Moving on

When some event occurs in our lives or the lives of others around us, we are sad. Things can be bittersweet, heart-wrenching, downright painful. We are expected to feel those things, and we are allowed to express our  grief and sense of loss. Those who care about us know that there may be nothing they can say to take the heartache away, and yet still they offer us hope through loving and encouraging words.

For a time.

We are pushed to look for the silver lining, told 'better luck next time,' and reminded that God has a plan for us. Sometimes those things work; sometimes they leave us feeling angrier and more hurt than ever before. But there comes a time, in each unique life situation, that we start to really believe those words. We stop and realize, 'I feel happy again. My life can go on.' So that's what we try to do, and we don't think about how it was the very thing we were told to do from the beginning. It just starts to feel like a possibility, the right thing.

But then sometimes the very people who reminded us of the little things, the good that comes from the bad, aren't ready for us to grow.

Sometimes when someone who has suffered a loss or had to deal with something difficult begins to become happier and more content with their lives, there are people who silently scream that they're not doing what they're supposed to. 'You're supposed to be sad! Don't you remember what happened?' The whispers of words and thoughts unspoken, 'how can you move on now?' Most people are capable of reading between the lines.

Sometimes I think we expect people to stay sad for quite some time. That, somehow, by trying to move on, they have become heartless and uncaring. We try to force them back down, to remind them where they came from. It's not that we forget, though. That is something that escapes us. No one ever really forgets someone they love.

When things are actually starting to look up for once, don't be the one to pull a person back down into their misery. If you love someone and care for them, let them try. Let them be happy.  A tragedy may only be days behind them, but everyone deserves to feel the good things in life. Pain is temporary. Sadness should not be the expectation we have from life.

Sharing your heart part 2

This is going in a completely different direction than I originally intended.

So it's been a couple weeks since I started feeling like I had made this radical, life-altering decision. And at first, everything was good because, why would I have written all those things if I hadn't really felt that way? However, now some time has passed and even the smallest of wounds have yet to heal. I again feel like I stripped down and paraded every last part of myself that still felt like it hadn't been tampered with. Nothing of myself is my own. And now there's this other feeling that I can't stand and I don't know how to bounce back from it.

Information that I am the sole keeper of never stops streaming from my lips. I can't have a conversation with anyone anymore without revealing something I've never said to anyone before. I'm not breaking down and having a heart to heart, I'm simply stating a thought or memory like I'm reading a bus schedule. "Yeah, I struggle with that." "I feel the same way." "I have this problem." Before, I was a mystery. Before, no one asked me anything. Before, no one bothered me because I always made it clear that I didn't want to be talked to. Now, I vomit secrets.

I can't stop talking about myself to people. Almost everyone, close friend or roommate or acquaintance or classmate, they all know something more about me now. I am uncomfortable with this person I have become. Instead of feeling safe and loved and cared about, I'm constantly on edge. I feel so alone without myself. I don't have my security blanket of my past to wrap myself in. Is this good or bad?

I mean, I don't want friends. I never cared what people thought of me. I like being alone in the sense that I am never obligated to spend time with people. Me, myself, and I. I have made fun of people like the "new me," who talk non-chalantly about their lives and struggles without warning. Like it's easy. Like they're detached from the words, the experiences, the feelings. I never want to become that. I gave a part of myself away by speaking and I'll never get those things back now. I traded in what I knew, what kept me sane, for a bunch of relationships that are going to be the death of me.

I don't know what the answer is. Not for everyone at least. Maybe there is no black or white answer. Maybe we all are just supposed to do what feels okay for us. I just know that I hate what I've done with "sharing my heart."

This little thing called sharing your heart

I have attempted to write out my thoughts on transparency, sharing, testimonies, openness... every word you can think of that encompasses the notion of being honest and true with others about your thoughts and struggles. I've spent the past few years on the side of the fence that says, no, I will not open up. Why should I? I mean, I don't necessarily want the pain inside of me to fester, but there is a certain vulnerability and sacrifice to spilling the beans about what goes on in our hearts and minds. I have never shared my testimony in front of a group of people, and the first time I ever shared my past and struggles with a close friend, the relationship ended on a sour note. I felt betrayed, felt as though everything I put out on display on an act of trust and duty in a friendship was being mocked and abused. The best word I can think of to describe it is nakedness. It's like you've decided against better judgment to take a late night skinny dip, but your best friend takes your clothes away when you're not looking and won't give them back. You make the long trek back to camp, where you're forced to enter a building with the spotlights on you as soon as you enter. Even if you try to explain what happened and lay the blame elsewhere, they can't see past your nakedness. Everything they heard, and now can see, is the only truth. That haunts you. I always take pride in the fact that it takes a lot to embarrass me, but there is nothing that makes me feel more insecure than other people knowing what only I myself should know.

