Maybe I’m selfish and maybe I talk too much or maybe I don’t keep secrets and promises well enough. Maybe I’m at my weakest now, or maybe I’m at my strongest. Maybe (like everyone says) this chapter of my life will seem insignificant someday, but I don’t think so. I’m trying, and I’m failing, and I’m flailing about, maybe not accomplishing anything other than to make some waves…waves that I don’t want to make. Maybe I’m thinking too much, because I have the time. Maybe I’m too impulsive, or too pushy, and maybe I hurt more people than I help. Don’t try and tell me otherwise. I didn’t write this post so you would tell me I’m wrong. To be human is to be deeply flawed, and not always beautifully so. Often my flaws are ugly, and everyone knows I’m no good at hiding things. I’m not even good at hiding the ugly parts of me.
I know less now than I ever did. For instance, I don’t understand how it is fair that I came into a Christian family. People are shaped so deeply by the circumstance of their childhoods. If I had grown up in his or her shoes I would be just as against Jesus. Who we are is so complicated, and the gospel is so simple. How is it fair to judge people by that one choice when their reasons for making that choice, the things that shaped their perception and worldviews, were in the hands of God? I don’t know. I don’t get it.
Maybe I complain too much. Who am I to complain? I live in America the home of the free. I have so much, yet I say that my life is in shambles. It sure feels that way. When it rains it pours, and it’s pouring on me, something new and stressful every day. But someone always has it worse. Maybe I’m not thankful enough. People I know don’t like who I’m becoming–pessimistic, critical, melancholy. No one wants to be around someone like that. I get that. But sunshine and rainbows seems very trite right now. I don’t really want to be happy.
I ask for truth. Maybe I ask for more than truth. I’m told I push too much. I care. I don’t mean to hurt people. I don’t mean to be this way. Sometimes I would like to be in a coma, oblivious. I’m tired of it all. I’m tired of failing over and over. Hurt me, be honest with me, tell me what you don’t like about me. Even if it hurts me, even if it kills me, I still want that. I still want to see peoples’ souls. I want to understand. Not because I can fix it, not because I know all the answers, just because. That is who I am. Maybe who I am hurts who he is and who she is. I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore.