The Weight of An Untold Story, a testimony of sorts

I have a hard time letting things go.

Not in unforgiveness, but in the reaching back and trying to make sense of the harm done to me and done to others by me. My husband calls it a problem–I think he said I am always doing “self help” or something like that–this need that I have to think about things and find patterns and fix glitches and change thing from a deeper level instead of just being. I obviously don’t agree; I think God gave me this gift of seeing a level above and below, of problem solving from a different spot in the room. I am an effective mother, wife, and teacher because of it. But I know I have not figured out how to use it and cut off the part that loops back to me and drags me down.

I don’t want to be different than what I am; I simply want to be better at being who I am.

Meanwhile, I have spent unnatural goo-gobs of time this past year looking back over my life. Sighing over moments I wish had never happened and crying at all the ways I am pent up. Not able to be free. Dying to preserve things that I have lost hope for and faith in. The one thing I asked of God in 2017–to release me from where I am–God said “No. Just sit still.” And in that sitting still, God allowed an unleashing of my whole past into my present. All the times I should have left but I stayed. All the times I should have said no when I said yes instead. All the times I kept my fear and sorrow to myself, bottled up with no one to speak it to. It all came back up. Every lonely night. Every bad decision. Every trauma.

You know, I didn’t feel condemned or anything like that. Not even regret. But I felt the full weight of my life. I experienced every pain and betrayal and ounce of loneliness that I blew passed when it happened. I wallowed in grief. Still wallowing, in fact. Building up the courage to write the real book I have in my belly. My story. The things I woulda been told, had I not had to carry the emotional weight of other people. The testimony I would tell were it not so potentially embarrassing to people in my life still.

The sitting still is hard. I have things I want to say that I skirt, trying to honor a silent contract I never agreed to. I have to walk around portraying an image that isn’t where I am or what I’m experiencing. But here I am. Sitting. Waiting on God to release me. And God still saying, “No. Be still.”

So this blog has been on stand by because I refuse to write inauthentically. I refuse to just string words together that don’t come from my heart. I refuse to be cavalier about writing.

So I sit.

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