I have feelings and strings of thought that aren’t exactly positive but aren’t pessimistic either.
I’ll start by saying I am not the craziest person in the world. The thing that makes it appear like I am the craziest person in the world is that I wear my flaws right on my sleeve. I’m not trying to trick anybody into thinking I am awesome all the time. Trying to be normal and calm is what creates problems for me.
Whoever marries me won’t be surprised by my lack of polish. This is me. I’m grouchy when I’m tired or hungry. I don’t like driving. I complain about winter, and I am inconsolable in the morning. My house is kind of dirty. Not like – fruit flies in the kitchen, dirty, or mold in the bathroom, dirty. But dusty corners and too many dishes in the sink, dirty. I get dressed out of a pile of clothes sometimes, because I’m too lazy to hang them up. That’s how my bra ended up in the street, today. It must have been attached to the pants that I grabbed out of the pile.
I have digressed in a major way.
There have been times over the past few years when I have googled symptoms of depression to figure out what is wrong with my brain, and all the feelings. Sometimes I have felt like everything is wrong and will always be wrong, but I still didn’t want to die from skin cancer. I want to live. I know there are certain times when I can’t squeeze a happy thought out of anything – not even a rainbow, or a puppy. It seems out of my control, and I just have to wait it out. I’ve looked into the future and thought – I know exactly where this is going. I know how this will end. It ends with me feeling bad. I’ve been here before. My life for the next 40 years is just going to work, paying the bills, and talking to people often enough so I don’t lose my mind and end up in the corner of my apartment chewing on my hair.
I realized something.
Since I am open and honest about my imperfections, it has maybe given some people (including, but not limited to, me) the impression that they are whole and I am not. But in fact, we are equal.
I have believed the lie that I am less, I am more of a mess than other people, and I should be more like them. I have felt that I have so far to go before I can be acceptable, be one of you. I should say poetic things, always smile, and make sure my hugs last a long time. Only long hugs are genuine hugs, right? And if you don’t hug people every time you see them, it means you hate touching people, and you’re afraid of being close to people, right? People who hug a lot are the nice people, and I am just a closed-off, emotionally distant person, right?
No, actually, that’s not right. That’s a lie. It’s all a lie.
I am not less.
My mess is not messier than your mess.
I don’t have farther to go than anyone else to be acceptable, relatable, and enjoyable.
I go to the same place you go, and that’s to Jesus.
Since He has a way of flipping things on their head and casting beams of light into the darkest of places, I am feeling something different, now.
I look into the future and say – yeah, that crappy thing is going to happen. It’s going to hurt when it does. I’m going to be really, really disappointed. But I’m going to be okay. I will not be crushed. I’m going to be alive, in the alive-est of ways.
I’m going to save money and buy a gray couch. But it’s going to be covered with colorful pillows. Maybe one will have an owl, or a bird on it.
I’m going to tell weird jokes, and people are going to laugh.
I’m going to lose weight, and wear a pretty dress.
I’m going to keep being employed, and keep paying my bills. And it won’t be the substance that makes up my entire life.
I’m not going to tell myself that I should be single because I would make a horrible wife or mother, since men deserve smiley wives who hug all the children within a 3-foot radius.
I’m going to say, “I don’t believe these lies, anymore.” And they will fall, lifeless, to the ground.