Saturday – 12:52 am
Today was the two-year anniversary for my living in New Jersey. I am a fan. I am even almost a fan of the actual experience of my day, except I really struggled. I did really well for the first two thirds of it.
Something reminded me recently that when I moved to Jersey, I decided to never tell my story again. It is kind of funny that within five months I was at CR. There has been a bit of story sharing over the course of the last two years.
But this afternoon something happened that kind of bothered me. After it happened I became so confused. I wondered who I am and what my story really is and what in heaven’s name is wrong with me. Does anyone else ever have that feeling that there is just something wrong with them?
In the two years I have been here, I like to think I have changed a lot. But this afternoon I discovered how little I have changed. I had a conversation with someone. It was just a random conversation about my story. Not the deep parts, but the detailed parts. Where I went to high school, where I went to college, where I have lived, with all the random details of why woven in between. The person learned some things I haven’t said in years. I didn’t realize I had kept my vow to never tell my story.
The details probably are the things that actually do not matter. But if they do not matter? Then why do I not tell them? Maybe it is because if I talk about certain parts of my past, it opens a can of worms and there are ten million questions. It is the raised eyebrows and the disbelief on people’s faces.
No, it’s not. It is because I do not want to admit it. What I do not voice seems to quit being true. I can quit thinking about it if I can quit talking about it. But it doesn’t go away. It just is ignored.
How do I have all these amazing people who love me and know me, but do they? I am really, really careful to let no one actually know me. There are some doors that stay closed. They are all the doors that would let people see me differently. They are all doors I never want to admit even exist. Why? Because if I did, people would know me. Now that is entirely terrifying. But why?
Isn’t that what I actually want? To be part of something? To live for something bigger than myself? To know and be known? Isn’t love what I long for? So why do not I let people know the real story?
Part of it is I do not want them to judge the characters in the story. Especially all the other ones. Part of it is I am afraid they will begin to know me and then reject me. Since if they actually get to know me, then it will for the first time ever actually be possible for them to reject me.
Oh, for the love of God! I should be sleeping not writing!
And now, dear children, continue in him, so that when he appears we may be confident and unashamed before him at his coming. – I John 2:28