Whenever I notice myself feeling grumpy, I ask myself what I have to be grateful for. Usually, my response begins as a litany of excuses for how grumpy I feel. I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m so tired of drifting around the country with nowhere to call home. I feel so tragically unsettled and displaced. But, at least I have a motorhome to sleep in. I’m not sleeping in an economy sedan this time or under a bridge. I have enough money to pay for gas to drive back out to see my daughters and my granddaughter again. There are plans in the works for me to move to a new, undisclosed location to begin my life over again, for the millionth time, but this time with a decade of recovery and healing from my past abuse. I’m no longer doomed to repeat the patterns of my past pain. I’m finally free. And, there are beautiful wildflowers growing alongside the interstate. There’s an occasional bird flying past. There are mountains and trees, lakes and rivers, and all kinds of other natural beauty for me to enjoy along the journey. I just need to be willing to observe and appreciate them as they pass.

I lived in the realm of self-reliance. Everything was up to me, and I couldn’t do anything right, or even good enough. So, all I could do was give up and helplessly accept whatever fate dealt me. I tried to do better. I tried to be better. I tried so hard my trier broke. I gave up. I just couldn’t do it. What I didn’t realize at the time was the difference between giving up because life was going to be a mess regardless of my efforts and giving up because I was trusting life to be good without my constant striving. The former was all I knew, all I had ever experienced. The latter, I learned was possible as I began intentionally changing my engrained beliefs and perpetual perceptions. My early years were filled with rejection, humiliation, and abandonment, so those were programmed into my brain as far as what to expect in life. Once I became aware of what my expectations were, it became my responsibility to change them. I didn’t want to continue to only expect to receive pain. I wanted to learn how to expect to receive love, care, and support from others. It’s still a struggle, but I am learning. I am healing. I am beginning to expect a better outcome in my life despite all of the evidence to the contrary.

Over a decade ago, I wrote a song with the ending chorus: “And I can feel it, Your hand on my hair, and I hear Your voice say, ‘I’m already there.’ I don’t need to worry. You have it under control, And You take good care of me. You’re so wonderful. I’m Your sweet, precious child, whom You’ve already reconciled. You made me new. You made me whole. I’m already there, already there. I’m good enough.” Only it didn’t end with “good enough” originally. It wasn’t even within the realm of my conception to think I could ever be good enough for anything. The line was amended a few years into recovery, several years after the song was written. I floundered for decades in depression and despair because I was “the lost child” in my family. I didn’t suffer from unthinkable abuses or parental alcoholism. I had a melancholic disposition with a huge dose of naiveite. I felt ignored, overlooked, and unwanted. My inner brokenness warped my brain, literally (I have the scans to prove it), and skewed my perception in ways that only allowed me to experience rejection, humiliation, and shame in relation to other people. Armed with the knowledge that I can change my perception and thereby alter my reality, I’ve set forth on a mission to rewire my neurological connections. I often wish it could be as simple as popping in a pair of corrective lenses; it is simple, but it’s not easy.

Some days I struggle to get out of bed. I lose the battles I’m fighting in my head. I can’t even manage to put my feet on the floor. Let alone clean and dress and get myself out the door. Sometimes my trials are too big for me, and all I can manage is going back to sleep. Some days I flat out refuse to behave. I know my grandmother is rolling over in her grave. But I just can’t stand down or straighten my act. I walk a crooked line as a matter of fact. Sometimes my crawling leaves me far behind, but I never promised and adequate finish time. I may not be able to always be good. I may not stand tall the way that I should. I may not live up to what you want me to be, but I am always capable of being me. Well, I’m not successful in the eyes of my peers. I often wish I could vanish, just disappear. I get so tired of failing. I just want to go home. My one reprieve is knowing I’m not alone.

I’m powerless over the decisions of other people, and I’m powerless over the shit that happens in life. I can’t prevent natural disasters. I can’t stop political mayhem. And, I don’t have any power over accidents or acts of fate. What I do have power over, however, is how I choose to perceive what happens, how I choose to respond to what happens, how much I choose to focus on any particular input, and what I choose to think about. Trying to exert control over anything or anyone else will not make me, or them, safe. In humility I find liberation and strength. As long as I rely on myself: self-confidence, self-knowledge, self-will; I am doomed to failure, and I can continue falling indefinitely. Hitting bottom is not guaranteed. There is always farther to fall. My bottom hit me when I saw my addiction in someone else’s story. Therefore, I tell my story in hopes that reading it will help your bottom hit you. We’re all powerless over the cards we were dealt, what family members sat at our table, and the rules of engagement we were originally taught to play by; but we are not powerless now. If we are willing to admit defeat, to leave the table, to walk away from everything we think we know about who we are and what we want, then we find the ability to start over. We can bury the ashes of the past and build a new life on the foundation of truth, hope, and love.

