Ever since I could form letters, I've been a writer. The shapes, the whorls, the magic my hands made when paper and any utensil with marking capabilities came my way, graduated into paper journals covered in Lisa Frank kitties, to the electronic glow of DeadJournals and Livejournals, to the Blogosphere, and a return to tried/true/nostalgic pen and paper. And nothing could stop me.
Nothing, that is, except myself, or at least --that is what I believed for a long time.
Journals of my past have been ripped, burned, deleted, and deactivated. If you based my life off what pieces remain from my writing, you would not have much to view. In the realest sense, me of each of those time periods enjoyed documenting the daily grind, only to delete it once a phase in my life ended, once shame crept in and whispered ugly thoughts to me that made me tear down my own memories.
And so it has gone with many aspects of my life. For me, writing is a physical expression of being that is not readily accessible to most people. In short, when you're an introvert, much often goes unsaid. What is written, for me, has always been an exploration of self in the most earnest sense, and less of a desire to reveal. Sometimes I find there is a form of communication in reading and writing--a connection that was not intentionally, as far as I can tell, the primary purpose of that writing. Sure, there's a main idea. We write to be heard, to tell our stories, to break bread with our readers. But when I read, I latch on to peripheral ideas. I frequently connect with the smallest of pieces. I am Hansel and Gretel, collecting breadcrumbs, but then I skip away from the path, never to find the witch's house.
What I just did there: it was an exercise in wordplay for myself, to illustrate my point. More critical readers might call it "rustiness from having not written in some time." More critical readers might be right.
But what I have asked myself lately is somewhere dancing around this idea like shadows around a fire. Why delete writing if its purpose is to pull together my creative powers, lean back and declare, "IT IS GOOD"? Why is my hand itchy to destroy?
I have asked this question of myself for twenty years. Twenty. And then I picked up Rachel Held Evans's book
Searching for Sunday, and once again, a peripheral point jumps out at me. Sin. I have been living condemned and did not realize it.
Being raised Southern Baptist--and I suppose underscoring that with
evangelical is a bit redundant, I was raised to believe that sin was my fault, that I would never be worthy. Ever. And I have trekked through that mud of shame most of my life, head dropped low and feet slogging. My self worth was damaged early on with a certain theology that meant to point to Jesus, but instead, made me wonder that, if I were the Bride--why, oh, why would he ever choose me? The wondering itself is not damaging. It is not a matter of being good enough; it is a matter of trusting that there was/is something inside that can be victoriously beautiful. Instead, I questioned God's decision in who he chose to redeem. I have been living in distrust. Not taking him at his word. And so I lived shackled to shame, unknowingly.
And Rachel Held Evans writes that Sin joins in a chorus of voices, internal, external, from many places and tries to "convince us we belong to them, that they have a right to name us. Where God calls [us]
beloved, demons call [us]
addict, slut, sinner, failure, fat, worthless, faker, screwup.[...] It is no coincidence that when Satan tempted Jesus after his baptism, he began his entreaties with, '
If you are the Son of God...' We all long for someone to tell us who we are."
Only a few pages in, and I knew this passage was precisely the reason I had not only abandoned my writing, but also the reason I have been fighting against postpartum depression, the reason that I have difficulty accepting compliments on hard work, and the reason I have been torn down in my life, walking in defeat because I've listened to the voices that tell me: "You aren't enough."
My son is just over seven weeks old. Three weeks after his birth, I put on a brave face and visited my doctor. I was having huge self-doubt. My son was crying what felt like all the time, I worried about everything, and the thoughts scrolled through my head like a marquee: "You aren't good enough. You don't deserve to be this kid's mom. You're screwing up. You don't know what to do. Look at you, you're a TOTAL MESS." I said nothing and three more weeks went by, only intensifying my pain.
On Mother's Day, a friend posted a video to a film. I can't recall the name of it, but I remember the conversation clearly between a mother and a biker in a lobby. She was down on herself, and the biker, with words straight from the heart--and inspired and sacred said, "Of course you worry, but don't you think God knows what he's doing? He knew exactly what your little baby would need, and he poured that into you. YOU ARE ENOUGH." Message received, God. Message received loud and clear.
I am not saying that depression is mind over matter. I trust that medical science works hard to help individuals stabilize in a time of need. A starting point for much of the pain, however, is in claiming resurrection. When self-doubt, shame, and fear are whispered into my mind, I can spit them out. Every day, as needed, I can get up, get in the shower, and rinse off, claiming the truth. The story of Christ does not and cannot end with the Crucifixion. Death is not the end. I wish someone had told me that feeling unworthy was not the end and to wallow in it was not God's plan, that it was something to be left nailed to that Cross, and to look for the Resurrection, the newness of life.
Thankfully, my story marches on. While the sun still shines and the rain still pours, while breath still resonates within: I have today. I do not have to accept the struggles as defeat, but rather, I seek to point to the Author who gives hope.
And so I will write.
