I’ve been thinking a lot about bravery the past couple of weeks.
I’ve never considered myself a brave person.
I mean…I’ve considered myself a stupid person because I usually have no regard for self preservation when it comes to certain daredevil type things…and when it comes to putting someone else before myself.
But, not brave. I’m too scared to be brave. I’m scared of doing the wrong thing. I’m scared of upsetting people. I’m scared of not being enough. I’m scared of being too much. I’m scared of being abandoned. I’m scared of being surrounded. More than anything, I’m scared of letting people in and being hurt or having my heart broken.
I live a life of fear. So, how could I consider myself brave?
But…like I said, I’ve been thinking about this recently. And especially right now as I lay here in my newly remodeled house…with this feeling of a fresh start…and I think…”My life has been one fresh start after another.”
I started fresh multiple times growing up. I started fresh after my divorced. I started fresh when I went back to school. I’m starting fresh with my new surroundings.
Do you know what it takes to start fresh?
Bravery.
I can be afraid. I can be so scared I am internally shaking and terrified. But…every time I start fresh…every time I make a huge change…every time I trust someone new and let them in…that’s bravery.
Not in spite of the fear, but BECAUSE of the fear.
I am in a fantastic mood today. Just deep down internal happiness.
(Give me a minute to get to the Whoah.)
It’s been awhile since I felt this. Things have just been spiraling since October, but I feel HOPE today. Will this feeling of perfect happiness last every second of the rest of my life? Hell no. Lol But that’s ok.
I am a firm believer that we need contrast. If we never feel sadness, how do we appreciate happiness? If we never feel tumult, how do we recognize peace?
But…TODAY… I’m happy and at peace.
Why? Nothing is perfect. Nothing ever is. Perfection is unattainable…but…everything is GOOD.
My almost 15 year old and I had FUN last night. Not out buying her stuff…at home working hard to put our house back together after some remodeling…we worked hard…and we laughed harder. If you’ve ever been the parent of a hot headed teenager…you know how precious these moments are. Don’t get me wrong, she’ll hate me later…but for those hours…I was her bestie again.
This morning I ran. Not the fastest or furthest I’ve ever run. But I RAN. Which I was starting to be afraid I’d never do again.
I’m back in some of my smaller jeans…and they fit like a glove instead of a sausage casing. I still need to lose another 10 pounds or so, but I’m making progress.
I looked in the mirror this morning and actually liked what I saw. Those moments are rare, so I bless them when I get them.
I’m finding my footing with my friends again. I’m getting through the semester and tax season from Hell. I’m pushing through and I’m making it. I’m exhausted and I’ve dropped a couple of balls, but the world didn’t end.
See? Nothing is perfect. Nothing is ever perfect…
Which was the beginning of my Whoah.
I have strived to be perfect for as long as I can remember. I don’t expect it from anyone else, but I have expected it from myself. I get angry with myself if I fail…I get angry with myself if I let anyone down…I apologize more than a Canadian with a cough during Covid season.
Why? Why do I expect more from myself than anyone else?
Because, maybe…just maybe…if I’m perfect people won’t leave.
WAIT, WHAT? WHAT KIND OF DRUGS ARE YOU ON, SHERI?!?
As I was thinking through this, my brain fell on a memory that it falls on often. Right after the kidnapping came to light…in the media circus and the strangers…there was this thought.
“This can’t be real. Anything else would make more sense. I’m betting that they decided they couldn’t afford 3 kids…so they came up with this elaborate story to get rid of a couple and keep the baby.”
In my head that made more sense than, “You’ve been kidnapped for your entire life and nothing is real.” And, honestly, until today…it has always made sense that I felt that way. Hell, we all try to find sense in the senseless. But, today it hit me…
WHY, in God’s name, would I believe it made more sense that they just didn’t want me THAT much?!?!
Because I wasn’t perfect. My mom always said I was ugly. No one wants an ugly daughter. I think I got a B on a test last week. The only thing I am is smart, so I messed that up, too. I’m too girly. I cry too much. I want too much.
