I spent some time this evening saving some of the stuff I wrote on my old blog. Back when I used to write. I haven’t decided yet if I’m going to just make it private or delete the whole thing because that person doesn’t exist anymore.
I’m struck by the irony of the situation.
When I was in a miserable marriage, I threw myself into writing because I could find some enjoyment in immersing myself in stories and situations I created. I could make characters who were so unlike me (and then pretend I was them). It was a wonderful escape and a perfect way for me not to address the issues. Now that I don’t have the need to escape the constant tension, I have no words. I have no stories. I have no idea who I am.
I kept thinking words would come to me, but they don’t. Sometimes I wonder if writing was God’s way of seeing me through the difficulties and since I gave up on my marriage, the outlet has been taken away. Patience has never been my strong suit, but I am getting better at waiting. I am waiting for God to show me who I’m supposed to be and what my purpose is. I don’t see it now, but I pray that one day I will. But I know I need to get to the point of forgiving myself for my mistakes and bad choices before I can see anything beyond the self-dislike that keeps me down.
A couple months ago, the church music leader’s young daughter (I’m guessing she’s 11 or 12) mentioned writing. I told her I used to write, but I don’t anymore. She said she has lots of ideas but doesn’t know how to make them into a story. I suggested she start out with some kind of action; something to make the reader curious enough to keep reading. Two weeks ago, the girl mentioned writing again and asked if I wanted to write a story with her. I said it sounded like fun and figured that would be the end of it. Tonight at music practice, she talked about it again and inquired about my days off and when we could meet.
This could really happen. And now, I have a confession to make: I’m scared. No, terrified. What if my writing creativity isn’t just dormant, but has died? What if all I have is what I used to be?
Over the last several weeks, I’ve experienced a couple things that I see as “signs” – one of which prompted me to write another song, and brought the destructive nature of my insecurities to my attention. I can’t help but wonder if this girl might be another sign. I’m starting to realize my insecurities (which I’ve had my entire life) cripple me, and they explain why I settled for the spouse I did, and why I don’t put more effort into living, and instead, choose to simply exist.
Here’s a few lines of the chorus, which pretty much sums up the struggle in my head:
These insecurities, keep playin’ tricks on me,
They tell me I’m not good enough; that I don’t deserve your love.
But you’ve shown differently, ’cause Jesus died for me,
Lord, rid these doubts inside my head, so I can trust your lead instead.
Overcoming a lifetime of not feeling “good enough” isn’t going to be easy, but with God, all things are possible.
Whoa. Good to get this out of my head so maybe I can catch a few hours of sleep tonight. I’ll close with a couple pics of some of my adorable kitties. They make me smile: