You know why there’s so many spelling mistakes in my blog despite the fact that I am a grammar Nazi? I know I’m being creative when I pour out my soul, and I don’t want my self-doubt to get in the way. I hit “Post” when I’m finished writing. I will go back and edit later. To edit before hitting post is to give myself a chance to think about what I’m about to put out into the world, which to some would be necessary. For me, it creates vomit-inducing visions of imagined repercussions to the point of absolute paralysis. It’s a perpetuation of the cycle I’ve always had, which is that my words aren’t worth anything. The more I think about the effect my writing has on you, the less I can think about how my writing affects me- and effects me, for that matter. My writing launches me into being, one day at a time.
True courage, where I can take the quotes off, comes after publication. I have never said anything in this blog that is untrue to me; where I have made errors are from lack of information, not malice. I know that I can stand by anything that I have written on any day, because it is so utterly me. Writing for “Stories” has been prayer. If you read it, you can see all my pain, all my raw places, and the way they’re being nourished… or not. You see all the places that I do in black and white that need work. I can rest at peace knowing that there’s nothing external that could rock me any more than I’m capable of doing myself. As I was telling my friend Aaron this morning, “if there’s anything I’ve learned this year, it’s that it’s all in my head.” Funny, because that phrase used to drive me crazy when they used it. Now I’ve re-framed those words to mean that I now have the internal power to drive those dark thoughts away, when I was previously defenseless.
The effect of growing up in church life is that you become an empath at an early age, whether you were biologically wired for it or not. The way that played out for me is that when my abuser told me things about her life that made me want to protect her, it affected me more deeply than I think was ever intended, and yet it shattered something in me.
There were people out there like that, and one of them had hurt the one I was supposed to protect. My process now is to back away from living in fight or flight mode. My knee-jerk reaction to everything was just an exposed nerve, and the upward climb is re-adding myelin.
My dad and I were at breakfast, and he said, “where are you going with this?”
Without hesitating, I said that I hoped my story was worth something in terms of helping other people learn to identify insidious types of abuse because so many other people are coerced into believing it wasn’t or isn’t real, as well. I also said that it was important to me to have written record of how far I’ve come…. or not, as the case may be.
My blog lets me just INFJackass all over the place. I am so judgmental. There are some days when I feel my life could be better represented with a table-flipping Jesus bobblehead. I look back at my old entries just to make sure those moods pass, frankly. It’s not pretty. I’m angry and self-righteous and think I have a right to be… right up until I really start looking at it and say, “that’s enough.” Then, I go back to beating myself up for having said anything at all, and it starts the vicious cycle over again…. stuff, deny, emotionally vomit later.
I click “Post” before I have the chance to think my words are worthless in the hopes of avoiding the worthlessness loop altogether.