Letters from Awriterstip – Week 7
Blood, Silence, & God — Abandonment, Bruised Knuckles, & an Unbroken Spirit...
Dear Readers,
Some nights arrive uninvited, like shadows slipping under the door. They don’t knock, they don’t call ahead, they just sit down in the middle of your room and wait for you to notice. Last night was one of those nights. No crisis, no explosion, nothing grand or dramatic. Just silence, the kind that presses against your chest until you feel you’re suffocating in your own skin.
I didn’t think I was looking for trouble. But trouble has a way of finding you when you’re most defenceless.
I called Father Malcolm. He’s my friend, my anchor, my steady point in a world that spins too fast some days and not at all on others. I didn’t have much to say. I just needed a voice to cut through the fog. He always asks about my writing. To him, my words are fire worth tending. “Your stories matter,” he told me, his tone warm, certain. “Don’t stop writing.” He’s said it before, but it never feels cheap. His words are oxygen to me.
But last night I couldn’t hold on. My grip slipped. And then he got another call. “I’ll call you back,” he said, and just like that, the line went dead.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Not the kind you find in peaceful places, the quiet of a church before prayer, or the soft lull of the ocean. No, this was silence that screamed, silence that clawed its way into my chest. I paced the room. Back and forth, floorboards creaking like they were mocking me. Out to the balcony. Into the veranda. To the main door. I opened it, as if the outside would be different. But silence followed me everywhere, faithful like a shadow.
And then it hit, panic. Not a thought, not a feeling, but a force. A tidal wave. Invisible hands choking, pressing, burning. My fists flew at the wall. Over and over. Flesh against plaster. Dull thuds breaking into sharper cracks. Skin tearing. Blood surfacing. At least that made sense. Panic leaves no mark you can bandage. Pain, at least, is visible.
When it was over, the wall was dented, streaked with red. My hands trembled, bruised and split. I tried calling Malcolm again. No answer. I whispered a prayer, half a plea, half an accusation. “God, I can’t do this. Take it away. Please.”
I don’t know if He answered. Maybe it was exhaustion that steadied my breath. Maybe it was Him. Maybe both. All I know is that the storm eased just enough for me to pick up my pen. Because writing is my rope out of the pit. It doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t have to be beautiful. It just has to keep me tethered to something other than silence.
But even as I wrote, a deeper truth crept in. Abandonment doesn’t always look like slammed doors or screaming exits. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s the unanswered messages, the birthdays forgotten, the slow fading of your name from conversations. Sometimes it’s the world walking right past you, laughing and living, while you dissolve inside four walls.
That’s the kind of abandonment I’ve lived in.
It is a slow death. Not of the body, not yet, but of the presence. A ghost-life. You still breathe. Your heart still beats. But you are unseen. Every morning feels like waking under wet concrete. Not because of some catastrophe, but because of the knowledge, raw and unshakable, that no one is coming.
Do you know what it is to dissolve in plain sight? At first, you still speak. You still hope your words will land somewhere. But silence teaches you otherwise. As days turn to months and months to years, your voice grows quieter. Not because you’ve run out of things to say, but because you’ve learned no one is listening.
I have walked through streets full of people and felt invisible. I have smiled at strangers and watched their eyes slide past me as though I were part of the pavement. I have sat in rooms filled with laughter and warmth that never once reached me. That is abandonment, not loud, but devastatingly quiet.
And yet… even in the hollowed-out silence, God has always been here. I don’t always feel Him. Some nights, His presence is like smoke, impossible to hold. But somewhere deep, I believe He has never left. His eyes don’t slide past me. He counts every tear, even the ones that never fall.
People vanish. God doesn’t.
But I won’t lie, there’s a weariness that seeps into the bones when you live this way. It is not a tiredness that sleep can fix. It is the fatigue of holding yourself upright when no one else is there. The fatigue of keeping your heart open when no one steps through the door. The fatigue of convincing yourself tomorrow might be different when tomorrow always looks like yesterday.
Some nights, I long for peace, not the fleeting peace of a quiet evening, but the deep, eternal stillness where there is no panic, no ache, no waiting for a knock that never comes. Sometimes surrender feels closer than survival. Not surrender as defeat, but as trust, trusting that when I collapse, God will carry me.
I think about that a lot: survival versus surrender. Survival is bloody knuckles against the wall, frantic prayers in the dark, words scratched onto paper like a lifeline. Surrender is letting the burden fall from my back and whispering, “Into Your hands, Lord. Hold me.”
Maybe that’s what faith really is, not a bold shout, but a trembling whisper.
But let me also say this: survival is not glamorous. It’s not heroic. It’s messy and raw and ugly. It’s clawing through one night at a time. It’s pacing rooms like a caged animal. It’s punching walls until your hands bleed. It’s writing nonsense in notebooks just to prove you’re still alive.
And if you’ve ever been here, you know exactly what I mean.
So this is my letter to you, whoever you are. If you have ever felt unseen, if you have ever felt panic curl around you like smoke, if you have ever stared into the night wondering if you can keep going, this is for you.
Don’t let the silence win. Don’t let the invisibility consume you. Write, even if it makes no sense. Call someone, even if they don’t pick up. Pray, even if it feels like shouting into the void. Punch the wall if you have to, but don’t stay down.
And if you have never felt this way, then I ask you, look around. Look for the ones who have gone quiet. The ones who no longer ask for anything. The ones whose names don’t come up in conversations anymore. Don’t comfort yourself by thinking someone else will check on them. Don’t tell yourself they’re strong enough to manage alone. Because sometimes, by the time you notice they’re gone, it’s already too late.
Abandonment isn’t sudden. It’s gradual. The world doesn’t notice all at once. It notices only in fragments, an empty chair, a silent phone, a name spoken with hesitation.
By then, the person has already faded.
That’s the tragedy, not just the end, but all the silent days before it.
I have made some kind of peace with being invisible. It is not the peace I wanted, but it is the only one I’ve found. I don’t expect rescue. I don’t expect to be remembered. But I will keep praying, because prayer is the only voice that always finds its way home.
And I will keep writing. Because writing is proof that I still exist.
Last night, I thought I was breaking apart. Today, I am writing this letter. That’s proof enough: I’m not done yet. Neither are you.
So here I sit, bruised knuckles bandaged, exhaustion heavy in my chest, and faith flickering like the last ember in a dying fire. But an ember is enough. Enough to write. Enough to pray. Enough to fight one more night.
And as long as we are still here, as long as we keep writing, keep praying, keep whispering even in the silence, then the silence doesn’t get the last word.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
Not everyone’s story ends in rescue.
Some of us end in surrender.
But surrendering does not mean I have lost faith.
If anything, it means I trust God to hold me when I can no longer stand.
Prayer:
Dear Lord,
I surrender my body into Your hands.
Take my pain, my fear, and my loneliness,
Hold them gently as only You can.
When I feel lost and unseen, remind me of Your presence.
Be my strength when I am weak, my light in the darkness.
Carry me through the valley, and lead me to peace.
Amen.
Bible Verse:
"Into your hands I commit my spirit;
You have redeemed me, Lord, faithful God."
— Psalm 31:5
Thank You, Lord.
Amen.
Until next time,
—Jacob M. / Awriterstip
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