I’m not perfect.
Maybe if I had been they wouldn’t have given me away.
Ridiculous. So, so VERY ridiculous. But that belief and mindset has shaped everything for the majority of my life.
Maybe if I’m perfect, no one will leave. Maybe if I do better, I can be loved. Maybe if I’m prettier…or thinner…or smarter…or kinder…or funnier…or…or…or
Maybe I can be worthy of love. Maybe someone…ANYONE won’t leave.
But, at times, I lost myself in my effort to keep the world.
So…WHOAH…That ONE thought…that honestly everyone always told me made sense and was understandable…shaped EVERYTHING.
But…I’m not perfect. No one is. I look homeless on a Saturday afternoon…I bomb a test…I get sick…I get sad…I break my leg…I mess up…
But I’m not alone.
Sometimes I’m a bitch…sometimes I’m moody…sometimes I’m anxious and afraid. That’s not perfect.
But I’m not alone.
I am not perfect and, yet, some people haven’t left.
So…today I’m relishing my imperfect life. I will have bad days with my kid. But I have amazing days with her, too. I will feel ugly, but some days I’ll be like, “Yeah…what up, you?!?” and give the mirror a lascivious wink. Some days I won’t be able to focus, other days I’ll get As without trying.
Ups and downs. Happiness and sadness. Imperfections and absolutely perfect moments. They will all happen…and no one will give me away.
Prefacing this post to say, I’m not sad today. I’m actually in a rather good mood. Just sharing some of the deeper stuff because, as I’ve stated before, knowing someone else has been somewhere makes you feel understood and not alone…and maybe someone else will get that from my sharing.
Oh, Easter. How I have such a love/hate relationship with you.
I honestly love that everyone can enjoy some side of Easter. Whether you celebrate a time of resurrection, a time of pagan fertility rituals, or even just a love of Cadbury and Reese’s Eggs…everyone has a reason to smile on Easter. We watch our children delightedly search out the hidden eggs and their baskets as we eye what candy tax we’ll be charging them later. Or, if you have no children of your own, you even less guiltily go ahead and snag the jelly beans of your tiny niece who surely won’t miss one jelly bean (whoops… one jelly bean turned into 20…she has no jelly beans…mah bad…).
Seriously, I really do love Easter.
It also brings back a memory that I don’t love…and one that still has way more of an effect on me than I like to admit.
The Basket.
Do you remember being a little kid…waking up on Easter…running into the living room and, technically following the rules of not starting the egg hunt, sitting on the couch so that you could discreetly scout out the whereabouts of baskets and at least 6 eggs to give you a head start? Oh…crap…was that just me? Nothing to see here…moving on…
Do you remember the excitement of finding your Easter Basket…filled to the brim with sugar and fun?
I do. My mother and stepfather did EPIC Easter. There were indoor and outdoor egg hunts. There were the biggest, most candy filled, baskets that I’ve ever seen even to this day. Every kid’s dream.
And my brothers got to keep their dream baskets. Those unending baskets of sugary joy that it took a solid month to get through. And every year I’d watch them enjoy them. Watch being the operative word.
You see…with a mother like mine…and her mental issues…certain things were laser focused on me. Besides the fact that any other female was competition for the attention that she felt was all rightfully hers, and thus must be destroyed…My mother came from a family of incredibly overweight women (so I hear, I never met them). My mother was, to the best of my knowledge, anorexic. I don’t remember seeing my mom eat growing up. What I do remember is being put on my first diet at age 5. I remember watching my brothers eat Dairy Queen but not being allowed to partake (this never happened with my stepfather, just my mother). I remember when I was 23 and my mother called me…asked about “my problem”…and was (for the only time in my life) “SO PROUD” of me because I told her I had started only eating crackers and drinking water…and then she gave me tips on how “people will tell you that you need to eat to live…it’s just not true” and, “you may pass out a few times and get really bad stomach and headaches, but that will pass”. (You guys, I wish I could make this shit up.)
