2. How have the successes shaped your life, affected the way you think of yourself and your capabilities? How do they affect your goals and the things you strive for? I’m not sure at the way my shoulders deflate as I read and reread the question being asked. Pondering the way I think about myself always tends to leave a bitter taste in my mouth. Because if I’m being honest, there is little I like about myself.
Years ago, I began to tell myself, “I can handle hard things.” Over and over again the words would run through my mind, over my tongue, out into the air around me. This bit of truth, always came back to me. Because it is true. I can do hard things. I can take the hit. I can overcome. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent my fair share of time crying on the floor, yet I always manage to stand back up, ready to keep going.
Goals and things i strive for are beginning to look more like an ocean sunset, not something achievable. They are distant, beautiful, and fleeting. I always had the same consistent goals for years, the things I wanted more than anything.Yet I let them fall away. I watched as they became farther and farther into the distance before my feet slowed and I stopped chasing. Sometimes I still long for those things. But at the same time those were the dreams of a young girl. That girl had her life before her, bright and exciting. The only thing I see before me now is a chasm.
1. What has happened in your life that you are particularly proud of? I pause, slightly disturbed that the first thing my mind conjures is the moment at the gas station. The first moment I felt a chain fall, my skin feel a little lighter. The moment I stared back, never flinching, never faltering, conquering the one thing that always drove me to break in the past. I held his eyes, held my ground, not allowing him to win this time. This time, I would win. This time I would come out feeling proud, feeling a little bit closer to free.
They say freedom comes with forgiveness. By all accounts, I think they’re right. Though I cannot lie and tell you my soul did not find something I needed that day. I knew in that moment, on that day, that I was no longer that girl from the past. This girl had risen up, stood for the girl who could not. She was stronger than any past version of me I had ever been.
Strange, that this moment would mean so much to me. But it does. It was the day I stood for me, for her, for them. I stood against one of my greatest struggles and I came out better than okay. I came out victorious.
My next greatest triumph, the day I walked into her office and told her, “I’m not okay.” She smiled and in that smile I knew she understood. She knows that smiles and sadness sometimes hold hands and make love. My heart hammered and I had to say some of the things out loud that day.
I had to tell her that the panic attacks were getting closer together and it was time to stop running. I had to tell her about the boyfriend, who would hold me close in the beginning, whispering that he would protect me. Then I had to tell her that the same boy eventually began leaving bruises, telling me he was only joking when he said mean things. The same boy who promised to protect me, would leave me with the ability to whisper, “me too…”
I had to tell her about the man I was forced to call, “Father”. How he was manipulative and how he made my mother cry more than he made her smile. I had to tell her the truth about the things. I still do. I still tell her. Little by little. I tell her the things that I’ve carried for so many years, taking power from them and lighting my soul with the slow burn.
No one asked, “Hey do you want to make a life long commitment? Right now?”
No one said that.
They did ask, “Can you give this child somewhere safe to go?”
That answer. That answer was easy.
Yes.
All the questions to come, not easy.
No one has stopped to ask me, “Is it hard having your family tell everyone that they hope you get to adopt him?”
No one has said, “We support you, even if you don’t want to make this lifetime commitment. That’s a big thing you should be one hundred and ten percent on.”
They never say and ask things like that.
Instead I get, “Well why wouldn’t you want to adopt him? God he’s so perfect. You’ll never get another one like him. Better think of how you’ll want to school him. Better plan for this future thing. That future thing. Isn’t he just the cutest? God the system is so messed up. They should just give him to you guys. He’s going to be so messed up if they take him away from you. You’re the best thing he’s ever know.”
Shut up.
For the love of God and all that is Holy please. Shut up.
I can’t seem to find one person who understands my weird situation. But that’s basically been my whole life. No one has ever really been quite like me.
I wasn’t ready to be a mom. I’m still not ready to be a mom. For as long as I can remember I had one driving thought, my child will not be like me. My child will be wanted. Completely. Without doubt.
I have always believed, wholeheartedly, that I would know my children when I saw them. I would see them and my soul would recognize their soul. Like with him. My beloved. I saw him and my soul knew. Even when my mind rejected and the world tried to tell me no. The one thing I was always sure of, it was him. Even when I doubt myself, I remember that my soul knew.
This little guy is so sweet. He is kind, he is so good, he is adorable. He is all of the wonderful things people say about him. My not wanting to adopt him, right now, has nothing to do with his worth or who he is. So I keep trekking on.
I am his foster mom.
This is my role.
