Tuesday, May 19, 2015

the one where she is sad

It's been over a month now that I've been out of words and I'm not going to pretend I'm okay with that. So many times I've tried to force myself to write, to blog, to journal, ANYTHING. And it just hasn't really worked. Tonight, however, there's a heaviness in me, that kind that I think brings wordiness, though I am currently completely unsure of what words will spill out.

Today I finished my last official day subbing. It's been an incredible three months, full of tears and laughter (the only way to spend the months), and my heart will, I think, forever be attached to some of these students. Seems like that's the way this teacher-heart of mine works-- getting too attached to people that rarely/never know how deeply my heart buried their name. It's made me do a lot of reflecting and a lot of note-writing and a lot of thanking.

It makes me wonder if my teachers ever felt about me the way I feel about my students. I wonder if they searched for the joy or pain in my eyes and sometimes put their hands on my shoulders because they knew how much I just wanted to be seen. I wonder if they ever cried when I left them or they left me or whatever our 'goodbye' looked like. I wonder if they ever got frustrated because I didn't listen to them the way I needed to. I wonder if they ever sat alone at night and prayed their hearts out for me until the tears stung the backs of their eyes.

I've been doing a lot of job applying and interviewing lately and these boss people always want me to "tell [them] about [myself]". And every time I've started with, "Well. I love loving people." because some days that's all I really know about myself. Some days I say vague things after that or spout of facts that other people have told me, because I'm supposed to know who I am beyond just knowing I'm a bucket of love that's got an unfixable hole in the bottom of it.
But most days, that's all I really know.
There's a hole in my bucket and I don't plan on trying to fix it, cause I like splashing around and at least helping turn the dusty parts to muddy parts. Everyone needs their dusty parts to be splashed on, even if it makes mud, because that's when you can really finally muck it away.

As you can see from the past four paragraphs, I've been really into me lately. And I'm very tired of it, but I need training on how to stop using "I". Because I'm selfish and talk about myself a lot and sometimes it literally nauseates me. CAN YOU PLEASE JUST START BEING LESS ABOUT YOU, BECCA?

Guys, my mind is such a jumble lately and it's so frustrating. I can hardly string coherent thoughts together a lot of times, and I'm not sure what to blame it on besides just busyness (which is a lame excuse). A little bit back, I had coffee with a friend and we talked about this whole being a "writer" thing. I try to tell myself, "you're not a writer, Bec. you didn't even get a minor in it. stop posing and give it up."
However, it's a thing God uses to minister to me. Writing is and always has been a way for me to figure out my own thoughts and feelings. When I was seven, I would get so bogged down in my own thoughts I couldn't get them out enough to tell my mom that I wanted to eat dinner at a specific place or get my ears pierced, so she bought us a mother-daughter journal and I would write her little notes.

Thinking about that makes me cry. Y'all my mom is (and was) superwoman.
Who even thinks of that?

Anyway, it's always been an outlet and a method of dealing, for me. so who the heck do I think I am to tell God, "No, you can't use me in that way," although I hate being used in this way because I am so small and inadequate.
For such a big God, He deserves a writer that is also big and talented and popular and at least has a degree in it or something. I just write because I like words and think too much.

In the end, I guess I should boil it down to: I never have enough/the right words to say, and that drives me crazy. Maybe, hopefully, someday I'll find that I have exactly the words I want to use at exactly the moment I want to use them and there will be just enough but not too many and they will have a perfect audience and response.
For now I'll just sit here and claim to be a writer until I feel like one.
Sidenote: to all you real writers, please don't be offended that I'm trying to be one of you. Just let me in.


Also, here's a sobering bit: my grandmother just died.
I'm sorry to be so blunt about it; I hope it doesn't seem apathetic or disrespectful. However, it's a fact. She was in her late 80's (I can't remember if she was 87 or 88) and in the late stages of Parkinson's and it's just inevitable at that point. And I don't know how to process it- sometimes I'm a puddle of tears when I talk about it and sometimes I feel so far removed from it. Both of my other grandparents (dad's parents) have died during my lifetime and neither of them really struck me the way this has. They were sad affairs, to be certain, but I've been crying like a bipolar lady the past week or so.

Basically I'm probably going crazy, guys.
Welcome to my world.

I want to be less about me, but I also want 'me' to be better. I want to be more stable, less extremely wavering in my emotions, more adequate, less doubting, more talented, more sure... and the list goes on.
These days, Satan's doing a lot of tearing down and I don't really know how to stop it when I can barely stand up straight most days.
It's my own fault, I've failed to stand and fight for too many days in a row. But I just feel small, in the bad way. Like I've somehow lost my way, along the path to adulthood. Heck, maybe this is adulthood. I don't know.

There's just something wrong and off and I don't know what it is or how to fix it or how to tie it all up in a happy, pretty bow to display.
I'm just sad.

welcome to midnight.

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