But mostly, I remember…THAT DAMN BASKET.
Every Easter Sunday I would run alongside my brothers and find my giant basket of hope and sweetness. And every Monday after Easter I would wake up to find it gone…brought to her work to give coworkers because “you’re fat, you don’t need it”.
I vividly remember, what I mentally dub, The Easter Mutiny…the year I snuck out of my bed and took a bite out of every damn thing in that basket so that I could just taste it…and so no one else would want it. I also vividly remember how long I was grounded once she got to work and realized the depth of my mutinous actions. lol
The real kicker in this situation…while I did have quite the struggle with weight later…I was a SKINNY little kid.
I think our experiences and memories shape us…mostly for the good if we let them…This one…yeah, I think I could have done without this one. I stopped living that Easter at 10 years old. 32 years later…having recently been in the best shape of my life and now working back to that (shut up, my leg was broken…and I run because I LIKE FOOD lol)…being a woman who wears a size 0 (even now they fit…just a bit too snugly) and XS everything (if not child sized)…and looks in the mirror and sees FAT and hates herself…I know…
That damn basket is a symbol of the voice that I can’t seem to get out of my head that says I’m never going to be good enough…never going to be thin enough…never going to be…enough. That basket is a symbol of a lifelong battle with weight where I would go to extremes of eating everything or eating nothing. That basket is a symbol of why when I’m overly stressed and things seem out of control…my first reaction is to not eat…because I can control what does or does not go in my mouth.
To be clear, I don’t have an eating disorder. Instead I learned as much as I could about nutrition so that I could understand food and how to be healthy in my consumption of it while acknowledging and fully believing that no foods are evil and most belong in mah mouf at one point or another. lol But I have very much flirted with various eating disorders in my life…and there are still days where it is a struggle that I fight against that mindset…and there are very few days that I can look in the mirror and see anything even closely resembling what others see.
But…in other ways…as I type this…it did make me a better person. Or…at least…a better mother. I remind my daughter daily that I want her to be healthy, but that she’s beautiful no matter what. I remind her that her worth is not dependent upon her weight while, simultaneously, explaining WHY I wish she’d make healthier decisions. I have raised a daughter who, when I tell her she’s pretty, she tells me, “I know” with a cocky little laugh. She still gets mad when I get onto her about diet and exercise, but she also knows I’m coming from a place of wanting her to FAR outlive me and not a place of caring one bit what size she wears.
So…maybe that damn basket shaped me in ways that were positive, too.
Either way…since she isn’t home this year for the holiday…SOMEONE BRING ME SOME DANG CANDY!
How much time do we spend thinking about yesterday? What broke us…what made us happy…what made us who we are. The good…the bad…the ugly. The memories that make us laugh and the memories that make us cry. The days we wish had never ended and the days we wish had never happened.
How much time do we spend thinking about today? What stress feels like it’s going to break us…what circumstance we think we’ll never get past…what person is hurting us…what person we’re hurting. We think too much about the joke we made in the wrong moment. We think too little about the casual flippant words we said that hurt someone. We microfocus so much on the minute grievances and situations…and we forget to savor the the beauty in our world exactly as it is in this moment.
How much time do we spend thinking about tomorrow? Who we’ll be tomorrow…what we’ll have tomorrow…what we’ll lose tomorrow. Borrowing troubles that may never happen…hoping and praying for things that we think we’re going to need. Worrying about who will still be there…who won’t still be there…or planning giant dreams of how wonderful the future will be.
I do it a lot. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it today. Those who knew me yesterday, do they still know me today? Those who know me today, will they still know me tomorrow?
Not in a physical sense, but in WHO I AM IN THAT MOMENT.
Because I can’t tell you what will come tomorrow. I can tell you that I’m not the person I was in my yesterdays. Every day I’ve grown…I’ve diminished…I’ve grown again. A motto of mine has always been “two steps forward and one step back is still one step forward”. I don’t mind when I fall backwards a little, so long as I trend in the right direction.
