Self Disgust Runs Deep Then Pours Out

I owe you an apology. I have been bitter and arrogant and have refused to believe your change. I should not need proof of your change just because I am bruised by the old you. I know I need to tell you this either in person or by some other means, and I'm supposing I should go by the most embarrassing method.

Chances are you have no idea that I have despised you. It is even less likely you know the reasons why. I did not hate you solely because of your words. I hated you because you were my obsession. I hated you because I hated myself for obsessing over your attention, for idolizing you, and for objectifying you. I hate you because I so dearly hate myself. I think another reason I may hate you is because, yet again, I've connected you with her. I feel as though the underlying theme to all of my problems is her.

I'm sorry. I'd like to start over, if that's possible. But it probably isn't. We've never had anything in common to begin with. But regardless, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being unfair, for holding things against you, for not accepting you into the Family like I should have.

Please, Lord, break this obsession and take away my hatred, my bitterness which rots me. This is not who You've created me to be.

Starting to Lose Confidence Already

"Mediocrity is never going to work for you. It's funny you try, really; it really is. When you go a way different from everyone else, He will bring people to meet you there. I know you're lonely. Being a leader is lonely, and you're not even in a position of leadership; you're just trying to live your college life. People are always going to criticize you, to question you."

You probably don't remember, but you've said something like this to me before. I don't remember when or where or why, but I remember trying to draw something based on it. "You will never be the one to fit in," you said. "You'll be the one to create the molds."

Which is funny because as much as I've loved being unique and different, and as much as I've come to terms with being a loner, I've hated the fact that my life's purpose was merely being a teacher. Don't get me wrong, teachers are vastly important; without them I'd have no thirst for knowledge.

But I don't want to be just another teacher leading another boring, orthodox, predictable life.

So you're saying I am going to do something beyond belief, something crazy, and exciting, and probably life threatening? I'm ok with that, been ok with it ever since realizing my name - my name is my future - the lamb, the sacrifice on the altar. I'm ok with that (I think; I suppose I won't know until it happens) since it means I'll never be restless and I'll always spread life from my own core.

But what the crap am I supposed to be doing? I wish I had some idea how to prepare for it. I feel like I'll be knocked off balance because I'm inadequate. But I guess I'll always be inadequate next to You, eh? Whatever, but You know the deal. I don't want to have a family. Too much work, especially if You're planning on throwing me into the furnace. Why bring kids and a husband into it too? I can handle it with You; I'm a loner remember?

Well, if You'd give me a means to fight, a smaller scale battle to start with, I'd do it. I think. I'm awfully confident in my abilities to fight, but I'm just as worried about my ability to flake out.

Hope I don't suck at this.

Drowning Yet More Alive Than Ever

This is why no man should ever call me beautiful, why no one should even joke about it through the grapevine. Maybe once I stop fantasizing about it, overthinking it, You'll actually bring me to someone meaningful. I wonder if I had dated, had been called beautiful by my dates, my boyfriends, I'd stop overthinking the compliment. But then again, I've never been attractive enough to date. Many of the girls around me have, but I've usually been the comforter.

Which is fine, honestly. I realize that I do not have to be attractive outwardly because my life is not about that. The world might be about that, but I am not. I am allowed, however, to remind men and women alike of their beauty. And even if beauty has been called a feminine term, I feel it applies so deeply to men as well.

When I call a man beautiful, it is because I know his soul is pure and full of love and love is beautiful. I can't even describe it otherwise or explain what I mean by calling it beautiful. Beauty is pure, beyond skin, deep, permeating, soul enriching. You sink into its depths and come out alive, gulping air because you are joy, and thirst for life. You've tasted and you've seen and you can't come back because you'd rather choke on that richness than live meaninglessly - dead, for all intents and purposes.

I wish I had the words to describe myself tonight. I simply am not eloquent, even through my typing. Disappointing really.

Break Down

"I asked, 'When am I the most myself? No defenses, no anything, just my actual self.' Do you know what God said?"

"What?"

" 'When you are broken down and crying.' "

A wall goes up
automatic defense,
despite just asking what I'd be
without that.

I think of all the selves I have,
same adrenaline
rushing through my veins everytime I get a new
reaction, blasting, confusion on your face

You don't know me
who's just running this race
without a label without a plan
wondering 'is this just how it ends?'