Sometimes, I feel as though I take “One Day at a Time” a little too literally. I go to the grocery store and buy only what I need for dinner tonight. I work out at the gym, walk my puppy, and track my spending as though today was the last day of my life and as though it was the first day of the rest of my life. It is both. And yet, I also want to connect today with tomorrow and a plausible game plan for my future reality. Stopping to think about where I might be this time next year often tilts my brain and sends me spiraling down a path of uncertainty and fear. I don’t need to worry about tomorrow. I just need to take care of what is directly in front of me. It’s good to have goals, to have a target at which to aim, but I also need to pay attention to the place I’m in now and the people who are right in front of me. It’s good to start the day with a quick review of my desired destination, a reminder of what track I’m on and where I’m heading for potential course corrections I might need to make. Then, I need to get on with my day, stay present in the present, and watch out for where I need to place my next step.

Growing up, I was never really taught how to do anything, except for how to kneed bread, which is an utterly useless skill when you have no desire to make bread. I also remember my maternal grandfather trying to teach me how to hold a pencil correctly. It didn’t take. My sisters tried teaching me how to snap my fingers. No such luck there either. I learned how to read and write and how to do math, including long division, at school. What I learned at home was mostly how to do what I was told without speaking up for myself and how to stay out of the way so I wouldn’t cause any problems. What I learned about love was how it masquerades as loss, worry, deception, and fear. The people who say they love you don’t actually care about you. They don’t encourage you to succeed in your areas of interest, only in what interests them. They don’t listen, they don’t empathize, and God forbid you ever expect them to give you the time of day when they’re busy doing something else, which is always. Therefore, I grew up believing that love was willing compliance to a set of arbitrary rules and surrendering my own voice, thoughts, and opinions to those of everyone else. However, what I learned was wrong. Blind submission is not love; it’s a sickness. Love is what Jesus models throughout the gospels. Love is stopping what you’re doing to pay attention to someone else. Love is having compassion on those who are grieving or infirm instead of judging them or brushing them aside. Love is asking what the other wants, not merely insisting on having your own way. Love is also paying attention, having compassion, and asking for clarity in regard to yourself. Self-love is the most important skill we need to learn, for once we learn to love ourselves, then it’s much easier to love others as well.

No wonder I’ve been so miserable lately. I keep saying that I want to serve God and to be a blessing, but then I spend all of my time whining about how God isn’t serving me. What’s up with that? I know from experience that the only way to have an awesome, joyful, fulfilling life is to keep myself focused on doing the best good that I can. My body knows what I need to do and when I need to do it. My body tells me when I need to work or rest, be social or alone, eat something lighter or heavier. My body also tells me how to handle my emotions. When I feel anger, I need to move my body vigorously. When I feel fear, I need to relax with deep breaths. When I feel sad, I need to give myself some physical affection and possibly allow for some crying time. When I feel happy, I can be still and soak in the moment. Life really isn’t that complicated, but I tend to want to fix whatever isn’t broken. I want to be the great choir director of life, and then I get upset with the cacophony of my own creation. I’m such a silly child sometimes.

As a theology major, I feel justified in claiming that most modern theology is based upon the intellectual rationalizations of old, white men. Apologetics, Christology, and Ecclesiology mostly irrelevant. Proving God exists is unnecessary. When God was asked directly, “Whom shall I say sent me?” God’s answer was “I Am.” No further explanation was needed. Explaining why Jesus has to suffer and die for our sins is also completely misguided. Jesus did not die to save us from our sins. God did not need to come to Earth as a man to bleed and die for us to be saved. Jesus died to become the ultimate #MeToo. You’ve been beaten? Me too. You’ve been broken? Me too. You’ve been betrayed? Me too. Jesus experienced the fullness of human suffering as a means of bearing witness to the fullness of human suffering. There is no pain we must endure that Jesus does not know experientially just as we do. And studies of the church do nothing more than place heavy burdens on our shoulders. There’s a mile-long list of musts and shoulds that an ever-increasing amount of people don’t want to do anymore. How did God tell us to be “The Church”? Love God, love people, and love ourselves. Period. That’s it. Others will know we’re Christians by our love. The Church is the gathering of believers for encouragement, support, and edification. Anything else is just extra. Therefore, my summation is: God is, Jesus knows, and we act according to what we believe. So, believe the best and behave accordingly.  

If you don’t want to suffer from imposter syndrome, don’t pretend to be someone you’re not. I got to experience an in-your-face situation today attending a chiropractic seminar in my sister’s stead. She went to chiropractic college for her doctorate straight from the local community college. I’ve attended school for twice as long as she ever did; and yet, I only have a master’s degree and not a doctorate, yet. She ran her own practice for several years, had multiple business ventures, and maintains her license to practice in two different states despite having a personal disability due to multiple pelvic surgeries. I’ve spent the past three decades fighting to survive through severe depression, multiple bouts of homelessness and unemployment, and frequent emotional flashbacks from complex PTSD. It was extremely difficult to grow up in the shadow of the athlete with straight A’s, but now, I’m so glad I don’t have to live in her shoes. Not only do they hurt my feet, but her life totally cramps my style. I prefer my life of freedom and integrity where I can huddle up by myself and write to my heart’s content on whatever form of paper happens to be available instead of hobnobbing with doctors and lawyers at a cold stadium, even though they do display a magnificent spread.