Being known

Knowing things isn’t the same as being known. Knowing myself, allowing others to know me, and learning to know God...these are struggles. Me? Sometimes I feel as if I am standing outside of myself, looking at me and listening to what’s coming out of my mouth, and I am scared and ashamed and worried. I don’t recognize this person who is crying because she is unable to adequately express what she’s feeling. She tries to get her point across but it backfires and soon the other person is running over her with their thoughts and opinions and distorted recollections of what she said or did. And then she is crying and stands there shouting, trying to be heard but she’s unable to hold it together. So she stands there with her fists balled up and clenched against her side, tears streaming down her face,  and she runs: to her room, the car, the bathroom. Anywhere to escape her  failure  to calmly and intelligently assert herself without offending, to be understood. No matter how many times this happens, she is incapable of preventing another occurrence; life and relationships float along that river smoothly, effortlessly, until  without warning, it happens again and she is helpless to stop it.  Good intentions and resolve fly out the window , and in no time she’s a blubbering mess. 

It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, or what she reads or how much she prays—these emotional maelstroms are unavoidable. Each meltdown leaves her feeling spent, useless, worthless, and wanting  to die; she is utterly, hopelessly doomed to forever repeat this scene. She knows no other way to face confrontation than to shut down and then run away. Counseling, prayer, introspection, even reaching back as far as she can remember to name it, face it, explain it—nothing helps. It’s part of her and each time this happens, it’s reinforced even more. She will never win an argument, or convince the other person she is right, so she gives up even trying.  

This is, and always has been, me. Not the face or persona I show. But me nonetheless. Friends, family, acquaintances all think they know the “real” me, but what they see, who they see, is just a facade, a mask, a fake, a show; sometimes a bit of me sneaks out, leaks out of the coveralls, peeks out the side, but it quickly gets shoved back in.  It reminds me of those play dough molds, the kind you push the play dough through and then mold it into shapes and sometimes the seams of the molds are not strong enough, so some of the dough squeezes out of the sides. Or, actually it’s like an fat lady wearing  a girdle to hold her rolls of overindulgence in to portray a slimmer figure, but some of that fat protrudes out of a ripped seam or over the top of the elastic. And there it is...the real truth.  Until it gets hurriedly stuffed back into its spandex torture chamber.  And we all know that’s futile.  

Today these feelings washed over me again, an emotional tsunami, making me question my salvation, not to mention my sanity. Or is it the other way around? I desperately want to forecast these storms, or at least know the catalyst so I can brace for it, but I may as well wish to weigh what my drivers license says. I do know our dear neighbors are moving, my dear daughter and son-in-law and grandkids went back overseas last week, I just finished my fifth St Baldricks fundraiser, my IDD brother is making life very challenging, and I’m having some health issues. I do know what to do: breathe. Pray. Lean on my creator. And rest in His wonderful grace. And spend time to KNOW Him.  

Now, if only I could actually turn that knowing into doing