One day shy of six months between entries is not too terrible for someone who is turning life upside down and shaking it profusely. Nothing is ever set in stone. Maybe I never learned the concept of object permanence as a baby. My brain still seems to think that if I can’t see it, then it doesn’t exist. And if it does exist somewhere, but I can’t find it, then what good does it do? I used to think that love didn’t exist. I didn’t know what love could look like. As far as I was concerned, love equaled pain. Everyone who ever said they loved me hurt me repeatedly, and I didn’t know how to navigate the disconnect between craving the care and sense of community that all human beings need and my experiential knowing that other people were to be avoided and feared. In order to overcome my loathing of others, I had to find safe places in which to experience foreign concepts such as safety, trust, empathy, etc, which is extremely difficult to do when ill-intent is subconsciously projected upon all homo sapiens. Difficult but possible. I was finally able to find a place full of other people who had been abused. They were so familiar with how it felt to be on the receiving end that they were not receptive of the “predator” label that my mind tried sticking to them. They were gentle, kind, welcoming, and accepting. I finally saw what love could look like for real. Now, I consciously attempt to project love onto everyone I meet instead of fear, and I only avoid those people who refuse to receive it.

Sugar is my heroin. My whole body aches from the over-consumption, but I just can’t stop eating and drinking it. The pain I’m about to face is too great. The pain I’m currently enduring in anticipation of what I know must be done is more than I can bear, so I must find a way to escape it, a distraction. The physical pain distracts my brain from the emotional torment rending my heart to shreds. I know what must be done. I know how much it hurts. I know I want to turn and run, run away and hide, curl into a small, undetectable ball of skin and bones until the danger passes. Only the danger never passes. It remains in every cell of uncertainty. How am I going to survive this time? Why does this keep happening to me? What am I supposed to do next? The story is written, but I’m too scared to turn the next page. The monster at the end of the book, however, is me – sweet, adorable, kind, lovable me. There is nothing to fear. The pain will pass if I provide an opening for it to leak through. If I can ever stop stuffing the pain down faster than it can dissipate, there will be freedom on the other side. That’s a given. That’s the certainty. That’s the promise.

I’m emotionally constipated. There are too many feelings attempting to traverse the narrow passageway between my head and my heart. Like congested traffic squeezing into a bottlenecked lane closure, my emotions are in rush-hour gridlock with nowhere else to turn. All I can do is sit there waiting for the blockage to pass. I try consuming extra fiber, dark chocolate with almonds. I try adding fluids, crying into an old T-shirt. I try all of the destressing techniques I can think of: meditation, exercise, playing with a hapless puppy; still, I wait. I sift through one emotion at a time. The thought of my daughter moving into a house with no furniture in it reminds me of when I lost my apartment during the recession and had to clear out all of my stuff a week before I departed because that was when I was able to procure the help to move it to another location. Due to decades of undiagnosed ADHD and addiction, my past is littered with painful events that wash into the present unexpectedly and unbidden. They mingle among the joy and gratitude and cause a cluster funk of congestion in my chest and throat. Heartbreak happens, but this too shall pass eventually.

I’m a sleepwalking zombie staggering around in search of brains. Whoever came up with the concept of the zombie must have been thoroughly familiar with the basic state of the human condition. In the modern world, we know this state of sleepwalking, or walking around on “autopilot” as it’s often called, is a necessary energy conserving state of being. Life is a continuous cycle of receiving, processing, and releasing energy. Much of our energy in today’s societies is spent in search of brains (ie. looking for our smart phones). We often do whatever we must to conserve the energy we have and to survive each day producing, and consuming, as much as possible with as little exertion of energy as possible. This approach, however, is antithetical to the way in which human beings are designed to live. We function better with more energy exertion, not less. When the human body fuels, works, and sleeps as it’s meant to, much less energy conservation is needed.

Asking for my needs to be met is probably one of my biggest struggles. I don’t want to be a bother. A symptom of what I call “Third Child Syndrome” is the constant battle between wanting to be wanted and the fear, more like the experience-conditioned belief, that our presence will never be valued. Growing up with two older siblings, the now entrenched tapes of rejection played repeatedly: You’re stupid! Shut up! Go away! I don’t remember ever hearing encouraging words spoken over me. All I heard were messages of how much I sucked at everything. Most were true, and those I have learned to dismiss and accept about myself. I am lazy. I do fail at team sports, like epically. And, I do have terrible spelling skills, which is a bit of a handicap for a writer, but thank God for Spellcheck and Dictionary.com. However, the constant jabs, ridicule, and flat-out denial of my wants and needs as a child anesthetized me. It’s difficult for me to recognize what my needs even are, let alone ask for them to be met. So, once I do notice something amiss, it’s my job to tease out what it is that I might need at that particular moment. No one else it going to do it for me. I have to question myself about what I need, take a few deep breaths, and trust that any true lack will come to mind. Then, the hard part: asking.

