Spilling

I haven't written in a while. Been having this inner conflict about spilling the beans. When is it alright to bear it all? To open out, say, "Here's the struggle. Look at it. Touch it. Feel it. Know what I've known in the deep, deep--the dark--and whatever spots of intense light my spirit has recorded these last few days."

I've become incredibly self conscious recently. More than usual. But...something happened a couple of days ago, when a friend of mine sort of spilled to me a sad sad story that turned out very happily. We were in my car and he was beaming about how he suddenly felt so loved by God--he motioned toward the stars through my windshield and described how he didn't need anyone to tell him that they loved him anymore. Because the person who made the stars loved him. His face got so brilliant. I felt so soft, so grounded listening to his story. And I decided, when I got home, that I didn't need to be affirmed that night, I didn't need to feel accepted by other people, I just needed to rest.

It was wonderful. It was a great wide night, and I've felt so much better since.

I know that often, when I get scared, uncomfortable, whatever, I begin entertaining people a lot. I become funny. I am really really extroverted. Sometimes I'm being myself in those moments. Sometimes I'm generally just laughing hard, spinning into the joy of the people I'm with. But, sometimes, when I feel like I'm the only one, like I'm the one entertaining, like I'm in front of the eyes, I begin slowly losing myself. I go away after that feeling really ashamed and isolated and needy. I think the whole show--my hilarity--my song and dance--in those moments were meant to try and bring me some sort of confirmation. I like to make people laugh. And sometimes I think I use that laughter as confirmation that I bring joy. That I am worthwhile. When I bring joy because I already am worthwhile.

It's crazy finding out how many people share this. The neediness, sometimes. The panic that perhaps life doesn't have space for them. That they aren't a part of it. They are somewhere outside, trying very hard to get in. Trying to give some kind of show, in order to gain entrance.

I love finding that we're already inside. I love seeing other people find that they are already inside. I love their faces when they find out. Their softness. Their depth. Their silliness.

I am hoping I can live into this more. I want to love myself. Deeply. I don't want to go on with this constant re-thinking everything I've done. I don't want to go on planning every move, being as cautious as possible so I don't get caught in a space that may not want me.

When I think of living this out, I feel good. I feel very very much myself. I feel smiley. I feel warm.

I hope that you have found this way of life. I am so happy thinking that there are people out there who have become tender toward themselves. Who can laugh--very freely--and are not trying to buy love in any way.


LATER TODAY:

I just was going through pictures on facebook and I found these pictures of me driving my dad's tractor that my mom got in the divorce away from the house I grew up in. It was rather hilarious at the time. We were all celebrating getting away from that place...or the person that had hurt us all so much for so many years. We took pictures. And there I am, posing on the tractor. It was the last thing I drove away from my dad's (only a few blocks...down dirt roads...to my aunt's house). There was this brigade of my mother's brother and sister, my great friend Paula (it was her BIRTHDAY...and she helped me move my mom's stuff out. She's amazing. I needed her so much that day), all driving behind me. Smiling. Beeping. Waving. Helping out.

Today was the first day I realized that that was the last time I saw my father. Driving away on his tractor. It was about one in the afternoon. He was already drunk. Had nearly hit someone when he sped it out of the area behind his barn. He wasn't very whole that day. His girlfriend was coming over later. He was trying to corner my mom all the time and tell her how greedy she was when she still has hardly anything and he seems to own every toy he's ever wanted.

One time, I went inside, stood in his way and firmly told him to "Shut the hell up. " To leave her alone. I said, "Where the hell are your trash bags?" I was so strong on the outside. That's how I've learned to be with him. And on the inside I'm shaking, scared to death he's going to come at me...he's going to pummel me to the ground...and I'm going to be left, voiceless, again.

Today, driving around a bend in 44th, on my way to work, my father popped into my head. The image of him hiding, clinking bottles, peeking above shelves to talk to my sister popped into my head. The cold eyes. The eyes I've never ever known to hold real warmth. I thought of the things he's called us. The nights he put us through. And I felt very sorry. For him. I have been angry. I have wanted to see him cry in front of me. I have wanted to stare at him with the coldest eyes, and have him fall open, bawling at my feet. I have wanted that. I mean it. But, today, I felt sorry. I felt that this man is a product of something very big and very dark. I have never known what is beneath those eyes. I've glorified him and been let down before. But ultimately, he is flesh, and he is blood. And I am feeling the sharp pain he has inflicted. And he is feeling the sharp pain inflicted upon him. And perhaps, unlike my mother and others dealt very hard hands, he has not been capable of seeing his way to a different life, a different way of seeing things.

I am not going to go see him very soon. He would make me feel like I deserved to be punished. For what? I'm not sure. I'm still trying to get over the feeling that I am deserving of everything bad. That I have done something wrong all the time. That I am not worthy of anything. Of love. Of affection. I need to find my way to that first. But it is good. It is amazing, thinking that God does love this man I find so terribly hard to love, who I often want to hurt soo soo badly.