One of my longest held fears is that someone will depend on me. And that I will fail them.
There are old reasons, deep and ugly. As a child, I said it was because I didn't want anyone to feel the way I did when I was disappointed by someone I loved; and maybe that was originally true. But after the first time, the choice became easier and more comfortable.
Then not making that same choice became the challenge. And accepting the idea everyone else would make the same choice in the same situation made accepting everyone else held the same perspective just... logical.
And here I am, years later, dealing with the consequences of a choice made by a scared, scarred child. Unsure if I hold to what I knew because it's familiar or because it's good for me.
To tell the truth, in the darkest hours, good becomes so subjective, it too starts to look a lot like just another chance to be hurt. And that means it's bad.
Because for something to be good, I have to admit I want it. And that just makes me vulnerable. No good could possibly come of that.
Better to isolate, and nurse old wounds. Seriously. It's healthier. The voices in my head told me so.
And I could believe them so much easier if there weren't other, cooler voices calling me into community. Those voices, broken and not of my own making, speak light into the dark, saying things braver and truer than I can imagine.
They speak of family and roots, of a tribe who accepts and forgives. Stories of betrayal and mistakes, prideful falls and re-learning love seep into my skin, feeling as if such things are possible and workable.
Within a Gothic building of jewel-toned glass and overwatching angels, ashes swirled with frankincense are stroked along my skin.
And for a moment...Death, that horrid thief, seems not quite so keenly present; the past, that horrid weight, not quite so haunted.
And if prayer is the breath of those who love God, then I exhale fear, failure and remnants of my ghosts. Because it is once again Lent, and I can inhale the truth: God understands.
There are old reasons, deep and ugly. As a child, I said it was because I didn't want anyone to feel the way I did when I was disappointed by someone I loved; and maybe that was originally true. But after the first time, the choice became easier and more comfortable.
Then not making that same choice became the challenge. And accepting the idea everyone else would make the same choice in the same situation made accepting everyone else held the same perspective just... logical.
And here I am, years later, dealing with the consequences of a choice made by a scared, scarred child. Unsure if I hold to what I knew because it's familiar or because it's good for me.
To tell the truth, in the darkest hours, good becomes so subjective, it too starts to look a lot like just another chance to be hurt. And that means it's bad.
Because for something to be good, I have to admit I want it. And that just makes me vulnerable. No good could possibly come of that.
Better to isolate, and nurse old wounds. Seriously. It's healthier. The voices in my head told me so.
And I could believe them so much easier if there weren't other, cooler voices calling me into community. Those voices, broken and not of my own making, speak light into the dark, saying things braver and truer than I can imagine.
They speak of family and roots, of a tribe who accepts and forgives. Stories of betrayal and mistakes, prideful falls and re-learning love seep into my skin, feeling as if such things are possible and workable.
Within a Gothic building of jewel-toned glass and overwatching angels, ashes swirled with frankincense are stroked along my skin.
And for a moment...Death, that horrid thief, seems not quite so keenly present; the past, that horrid weight, not quite so haunted.
And if prayer is the breath of those who love God, then I exhale fear, failure and remnants of my ghosts. Because it is once again Lent, and I can inhale the truth: God understands.
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