I Am On That Table.
Generally, I am afraid.
I am afraid people won’t like me. I have an offbeat sense of humor and a lot of what I say is misinterpreted, no matter how hard I try. I am honest but I am weird, and most people would prefer that I just act more “mainstream.”
But I can’t. My personality type is not only introverted, but also rather lost in a dreamland of non-reality.
So most people just don’t get me.
My intentions are always pure. I do my best to be kind and loving and considerate, because that’s The Golden Rule.
Still, I am afraid people will stomp on my heart. Sometimes I am blindsided by people who don’t understand me, who consider me to be hurtful or rude. It happens often – sometimes in my own house – and I am always surprised.
Because my intent is always to be genuine and helpful.
I share frequently from a vulnerable place inside myself that most people are loathe to share. I believe with everything I am that being honest and open is the only way to be.
Somehow, though, I can come across as callous and hurtful.
When email was invented, I was elated. I could finally edit what I said before I said it, so I could sound less brash. Writing a blog is even better: I write, read, re-read, edit, re-write, and then post. I make sure that what I say is exactly what I intended to say.
I try to limit myself to sharing how I feel. I try to not blame or judge other people, because that’s not my place. I’ve learned that nearly every ounce of my being is ruled by fear. I want to put all the people I love into a little bubble – especially now – and keep them all safe.
Over and over, I discover that faith and fear cannot coexist. But I have to keep learning, and keep rediscovering that faith works. It’s a tough lesson for me.
So I write about my fear. Knowing that many people have similar feelings, I think I am being helpful. I open myself up with a vulnerability that few people are willing to admit they even have – let alone discuss.
I write about my life, my trepidations. My blog is a place where I throw myself, wide open and naked, onto a table for all the world to see. While I hope that readers will empathize, that’s not always going to be the case.
Sometimes I am on that table, instead, to be dissected and pulverized.
Last week, I wrote about my fears. I am scared for my fellow softball players; I am scared for my family. I am not judging anyone else’s decisions, nor am I trying to control them. I desperately want everyone to be okay during a time where everything is, quite simply, not okay.
I am devastated that I can’t be a part of the fun stuff, a part of the world. Where I live, thanks to COVID, I don’t congregate. There is currently no safe way to gather. This terrifies me, and it breaks my heart.
Yet somehow, in my last blog, my intentions were misconstrued. I offended people by highlighting things about their choices that worried me. And for that offense, I am deeply sorry.
But I thought they knew – even if no one else did – that I would never speak negatively about them. I thought they understood that I love them unconditionally. I admire them. I cherish them to the depths of my very soul.
The people I offended have been my rocks when I had nowhere to stand, and they have been my soul when I was searching inside myself. They are the people who made me believe in goodness and light.
They are the people who – I thought – got me. And like everything else in my current world, this belief has now crumbled.
Like most people, I just want to be loved for who I am. But here I sit, wide open again, afraid to ask even to be forgiven.
It’s my blog; it’s my life; it’s my fear. This summer has threatened to choke the very life out of me. It’s been almost impossible to write. But I pull myself out of bed every day.
And I write, essentially, for myself. My blog averages 16 readers per post; I’m not in it for the fame. But I’m also never – not ever – trying to hurt anyone.
It’s not who I am.
I’m not perfect. I have to live with myself every day. And it’s hard. But I hope to learn and grow, even though I am old. I keep learning and learning, but I can never quite catch up to the rest of the world and its perceived but elusive serenity.
Maybe this is where faith steps in – again.