The only version of "transparency" that I understood for a couple years was the idea that, any time someone asks you a personal question, you must disclose the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If someone asks you how your day is going, "fine" is not an acceptable answer. Fine is a mask. Fine is a buzz word that gives the inquisitor permission to dig deep - and hard. That's what I always thought, and my experiences with people who value "transparency" made this a reality. I once had an acquaintance reprimand me for repeatedly answering similar questions with "fine" or "okay." "Sarah, we both know you aren't fine. You should tell me what's going on." That comment took a lot for me to recover. I was angry when that happened, because I felt forced and attacked. I felt like I wasn't being allowed to feel the way I genuinely believed I felt, like I was lying to myself constantly and everyone could tell. Maybe that was true in some sense, but I still don't feel as though it is up to other people to tell me what's going on in my mind. I've come to realize a key tenet of transparency that many people miss: relationship.

I think that the words this person spoke to me had a negative impact because we did not have a relationship. She probably had really good intentions, I don't doubt that. I don't think she went out of her way to hurt me. But I also think there is some tiny bit of arrogance with people who believe they have every right to expect people to tell absolutely everything to them. It's like having a best friend in  elementary school who said things to you like, "come on, just tell me! I'm your best friend!" I think something in us tells us that a close relationship warrants some sort of obligation to inside information. You tell your best friend who you have a crush on. You tell your best friend the juiciest gossip. You're embarrassed to share your grade with the smart kid in the class, but you'll probably tell your best friend when he or she asks. Relationships build trust, and trust warms us up to the idea of taking off a few more layers of metaphorical clothing. But a second point I am trying to drive home here is that, just because the relationship and trust exists, does not mean we will ever share everything. It's a choice, not a requirement. I have very close friends that I still haven't shared things with. I have been in a relationship with someone for nearly six years and they still don't know everything I struggle with. I'm not saying that I have an answer, because I don't. I only know that relationship and time are important factors in getting to a place where openness is slightly less intimidating.

I started writing this because the past couple weeks have marked a turning point in my views about transparency and honesty. I'm not certain exactly where it came from, what sparked it, who said what, but I know this: I let go of some deep, dark, painful burdens and something happened. That something absolutely terrifies me because of the fear and vulnerability attached to it all, and there hasn't been a day in the past week where I haven't wondered if I've made an awful, life-altering mistake. What is this person going to think of me now? What if what I said was too weird? What happens if they don't want to talk to me anymore? But I've always seen the value in sharing life stories because you never know when you'll hear something that will squeeze so much conviction and understanding and love into your heart that you just burst, "oh my goodness, I've struggled with the same thing and thought I was the only one!" I said something against years of internal judgment where I've thought, this is too painful, no one will understand, it's just too much of a burden to tell someone. What if they worry? But the response astounded me: I feel the same way. I won't think differently of you. I care about you. And the best part? Their actions matched their words. It wasn't a scripted, "this is what I'm supposed to say" kind of thing. They actually cared!

It's so ridiculous to me in hindsight: I used to hear this sort of thing about it feeling so freeing and refreshing and peaceful to give your pain and sin over to God, because really, that's what I did. I never believed that would truly happen. I don't doubt God's power, his ability to heal and help me discern when to speak and when not to speak. I think in the past where I've told people things, it was only because I felt it was expected of me. I talked, yet still didn't trust anyone or anything. I wanted to feel valued and thought telling someone all my deepest secrets would make them be a better friend or want to be with me more. But this time, I trusted this feeling inside of me that told me there was nothing else I could say or do in that moment. I needeed to talk, but it was more than words that weren't going to do anything but fall on idle ears.

I think I am going to wrap this up now, though I do have a few more thoughts on speaking and listening that I will get to another time. Something to think about:
how different our lives would be if we were certain we would still feel loved when we were open with people.

I'm not okay

I prayed for contentment. It didn't work. Or maybe I didn't allow it to work because I like having a reason to be angry. I don't know.