Let me tell you, I have drunk my fill of bitterness over OCD.

When you’re twenty years old and have a tortured soul, an imprisoned life, a mind that won’t stop, and a heart that’s broken– and when you doubt that any of it is redeemable– bitterness feels like the only weapon in your arsenal.

But when you’re thirty-two, and you’ve been shown grace and favor and freedom and healing, when you’ve experienced rest, when you know that pain had a purpose, there’s just nothing in your rescued life that wants to hold onto that knife.

And so you open your hand.

At least, I did.

Image credit: Christian/Mr.C90