I can’t fully explain who I am today. I’m a hodgepodge of my experiences and even of the events of the day. I’m up and down…my heart is full and then it hurts. I’m no different than you in that front. We are mercurial creatures and that’s okay.
I can’t tell you who I’ll be tomorrow. Will I be be better? Maybe. Will I be worse? Probably at moments. Will I be happy? Without a doubt. Will I also be sad, or angry or stressed, or a million other emotions? Yup.
I am a sum of my yesterdays. I am a survivor and enjoyer, in equal measure, of my todays. I am a dreamer of tomorrow. The only thing I can tell you for sure…
Most people have heard me say, at one point or another, that I truly believe that being understood is one of the most basic needs of humanity. It’s honestly a core belief of mine and one that I frame my life with. I don’t just want to know people. I want to understand them. I want to know what makes them tick…I want to know their dreams, their fears, and who they truly are.
For maybe the first time ever, I feel like it’s important for me to share WHY this is how I shape my life. I want my goal of understanding to be…well…understood.
Last night I broke down in tears to one of my best friends. I admitted that the core root of what’s been going on with me lately is that I feel lonely. I’m not alone in the traditional sense of the word. Granted, I don’t have a lot of family and I live with a teenager (lol), but I have people. People who love me very much and won’t let me disappear.
And, yet…I’m still lonely. I feel like I’m constantly on the outside looking in.
Why? Shared experiences and understanding.
Another core belief of mine is that there isn’t one person in this world who has felt more trauma than another. If the worst thing that has ever happened to you is your dog died…that is the worst thing you know and it was traumatic to you. Just as my past was traumatic to me. We ALL have things that we are trying to heal from.
But what makes me feel lonely…is that most people have someone they have shared experiences with. Most traumatic experiences have support groups because enough people have been through it. Most people can say, “This horrible thing happened to me”…and, if they’re willing to be vulnerable, they will find others who have been through the same.
Does that make it all better? Not at all. But it does give you the sense that people understand.
I don’t have that. I don’t know other people who were kidnapped. I know other people who had a mentally unstable parent, I don’t know many people who literally fear them and had to cut all ties.
Do I wish I did? Not really. lol I’m GLAD most people can’t understand that.
But it’s lonely.
When an Amber Alert goes off and I go into a panic…I have people who immediately text me to tell me I’m safe…but people can’t really *understand* that panic. When Mother’s Day comes and it breaks my heart to watch other people celebrate their moms…Very few people understand the grief of having a physically alive mother, but not having a mother. When the anniversary of us being caught comes…I have people now who support me…but they can’t really understand why it’s a dark spot for me. And, mostly…
People who have never dealt with parental abduction have a very hard time understanding why it’s not just over when you were caught…and an even harder time understanding one core concept of parental abductions… Many people will say, “But at least they’re with their parent.” Mentally healthy people don’t abduct their children. If a child has been abducted by a parent, they ARE in danger. Some people do it out of spite or anger…dangerous. Some people truly do it to protect their child because they are afraid of the other parent. What happens when someone runs away in fear? They aren’t thinking rationally. A parent who can’t think rationally…dangerous. Beyond that are the beliefs, “You must be so glad that it’s over.” “At least that ordeal is past.” Do you know what most parentally abducted kids are told? The group I used to work with called it The 3 Ds. The other parent is Dead…Disinterested…or Dangerous. We jokingly added a 4th D for me. Doesn’t exist. So, in the moment that everyone is telling this recovered child that they must be so glad it’s over…In one moment…typically their name changes, their surroundings change, and they are sent to be with this person that they were taught was dead…or disinterested…or dangerous. Or, in my case, someone they didn’t know existed.
In that moment…we learn that people don’t understand. And while there are many parts of trauma that one can be counseled into seeing that they are wrong…that one…they’re not. Most of those kids will never meet another person who truly understands their life experiences.
If they’re as lucky as I am, they will have people who TRY to understand. They will have people who support them even when they don’t understand.
But they may very well never feel understood.