I’m sorry for my sin. A field of fallen arrows lies before me and within. A quiver full of sorrows is the place we all begin with a target set before us. But I’m too weak to pull the string far enough to go the distance. To end the suffering, requires too much resistance. What was I thinking?

I’m sorry again. A field of wildflowers leaves pollen over my skin; I’m sneezing for hours as the battle rages before me, warriors in all their glory, but I’m too tired to lift the sword high enough for fighting. I must leave it to the Lord as I’m worn out from trying. What was I thinking?

You knew what you were doing when you made me how I am, and you don’t ask too much from me, just to do the things I can. I’ll keep growing like the flowers. I’ll keep flying like the arrows. I might be a zero. I might be nobody’s hero, but I am – I am who I am. I’m a part of a plan. And I know that I’ll be used on whatever path I choose. That’s what I’m thinking.

We all deserve death, but we don’t deserve to live in fear and shame. My greatest fear is to be inconsequential. I want my life to matter. I need to contribute something to someone. Helping out in some small way or another is my greatest goal. My greatest source of shame is feeling as though I don’t matter. Everyone can get along just fine without me and anytime I try to help out, I end up making more of a mess for someone else to have to clean up behind me. These are my greatest deterrents and my greatest motivators. Most of my life has been spent trying to prove to others that I deserve to exist, but I’m not able to convince anyone else of something I don’t even believe myself. I’m a talented, kind, beautiful individual. The world is a better place with me in it. I share my love and shine my light everywhere I go on everyone I meet. It’s okay if I fail at everything else. I don’t need to measure up to anyone else’s arbitrary standard. I get to decide what is important in my life, and no one else has to get it. No one else has to understand what I want or agree with how I feel. I don’t have to allow fear and shame to rule me. I get to decide how to live my life, and I choose to live with peace and joy.

Falling from heaven, the me I constructed from glitter and Paper Mache, torn into pieces, destruction releases me to be who I am today. The games and the pretense never made any sense, but I tried to fit to the mold, to meet expectations, to greet celebrations. Now, I’m tired of doing what I’m told. I’m coming full circle, back to where I started, but I’m a bit wiser this time. I’m changing direction, not reaching perfection, but I’m gonna take what is mine. I’m breaking the frame. I’m walking away. I’ve gotta find what else I need. I’m jumping the track and not looking back. Don’t tell me who I’m supposed to be. I’ve gotta be free, free to be me. I’m building a new life upon the remains of the shattered pieces; I’m breaking the frame.

Everything within me yearns for something more. Never enough. I’m never enough. I can never be good enough. I can never be smart enough. I’m not talented, skilled, athletic, or special enough. No matter where I turn, there’s always someone better than me. No matter what I do, someone else has already done it better than me. Someone else is funnier. Someone else is smarter. Someone else is more influential. Someone else is more qualified. What is so wrong with me that there always has to be something wrong with me? Who did I give permission to pronounce failure over my life? Who decides what is required for me to be good enough? I need to know so I can find them and smack them around a little. Me? I have permission to pronounce success over my life? I get to decide what qualifies me to be good enough? I can do what I love and go after my dreams because the desires of my heart add value to others? Me? I don’t have to be perfect? I don’t have to be better? I just need to be me? I can do that. I can be me better than anyone else ever.

Just this, just like this, there’s nothing more; there’s no list. Just this, you just want this, a broken form in my humanness, just this. In spite of thinning hair and lines around my eyes, a crooked chin and nose, and cellulite upon my thighs, you look at me and smile at the beauty you have made. I’m frozen in awe; I’m confused and amazed. If only you knew all about the horrid things I’ve done, mistakes I have made, how damaged I’ve become, you’d have to turn away. You couldn’t bear my sin. I’ve fallen so far; I wouldn’t know where to begin. Still, you look at me and smile at the beauty you have made. I’m frozen in awe; I’m confused and amazed. Just this, just like this, there’s nothing more; there’s no list. Just this, you just want this, a broken form in my humanness. I’m already forgiven. I’m already set free. You just want me to love as you have loved me. I’m frozen in awe; I’m confused and amazed as you look at me and smile at the beauty you have made.