I write. That’s what I tell people.
What? They like to ask. Why? How?
The reason I hide my writing from people know in real life, is because they are judgmental. Those people read one sentence, and think I’m depressed and unchristian. Are you ok? They ask. I want to answer truthfully, I’m not all the time. But I don’t, I keep my mouth shut.
I am not perfect. I am not always happy, especially not here. This is my outlet, so I don’t scream at you in real life. These words, help me decipher my life, my troubled past, my unclear future, my vivid present that may or not haunt me in the future.
You remember Little Girl? I’m Liv-Sort Of? I almost deleted them. Because I was afraid of how raw and real it was for me. I don’t publish a lot of things, because I push myself to be this perfect angel that I was told I should be. I have to lie my parents sometimes, tell them that isn’t about me, that it was fictional, because they don’t understand. Because they tell me I should be happier, that I should be this and that, that they will take away my writing because they’re worried about their 2nd oldest who used to be this bubbly, angelic child.
The past is the past, I whisper in those arguments. That girl disappeared years ago, I want to scream, but instead I just write in black ink and hide it in some ripped folder.
It’s a struggle. To fight back your past. The anxiety, the depression, the not eating, the eating too much, the bitterness, the hurt. People make jokes about it, but it’s really not a joke. It hurts a lot. I write on my hand every day, the words that help me forgive, to love, to be kind; and even then I manage to screw up.
I’ve built these walls around myself, because I’m scared of people these days. That they will leave me, that they will break me again. When really, if they leave it’s because of my pride, my fear. I’m scared of myself, because I’m stuck, and I keep trying to get out, but I keep rebuilding those walls.
A handful of people in real life know about this blog. Sometimes, I think I would love to open it up to the public, to let them know who I am. To publish something. That novel I’m working on–it will probably never leave this computer–it deals with themes I’ve dealt with, that I’ve seen others deal with. But, I don’t because I’m afraid people will question my Christianity.
I don’t write fairy-tale endings, or happy ones. I write what I like to call bitter-sweet fiction. Because stories are supposed to reflect real life, not some perfect world. Heroines and heroes should fight with morals and themselves, not just with their fists. If they fall in love, they should fight, and even maybe leave each other. People will die, and the others will not just forget, they will find them in everything.
If you knew me, you would be surprised. I don’t talk much, because I can’t. I talk gibberish and mumble under my breath what I really think. If I do talk more, it’s because I’m extremely comfortable around you, which is a select few. I think constantly, I can’t turn it off, it keeps me up in the night. I hurt for people who tell me their problems, I cry and pray for them, even bloggers I’ve never met, even people I see cross the street. It makes me angry when people start slandering others, because I’ve been there, and they don’t deserve it, they are humans too; they have feelings too.
I wonder how sometimes I’m still alive to be completely honest. I wonder why I’m still alive. I know my purpose is found in Christ, but I wonder what He wants me to do, because I feel useless a lot of times.
I wonder why I still blog at times. But–then I remember when I post a poem that reflects how I’m feeling, and people comment below. They tell me that it’s true, that it describes their life at them moment, that it’s helping. Those comments mean the world to me, they keep me going, they keep me writing.
This is my outlet. This is the inner-workings of my brain, the things I struggle with. I’m sorry if you can’t handle the intenseness at times. I know it’s sometimes dark, but so is my life.
I want you to know I am happy a lot of times, but happiness is not all the time.
I’m not seeking glory anymore. I’m just helping others and myself. I have already seen glory–and it’s even not found here–it’s found in Christ. I’m sorry if you think that having these struggles makes me less Christian, because it doesn’t.
And I’m not deleting this post. This is the truth, whether you like or not.