When they try to open up, they will face people who blatantly don’t understand and act like they’re crazy. They will face people who act like they’re just being dramatic because it’s not something they can grasp. They will face people who, with complete heartfelt sincerity, will say, “I can’t understand this. But I love you.” Those are the best people. I have those people. But I also have the other people who…when I’m TERRIFIED because something happened with my mother…or SHAKING because an Amber Alert went off in surround sound…will look at me and think (and some actually say), “Can’t she just get over it?”
And the loneliest part…is watching everyone else be understood…watching people connect over shared experiences…watching this world that they’re not a part of because no one can grasp their past.
So, yes…Understanding. It is HUGE to me. I want to understand EVERYONE. I want EVERYONE to FEEL understood and heard.
Because the alternative is a sense of loneliness that I still haven’t figured out how to overcome.
“Children are Resilient”. I don’t know about you, but I hear this A LOT.
“It’ll be ok. Children are resilient.”
“She’ll get over it. Children are resilient.”
“He’ll get through this. Children are resilient.”
Resilience is “The process of handling stress and recovering from trauma and adversity.”
I know adults who can’t do this.
I believe that learning how to deal with adversity is a must in life. NONE OF US will ever live a life where everything goes as we wish…nor should we.
However, wouldn’t it be nice if our children didn’t have to learn how to overcome trauma?
I listened to my daughter’s best friend the other day telling me about her trauma…very real trauma…trying to laugh it off…trying to play like it didn’t matter…Why?
Because we’ve taught them that they’re supposed to be resilient.
We’ve taught kids that no matter what horrible things adults do to them, it is on them to be resilient and strong. We don’t help them process them…we push them to not need to…because, honestly, it’s more comfortable for us to believe that they’ll be ok than for us to admit that they need the help.
I can tell you what comes from being a “resilient” child in the face of trauma.
Resilient children grow up to make jokes to cover their hurt.
Resilient children wear their trauma like a badge of honor because the accolades they’re used to hearing are about how amazingly resilient and strong they are.
Resilient children learn to be afraid to tell people how they really feel and they grow learning to suffer alone to not cause anyone else any discomfort.
Resilient children learn to HATE the compliment of how resilient and strong they are because they would give anything to not have had to be resilient.
So…maybe it’s time we adjust the adult view of resilience. Maybe we use resilience in terms of, “Yeah…it sucks that you’re struggling with this subject in school…you’ll have to work harder than others, but you are resilient and strong and you will make it through.” rather than, “Wow. It sucks that this terrible, life altering event happened to you. I’m proud of you that you’re not letting it bother you. What? Are you trying to say something? Just that you’re happy, right? Right?! RIGHT?!?!”
Instead of telling a child to be strong in the face of an event that adults would crumble under…let’s teach them to be vulnerable and admit their feelings and that they need help…before they learn to pretend that they need no one.
I’m ready for the flack and anger I’ll probably get from this post. But it’s something that I need to say.
The world is watching from afar what happened with the massage parlor killing spree this week. Some of us are watching it from up close.
There is no excuse for what happened. None. Those people did not deserve to die and there should be punishment for the horrible loss of life.
But maybe…just maybe…it’s not only the killer who needs the punishment.
Maybe society deserves a little of the punishment.
Everyone is very quick to declare that this was an act of racism. It’s so easy to go there. It truly happens all the time. It is abominable and needs to stop. Quite honestly, it needs to stop on all levels, though. Our society didn’t see the loss of human life…they IMMEDIATELY saw the race of the lives that were lost. They IMMEDIATELY decided race was the issue. So much so that they ignored what the man, himself, said.
Again…I’m watching this from nearby. I do not know the man, but I do know a little about the story.
From what I understand, he truly was sick. He truly sought help. He truly…was ignored. Does that excuse his actions? Nope. Not even a little bit. But it also puts the blame on us as a society.
