
If you’re going through Hell
Keep on going, don’t slow down
If you’re scared, don’t show it
You might get out
Before the devil even knows you’re there
Yeah, if you’re going through Hell
Keep on moving, face that fire
Walk right through it
You might get out
Before the devil even knows you’re there