So
I have some issues. Big deal. As my freshman algebra teacher said, “You’ve got
issues, we’ve got tissues.” I’m out of tissues though. Annoying. Sometimes I’ll
blow snot in my hair though. Easy, accessible (though not name-brand) tissue.
That’s only when I’m praying and talking to God. I don’t want to interrupt the
conversation and grab Kleenex to wipe my nose. He wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, but
I want to stay present and not lose that special connection once my heart opens
and my words and emotions flow freely. Which is often. To be honest, God is the
only one I feel I can open completely to. Which is good, but difficult. Good
because the most wonderful, powerful, love-filled Being who knows and loves me
perfectly is on my side, in my mind, and heart. Bad because then I feel I am
only known to Him, by Him. And no one else. Maybe this is my own fault. Maybe I
learned fear early on, to protect myself early on. From people. From men. From
speaking. From showing anyone who I really am. From trusting. Yes, yes that is
probably the case. But its time now to be okay being me. Its time to not be
ashamed anymore. Or care what others think anymore. I’ve lived that way for too
long. It’s bondage. Bondage. There is no other word.
According
to my experience, there are two types of hell living in this world. The first,
and I’m not sure which category more people fall—the former or latter—not
having any idea who I am. Seeing through my physical eyes, watching TV,
absorbed on social media, music loud so I tune out the numbness inside me.
Disconnected with others (though I may laugh loudly), disconnected with myself.
To believe that this—what I see—is all there is. My body. My face. His body.
His face. Her body. Her face. The screens. The noise. Cold concrete. Weights.
Trophies that rust. Acceptance and praise from man (who will one day die).
Garish headlights that block the stars. The next episode of the next show. The
next outfit so I feel really sexy. The next meal. The next funny post. Mindless
mundane, where’s-my-next-fix-to-feel-alive routine. To eat and never be full.
To sleep and always tire. And to fully, fully accept that that is all there is.
That is hell.
The
second hell. (Gosh, acknowledging and reliving this suffuses my body with ice) to
live and see and breathe like the group above BUT KNOW and FEEL that who I am
being is not who I am. To feel so intensely that I am more. And there is more.
That there is power and beauty beyond description that dwells inside of me but
I am trapped. Trapped. I don’t know how to access it…her…ME. That conflict, dissonance,
of who I see and what I see is not who I know and feel lives inside of me. How
do I get there? How does this box covered in locks which daily mocks the
divinity that shines inside of me, be crushed? Broken down like the frail
cardboard I collapse with my bare hands at work and bail like the garbage it
is. How? How do I do it? There is life in me. But why do I feel dead? Sometimes
I see her. There are moments that how could I NOT?? She is sooo splendid and
glorious and radiant! I see her clearly when I am in the temple—the temples of
the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I see her clearly when I am
helping someone. I see her when I am talking to my friends that I dearly love. I
see her clearly when I give and when I hug. I see her when I don’t look in the
mirror but in the sky. The beauty of nature. When I am brave. I see her.
This
is why I am writing. That I may hear my own voice in my head. That I may read
my own words. And know I am known by myself. Not just by God. To be so grounded
in Jesus Christ—who already has saved me from the unspeakable—and to be so
grounded in ME. So *I* know I have words to say. And ideas to share. Testimony
to bear. Life that lives within me that gives life. Christ is the Life and
Light of the world. If His light is inside of me then that is how, to whom I
must turn, if I wish to be truly, wholly, alive. It is hard. The world is dark.
But I am not afraid. I know what I must do. Write. Write.
Right.
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