Mental health is constantly ignored. We all cry for mental health awareness, but we simultaneously ignore those who need it. We blame anxiety on being dramatic. We avoid those who are depressed as their sadness makes us feel uncomfortable and useless. We blame addicts for their addictions and we judge those who are different from us. We’re the first to cry out after they have taken a life, even their own…but we are the last to sit with them at their sick beds.
I say this as I have been consistently thinking about something my own therapist told me one day in regards to my mother. While it’s not safe for me to be near her, I need to try not to let anger take me over…because she is sick. Expecting someone with her level of mental illness to NOT do sick things is akin to expecting someone with cancer to not be sick.
Now, my mother doesn’t want help. But many people who fight the battle of mental illness do. And we ignore them. We judge them. Society fails them.
And then we’re angry when then sick person does sick things.
Again, I’m horrified by what happens and the killer DOES need to be punished. There is no excuse for the taking of human lives.
But there is also no excuse for ignoring the cries for help that generally lead up to it.
And, quite honestly, there is no excuse for turning every battle into one of racism. Asian Americans HAVE been targeted, especially in the past year, with hate crimes and racism. IT NEEDS TO STOP. But this was not that and actually detracts from that battle. Insisting that something was racially motivated, despite evidence to the contrary, detracts from the fight against racism and is used to take the blame off of society’s shoulders.
We need to start listening for those cries for help. We need to deal with our own discomfort and prejudices and fear…and we need to hold ourselves responsible for helping our fellow man…BEFORE lives are lost.
I’m a helper. I have been for as long as I can remember…I’d be shocked to hear that there was even a time before my memory when I wasn’t.
I Love To Help.
You’re in pain? I bet I can find a way to help. You’re in trouble? I can help. You need advice? I’m your girl.
I, personally, believe that God put us here so that we CAN help each of his children. He gives us gifts that enable us to help others. He puts us in situations that will give us the ability to help. He lets us face tribulations so that we can help those who face them after us.
So, not only do I love to help…I believe that I’m SUPPOSED to help.
(Bare with me on this next part, I swear there’s a purpose. I’ve even centered and italicized it so that you can see where, what looks like it’ll be all whining all the time, begins and ends. lol)
But…if I’m being very, very honest…I sometimes start to feel hurt when it becomes one sided. I start to feel overburdened by helping too many and I start to notice the help that I’m not receiving in return.
I tend to feel that way a lot during tax season. Being exhausted doesn’t help, I’m sure. But the biggest part of it…I honestly really do love that I have a skill that I can use to help others. If I’ve ever offered to do your taxes for free, it’s an act of love. Both love of you AND love of what I do. But that offer goes to those who are a huge part of my life and are there for me in the same ways…or to those who I know really need the help for one reason or another. Yet, right around February…like clockwork…people I only hear from at that time of year are coming to me and remembering how MUCH they love me and how much they miss me and, “By the way…can you help me with some tax stuff?”. And it’s expected for free. (In all seriousness, please note…this is NOT about my friends who have asked if they can pay me or those I offer to do for free.) In a time of year where I’m already extremely busy and stressed…honestly, I get to add to it that I’m only good to those people for one thing. This year that was exacerbated. I have a core group of people who have been there every step of the way for/with me with the broken leg and the process of finding out what was going on with my heart. Those are my people. Those are my ride or dies. And then…I have the rest of the world…I’m not (nor should I be) a priority for them…and so I didn’t even hear from them in the time that I was trying to straighten all of this out and deal with that fear. But, man they remembered me come tax time. And THAT hurt.
And that’s where I’ve been for the past couple of days. Really, genuinely hurting…more and more with every “Hey!! You want to do my taxes?! What do you mean you’d have to charge? Ohhhh…” Feeling like I should help, because I can. Feeling like it’s my duty. Feeling like…it’s my burden.
I don’t believe God wants me (or any of us) to feel that way. Helping each other is supposed to feel like a joy to serve. It is not supposed to feel like a burden.
So then I feel guilty. God doesn’t want me to do his work with resentment and sadness. He doesn’t want me doing it begrudgingly. I must be a terrible person for having these feelings? Right? RIGHT?!?! TELL ME I’M AWFUL!!!
