I find myself always walking this fine line between being completely closed off, refusing to allow anyone to really know me, and grossly oversharing.
It’s like once the release valve is opened, all the things that have been held captive explode right out in a hot mess of emotion, detail, and vulnerability.
As I’ve already said, I don’t really care for that particular variety of vulnerability.
I was supposed to share a lesson at my church on a Wednesday night (a while back) that was basically just a recap of something shared at our ladies’ retreat.
A nice little conversation about creating joy – MAKING SPACE in our very, very crowded lives for joy to live and grow. Definitely not qualified to offer any sage advice on that one.
The retreat version was pretty clean, with just a little emotion I couldn’t seem to contain. Oh, how I wish that’s how that Wednesday night had gone as well.
A mess. From beginning to end, a mess.
Of course, I’m surrounded by supportive sisters who — although they cannot possibly understand the incoherent mess that spewed from me with more force than that great fish must have used to expel Jonah — encourage, even if they don’t get it.
For some reason, though, it seems like this continues to be about me. That sounds really, really egocentric, I know, but I don’t mean “about me” in a good way. I mean about me and how I’ve messed up. About me and my pride. About me and my reluctance, my resistance.
About me and my struggle.
I don’t like “telling my story.” It doesn’t feel good. I don’t like being emotional like that in front of people. In front of anyone, really.
And then there’s the full day of swollen, puffy eyes that always follows my cleansing crying spells that leave people asking “What’s wrong?” for entirely too long after the episode is supposed to be over.
I feel scrubbed raw.
There’s nothing but new, pink skin where the callous was. And as I write that, I’m beginning to understand that maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s required of me because the callouses are there. And maybe removing them always leaves fresh pink skin, scrubbed raw by the effort of removing the tough, thickened outer layers of my heart, of the person I’ve become.
I sure wish there was an easier way. I really don’t like the middle.