Today. In this moment.
His future is just as uncertain as mine.
We are both here existing in this place, just trying to stay afloat. I can’t even begin to imagine the things he has seen, felt, and experienced. He is the child my heart used to, and still, breaks for. The kid that hides in the closet.
That is what makes this so hard. Shouldn’t I want to fight for him? Shouldn’t I be willing to fight to the death for him? Or maybe, I know that he is not mine. I could try to manipulate this situation. I could cave under the pressure of my mother and her wants. Or I could trust God. I could listen for his voice above the rest. After all, he never promised that our hearts would not break. He never said that there would not be pain. He never said we would not break.
He did, promise to be there.
He will be there when my heart breaks. When I question everything. When I feel crushed under the pressure to be something, to measure up. He will be there when I have to face the hollow feeling. He will be there when I don’t know which way is the right one.
In my bible study today she spoke of a verse in Isaiah.
“No matter which way I turn my head, I hear your voice guiding me.”
How beautiful to hear that whisper on the wind, no matter which way we turn. No matter how uncertain we feel, looking back and forth.
I am learning to listen for the voice. I suck. One hundred percent. My hand still keeps reaching for the volume button. Turn the noise up. Block it out. Block it all out. Unfortunately that has meant blocking him out. It’s time to turn down the noise. It’s time to sit and be with him. In the silence. Dreaded silence. So much lies within the silence. But he is there. There, slowly reaching out. I can feel his warmth, he’s been waiting so patiently.
My Bible shuffles all around my house. Under the coffee table, to the couch in my makeup room, back to the coffee table, back to my room. An endless shuffle. Not because I’ve been endlessly reading but because my intent seems to be endless. I think, if I just put it here then surely I’ll take the time out of my day. Surely, here, looking nice and pretty I’ll make it a priority.
But I don’t.
Because in all honesty, it isn’t a priority. That’s my honest truth.
My Bible has now found itself next to my bed, in the most inconvenient spot for looking pretty. Yet there it sits, and here is where I can’t bring myself to shuffle it again. Like it was meant to live there, those love letters tucked next to me while I sleep and that little thing that reminds me that I can face this upcoming day.
I am sure I’m not the only one who occasionally wishes that maybe this will be the night that I won’t have to face the morning. That when I sleep I’ll wake up at the end of this life. But of course, no one ever admits that. No one, with a decent life, is going to admit that some days your mind concaves and you would rather do anything else than put the rubble back together again.
But thats okay, you can admit it here.
Sometimes I’m not okay and sometimes you’re not okay.
That in itself, is okay.
I’m learning to speak. I’ve known the English language for years. I read far above my reading level, I’ve read more words than I can count. I’ve written more words than I can count. Yet, for the life of me, I am just now learning to speak.
I am learning that words, my words, are actually important. I am important. I am more than the lies. I am more than the limitations I put upon myself. I am more than the rejection.
Even though, I barely crack the pages, and my track record sucks. I can hear the pages of that Bible whispering. I know they hold the key to life, while I grip my chains. I know that the words can heal. I just have to let them.
The word itself leaves a strange taste on my tongue. Like it’s weird to admit it out loud.
I feel haunted.
Haunted by memories.
Voices.
Lies.
It’s time to write the truth.
It’s time to write about what hurts.
I once read this book about a girl and a haunted house. Turns out, she was the haunted house. I detested the book. I tucked it behind other books, not wanting to see it but not able to just throw it away either. It made me feel uneasy, like something lay inside it. I later realized, I understood the girl. Her cracks, her crevices, were haunted and the house was forever trying to pull her deeper and deeper inside.
This is my depression.
This deep sense of dread and despair comes from deep inside. It fills my veins, making everything feel heavy and gross. It clouds my mind. It whispers, nothing is worth it. Nothing matters. Be angry. You deserve to be angry. No one truly cares anyway. You don’t need friends. You don’t need anything.
A simple statement, kind of like the simple click of a lock chaining the statement to your being or the soft script, tattooed on your midsection. It’s always there, hiding beneath pretty clothes & smiles. But you never forget, its burned into who you are. The others can’t see it. Only when you remove your clothes, bare your vulnerability do they see it. The dark bold letters against soft light flesh.
I watched my mother wipe at tears as she sat on the floor at the end of her bed. Someone had told her she was hard to love. The way her voice shook and her eyes crinkled I knew she had carried the weight of those words for twenty years. Someone had cursed her in a way that can’t be outrun.
Light is easy to love, show me your darkness. 