So, yes, that hole has been getting deeper and deeper as I pulled away more and more from, honestly, the last people I should be pushing away…because I’m useless to everyone, right?
No.
And, I THINK God tried to give me that message this morning.
I was sitting at Goldberg’s working…when suddenly…in stereo…20 phones started going off…all around me…with an Amber Alert. Even my phone because I got a new phone yesterday and hadn’t turned off those alerts yet. (For those who are new to this story…I have PTSD from being parentally abducted for 10 years as a baby…I have VERY strong reactions to Amber Alerts and I was advised by a doctor to turn them off. So, my amazing friends promised to leave theirs on so that I would feel less guilty for not having mine on.)
After I started to bring myself down from fight or flight mode, I reached for my phone to turn off the alerts.
And I sat there for a solid 20 minutes trying to force myself to do it.
Because it is my duty to help these kids. I, more than most, know the hell that these children are about to face…no matter who took them and no matter how long they are gone…this will shape the rest of their lives. I know this because I’ve been them…and, over the years, I’ve learned how to help. And how DARE I turn off an alert?
And then I had this feeling come over me…that feeling that I always get when He is trying to make me understand something. I had this feeling of peace saying,
“It’s ok. You can’t help them if you’re hurting yourself.”
If I am so surrounded by my own grief and pain, I can’t help them. If I’m still too lost, how do I help someone else find themselves? If I’ve pushed myself to a point of weakness, how do I help them find their strength again?
And then it clicked. That’s true in all things.
How can I help anyone if I’m hurting myself?
Yes. God wants me to help everyone that I am capable of helping…without hurting myself in the process. God wants me to find a joy…and even a peace in my tribulations…by helping His other children. He wants that for all of us. He never wants it to be a burden.
So He wants us to learn that we have to help ourselves, too.
We have to say no when we have no more capacity. We have to prioritize those who need us the most. We have to step away from things that we KNOW will bring us too much pain to be able to see clearly enough to see who HE is pointing us to…I have to turn off the alerts…
Or, at least, I think that’s what He’s trying to tell me. It feels right. It feels like that parental smack on the back of the head saying, “NOW do you get it?!”
So…Dear God, Is that what you meant? Blink Twice for yes.
This probably has a lot to do with the fact that I’ve been feeling a little…off…today, anyway, but I’ve been kinda freaked out since this afternoon.
I went back to school 3 years ago. I decided I needed to find myself again…and a good way to do that would be to go back to “Academic Sheri”. Academic Sheri knows she’s smart…knows she has something to offer…knows she can succeed. Non-Academic Sheri was…well…a hot mess. Not just a hot mess…but…
He was talking about Non-Academic Sheri
So…yeah…Heated Mess Me went back to school. And that is what I have spent the majority of my last 3 years doing. And you know what? It worked. Those 3 years gave me time to heal…gave me my confidence back…reminded me that I have worth…
And now, today, I submitted my petition to graduate. In 9 months I will be done. No more homework. No more classes. No more mocking man buns on campuses. Academic Sheri will go back into her box.
And all I can think is…
Crap. Now what?
Is Non-Academic Sheri still a heated mess? I. Don’t. Know. I know she hasn’t gotten any better at peopling. I know she still does every damn thing to the extreme. I know that she’s still going to be the girl who’s been told is “too nice”, has “too many feelings”, can be hurt a little too easily.
But is she stronger now? Will she thrive? Or will Non-Academic Sheri still be Bad Life Choices Sheri?
And even if she isn’t still Bad Life Choices Sheri…WHAT THE HELL IS SHE GOING TO DO WITH ALL OF THAT TIME?!?!
Seriously…will I suddenly learn how to relax? Probably not. Will I learn a new language? Write a book? Climb Mt. Everest? What will I do in those moments when sitting still sounds absolutely awful.
Soooo…I’m freaking. I have 9 months to figure it all out…but at this moment…I repeat…
*Jazz Hands* Mom 