No love, no respect
I can't give it on my own
Don't receive it, can't believe it
too much and I disown it

I see all these people with a love that is their own
and I break it, take it,
see this smile on my face?
believe it, hate it, hate me, hate this
I can't handle undeniable true bliss

Jealous. I want it for my own
but the burden is too heavy
and I can't bear to stand alone

I hate me for who I am
but I do not want to change
Because change equals effort
and I'm too much to blame
for everything I have to hold up
Standards too high and I'm just about to blow up

I can't handle being different,
being anything but me
but I know You're whispering
Trust You not me

Trust? Trust?
I can't handle it,
too much and I lose it
after raging on my own
inequities

pretty please
I won't get on my hands and knees
Too proud, too arrogant
You might as well get used to it

"Don't tell Me that you're tough,
don't tell Me that you're brave.
Don't tell Me that you're junk,
because that's not what I create.

I made you to glorify Me,
made you to honor Me completely.
I chisel and I take and you just like to talk,
Throw up walls, thinking that'll make Me stop.

I love you too much
to leave you just the way you are.
You don't deserve Me and you know it
but I love you with everything.

See these scars? Touch my hands
How do these make you feel?
Broken, shameful?

Good, now let Me finish you."

"It looks like we both gotta let our guard down."

A Christmas Story

I think I would give my right arm to have a warm blanket and a pillow. Just one pillow. I live in a sketchy part of town, someplace where the windows don't quite shut and the door hangs just a bit ajar. That wouldn't be so bad if it didn't get so cold at night during the winter. I sleep on the floor. My younger siblings need the mattress. Which is fine because I could sleep anywhere - if I had a pillow and a blanket.

Mom asks me what I want for Christmas this year. I would feel stupid asking her for a pillow and a blanket so instead I say, "Nothing". She presses me and instead I tell her I'll think about it. Then she asks Raymond and Celine and they go on and on and on about the toys they want for Christmas. "Mom and Dad can't get you everything you want," I scold. But Mom just waves me away and lets them have their fun making their lists.


Dad tells me we've been invited to a Christmas party. There will be games for the kids and a free lunch, even a visit from 'Mrs. Claus'. I'm surprised he evens wants to socialize with a bunch of other parents while the kids are doing whatever. (I don't plan on playing the stupid games; I am 12 after all, way too old for musical chairs and whatever else.) Mom must've talked him into it.


We're at the Christmas party, hosted by a bunch of kids who want to support the community. Cool cause, but I'm just not into it. Mrs. Claus has brought a bunch of presents, gifts I guess they are going to hand out to all the kids here. I'm expecting something stupid, like a game or a toy. Raymond and Celine are all psyched up for the gift giving. But before that they try to get me to play some of their games. I'm too old for kid stuff, I say, and they smile and leave me alone as they invite my siblings over instead.

After lunch they finally start giving out the gifts. I just want Ray and Cel to get their presents so we can leave. I hear Mrs. Claus call the names (Ray and Cel get exactly what they asked for - games and toys; so that's why Mom wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas.) and all of the sudden she calls mine. I'm confused, so confused I don't get up to claim my prize, so one of the volunteers brings it over. It's big, almost too hard to hold. I don't open it because she's called my name again. Suddenly I have three big packages and I keep looking around waiting for someone to say there's been a mistake.

My parents urge me to open them. I don't really want to because I know they are stupid presents and I don't really want anyone to scold me for being ungrateful and disappointed. Instead my siblings come over and yank the wrapping off for me. What I see stuns me.

A blanket. And two pillows. Not one but two. I'm so confused at my gifts. These are stupid, I try saying. But instead my voice cracks and I can't see. Why am I crying? So what if I would have had to sleep on the cold, hard floor? So what if absolutely adore the color purple - the exact shade of the pillows and the blanket? So what if someone somewhere knew exactly what I wanted?

Stop trying to put on a front, I hear inside my head. So instead I cuddle one pillow to my chest and I smile into it as my tears melt away.

Wounded For Our Transgressions

I often forget that battle weary soldiers are often drawn to veterans with the deepest battle scars. Hearing his testimony (however short it may have been) reminded me that I am not alone. He reminded me that we all fight. Some of us still wage war; some of us have conquered in victory.

Thank you. I admire your battle scars. And maybe one day, I too will be bold enough to showcase my own.

May His love heal your wounds, but may He leave the scars so you are always reminded of His rescue.