27 May 2018: Past-bedtime.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ve been doing.
How I’ve been doing.
How I’ve been doing.
Truthfully, I am very, very angry.
I am very angry because I am still finding myself in circumstances where I allow people to treat me very, very poorly, and then when I articulate a need – or begin to transform into the image of that which they treat me – I am let go, and that leaves me heartbroken because I feel rejected, despite putting forth my greatest efforts, my strength, my love and my dedication to those whom were never entitled to my love.
And though if it seems repetitive to continue to evaluate how I’ve entered into this space, and feel as though I’m restarting over and over again, it is very repetitive, and it is not my fault.
I am tired of feeling beaten down and broken down, then to feel guilty for not have used what self-advocacy skills, muscles and thought patterns my mommas have taught me to create the vision for me that we all sacrificed – mightily – for me to grab and make mine again.
Deprivation cannot breed abundance. It simply can’t.
And so, anytime I am steeped down to my knees in filth, it is only a miracle that I do not again return to it. I thought that maybe, if I worked hard enough again, I would not be the dog returning to its vomit. And that is true. And I did a good job. But I can only influence the pieces of the cycle that are within my control, and the structural inequities that lubricate that greater system as a whole are not within my control. This does not give me a lot of freedom to explore, space to succeed, or opportunity to walk in that abundance that all of us sacrificed so much for me to experience.
I miss my mom tonight because, if she were here, she would ask me what I would do with this information.
I know it’s hard, but you have to do it.
We can’t just let you suffer.”
I miss my momma tonight because, if she were here, then that would mean that I was not in a system built with a foundational design that determines my failure. It would mean that I am safe.
I am sad because I see how hard I am working, and, at this rate, I will not actually find my way out of debt – ever – and I will not actually be able to sustain a life that even aspires for abundance, because I will be stuck so deep into the mud.
My birth mother raised a little bird to have broken wings, but to think she has wings that fly, so she will keep fighting hard, working hard, and laboring, which produces some outcome, yes, but never actually results in her learning how to fly.
That is why I will be sick for the rest of my life. That is why I will probably, and by probably, I mean that I will, die in these disorders. I refuse to say that I will die with these disorders, because, the truth is, disorders do not die. Disorders are embodied by the narcissists, the sociopathic, the rude and the deplorable parts of ourselves that exist out-of-check with the pieces of ourselves that can be profitable, sustainable, and life-giving.
I notice deep sadness because I stop the clock for many days, I bunker down, I hustle hard, and I dare greatly, but when I look around me to see what is happening, I am discouraged.
I am gravely irritated when hope is suggested to me, or healing is promised to me, from lips which are not of my eternal father. With what right, and in whose authority, can you offer to me goodness that you, despite your greatest wishes, inherently cannot manufacture? Stop promising me life, creatures of death. How much more wicked is it to promise joy, and then your consumer to never consume it, than to have sold him the truth that he would never feel that joy at all?
Sometimes, I think that if people would just be honest with me about where my joy cannot come from, I would be better apt to accurately place my hope in what does produce joy, what does produce life, what does produce abundance, and what can comfort me, because it first recognizes that this very pain that I feel is exceptionally valid.
We do not want to accept that there is death in life, and we do not want to accept that there is life in death, except to walk freely, we must feel both of them, understanding that we are utterly hopeless to rectify either, because we are first objects of death.
I don’t think that I’m depressed because I don’t understand the gospel. I think that I’m depressed because I do understand the gospel. That same good news that saves me eternally is the same good news that issues me a warning that this current experience I have is fatal. I tell my body, “Take heart, body. What you are experiencing is fatal.” That is why I hope for death to come quickly.
At the end of the day, all that I have is my identity, and my word, so I will fight for those because I have lost everything to reclaim them, and now I keep shaking off the dust that tries to cake its surfaces. In some ways, the dust stays in the room, so I’m just relocating the cake until it resettles again. Then in other ways, it’s a good exercise and work out for my obsessive-compulsive disorder.
How funny that is, “obsessive-compulsive,” because you can only obsess over something that continues to exist, and you can only find compulsivity in something that cannot cease to exist. You put them together, and it is two infinities tied up into one. I am slightly smiling right now as I write.
I am very thankful for each and every miracle the Lord has given me to be able to experience the degree of life that I can experience in this body that I have, right now, regardless of how imperfectly it measures against human standards, which are generational recurrences of death and a jeopardized liberty due to restlessness and discontentment. I am tired of all the mixing. Mixing and matching. They cannot be one.
In my absence, I have been hustling. I have been faithful, I have reaped the reward of very sweet-tasting fruit, and I have also reaped the rot of all the sweet-tasting fruit that rotted before I could snatch it up and eat it hastily. But then, I guess that is the idea of faith. The idea that when it is good, you do not have to gather up the goodness and store it in the bread houses, because bread is fixed to rot. No, what you do rather is this: You refuse to soil the seeds. You refuse to put everything in the dirt because you trust that the dirt will be faithful to yield what it is inherently wired to do. Dirt promises life. This earth cannot promise me life, but its dirt has always promised me life.
I trust the dirt.
I trust the dirt.
Every day I trust the dirt.
I know the dirt will yield a crop, because the dirt is designed to be dirt, and my father is good – he would not starve me.
He is still good because he gives me more than I need for the interim, so I can plant in full hope with all of my strength, joy, and might – sacrificing everything – and then keeping 2 or 3 seeds in my pocket as an investment in my future, and an anticipation of the foolishness the earth will yield in its hills that are not aligned with my father’s wisdom. They are not fixed to him, yet. Yet – I said.
You hold, I keep. He holds, we keep. We all toil the earth together. We all eat. We all weep.
May my life never reflect this earth, but always reflect the gospel. May it do this by resisting the resounding fears that cause me to excommunicate whatever ineptitude I perceive of myself at the moment, and instead finding courage to grieve what death plagues me, because it does not come fast enough, and yet its mild abundance neutralizes what apathy I seek to birth, conceive, and rebirth.
If anything, I know that I was not made for this earth because its monsters only create more self-awareness within my character, courage in my heart place, and wisdom in my thinking spaces. And maybe that is the biggest slap in the face to death. To look death straight in the eyes and say, “Come quickly. I will indulge in every step of your coming.”
Your dying for me was the best thing that could have ever happened as a response to death’s wickedness. Who would you be to rescue the earth by coming down to sweep us up and rescue us like a flood? No, you are the One whose love and heavy-laden heart dances over me as He orders my footsteps.