Today I’m going to share what’s happening in my labyrinth of a mind (there may or may not be a sane way out). Some of the chaos and bizarre trains that run rampant and carve out new paths at their leisure (which isn’t particularly leisurely).
I have heard several times that for some, change requires radical action. And there has been one thing that has come to me over and over again. One of my greatest weaknesses is that I cut myself off. I don’t put myself out there. And time and again, I have wondered what would happen if I did put myself out there more frequently? What would happen if I posted every day on my website or somewhere similar for a set period of time?
So I am doing it.
The first day was hard. I almost didn’t post because I wasn’t happy with it, and I wasn’t sure if what I was writing about was even helpful or needed.
The second day was easier because I knew what I wanted to write.
Today, the third day, is harder than the first. I’ve hit that line where I feel like an intrusion. That what I share, whether fact or fiction, is an inconvenience and unnecessary intrusion into the world.
At the same time, it feels pointless. Speaking out into a void, surrounded on all sides by a darkness thick and deep.
I am also highly aware of all the things I do not yet know how to do. All the places and points in which I err.
It’s a series of cacophonous overlays that intensify with each new thought and fear.
Oddly it also brings up sensations of rejection and a hundred tiny spider voices that insist on so many things. That I am nothing. That what I have to offer is nothing. That I cannot do it well enough and so should not do it at all. That no one cares. That nothing I do makes a difference.
And in eternity’s light and even just in the scope of a single life’s perspective this is crushed breadcrumbs in the grass small.
This does not feel the way I want it to, but that feeling or unease or sense of intrusion is not particularly relevant to what actually is in this case. And I’m actually quite sure that I am not alone in these sorts of feelings. I know for a fact that while I may feel alone in this struggle, I am not in any way alone.
Loneliness is sometimes far more a perception than a reality. That does not make it any less real or damaging, but it changes what must be done.
The ultimate root is my own perspective of myself and my God-given value. I am the one who is questioning it, and that is what makes the insecurity so loud. I am not in silence but in a chamber where my own voice is so loud it is deafening and I can hear nothing else. A chamber where I am blinded from my own perspective with a standard so high it is as if I made it specifically so I could not reach it.
And it is a mess.
I won’t deny that.
The inside of my head is usually a tangle of prayers, meditations, stories, thoughts, concerns, images, sensations, and lines from poems, stories, movies, and TV shows with the occasional joke that resurfaces and suddenly makes sense.
I know that I am strange, and I accept that. I look at my stories and the topics I choose to write on, the characters who bleed out of my fingers and pen. They are not easy. I write too much. My posts and stories are too long. They’re too weird, and so am I.
But I think that I have accepted this. And the darkness and the chaos is there. I find myself wondering what if this is not a flaw, what if this is how God created me to be? Someone who is feels perpetually torn by contradictory paths? Somehow who has to think of more than one thing? Someone who really doesn’t know how to keep small talk small and can accidentally kill a conversation with something that suddenly goes too deep? Someone who wants to ask questions and fight with the answers even if there is no solid answer to be found? Someone who often feels as if there’s some secret book that was passed around that teaches most everyone else how to respond?
Sometimes I do restrain myself. This is not a bad thing. Far more can be learned through listening and watching. But when it comes to my writing, I see no benefit in cutting out the essence of who I am because I don’t think it can be removed. My attempt to write a vampire romance turned into a fantasy epic with realms behind the phases of the moons and magic systems based on interactions with humans and the children of the sun.
I suppose that what I hope is this. That as I strive to be the best person I can be, to live in a way that honors God and encourages and builds up my family, friends, and loved ones, that I will find my people who love my stories and perhaps even need them. People who won’t be so busy that they can’t make time for a long epic or an odd tale because it fits what they need. I think I need to be cautious of censoring myself because too often I have found the people I needed were those who did not censor themselves. The censorship results in many cases in a loss of that which is needed.
So why is posting each day hard?
I suppose it isn’t.
It just feels like it is.
And feelings aren’t enough for me to go on.
There’s only way through. Through the fear and through the dark. And I do want to know what’s on the other side.