I don’t want to sit here and write this.
Well, I mean, I do. But I don’t.
The truth is, I’m terrified.
I’ve loved telling stories and writing them down since I was a little girl.
I would write short stories (in magic marker, obviously) on notecards and then staple them together. I would then do a dramatic reading in front of my parents in the living room. They were, and have always been, my best and most faithful audience. They believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself. They loved me through all the drama and all the terrible choices and all the things. All of them. They just plain loved me.
But I’m getting off track. We were talking about my anxiety. Check.
I’ve been wanting, no yearning to write for the last several years. Write something that actually means something to people. Write about life. Like, real life. Down to the nitty gritty, where it’s painful to see it in words, but if it can help just one person not feel alone and maybe even get a few laughs, then it was worth the pain.
But I haven’t done it. I kept making up excuses, like, “I don’t know what I’d say” or “I have nothing new to add to the table”, stuff like that. And maybe those things were true. At least I had convinced myself that they were true. But there’s this guy in my life that calls me out on all the bull crap. His name is God. He’s been prodding me and telling me time and time again to Just. Flipping. Write. He’s showed me in countless ways that he’s given me things to say through the experiences he’s allowed me to go through. He’s given me not only a passion for words, but on a much larger and more important scale, a passion for the people. All of them. The ones He created. The ones He spoke into being. The ones He died for. He wants to use me as a vessel to speak into others. And I’m done running.
Why am I so anxious? I kept asking myself that as I was lying in bed last night having the most minor of anxiety attacks. About this. About writing the things. I think there are a couple reasons.
1: The Enemy. He hates, and I mean LOATHES when we live out our God-given passion. Even more, he hates when us Jesus-lovers seek to love those in our lives. He hates it when people find freedom and healing. He hates when people are redeemed and brought back to life. He hates God. He hates Jesus. He hates you. And he hates me. And he wants to see us burn.
He loves that I was lying in bed after years of ignoring God’s prompting and taking the faith step. He loved watching me shake and think of all the reasons that I am not enough. These are some of the things he said/says to me. Maybe he gets you this way too.
No one wants to read anything you have to say. You’re a bad writer. No one really even likes you. You’re a bad mom. A disappointing wife. You aren’t an intentional friend. You are bad at your job and also? You’re fat. Like, really gross and no matter how many Weight Watchers points you count, you will never be enough. You’ll never be skinny enough. You’ll never be sexy enough. You know you’re only getting older, right? More washed up? More unattractive?
No one will read this. No one cares. And no one certainly will ever gain anything from it. Don’t waste your time.
I’m a weeper, so allowing myself to write all those things down and not erase them is totally making me cry. Mainly because they’re not true. They’re lies. Satan is the Enemy. He is the Accuser. And he wants us to feel like crap all the time.
But I’m not giving him that space. And I’m certainly not giving him any more air time in this entry. So, Bye Felicia. No one wants you here.
2: One of my biggest fears in life stems from a Middle School memory. (shocker, right?) When I was in one of those years of sheer torture, we were each supposed to sign up to host a week of the MS Bible Study in our homes. I signed up, and the night finally approached. I was super anxious about it, seeing as how I was not the most popular of gals. Not even close. I was not only not cool, I was bullied. By guys, girls, even a few teachers. It was the worst.
My mom and I cleaned the house, made the food and waited.
One girl came. She was special needs. The youth leader brought her. This is nothing against people with special needs. Looking back, she is really the only person that I should have wanted there. She was kind and uplifting and so awkward. She was me. But she had no power over the choice to attend or not. She merely needed a ride, her parents couldn’t bring her, and the youth leader volunteered.
No one chose to show up. I was humiliated. Devastated. And as I write these words, I realize how much this night affected me for the past 2 decades. Since I was a kid, I have wanted SO BADLY to be accepted by my peers. My parents were incredible and had my back and I had a couple good friends, but for the most part people just didn’t like me.
So yeah, I’m terrified to write a blog, because what if NO ONE shows up to read it?? What then?
I’m the kind of person who doesn’t need all the answers. I don’t know if this will ever be read by anyone other than my parents, my husband and someday my sons. But dangit, I’m going to do it. Because I can’t ignore the God nudging anymore.
Let the journey begin. Cheers!