crying over brownies.

I jumped behind the couch before I had a chance to process the peculiarity of it. I tucked my knees, wrapped my arms around my body, and the dam broke. As I cried, it began to dawn on me how ridiculous this must look.

After all, the crammed-between-the wall-and-the-back-of-a-sectional in a dark room doesn’t really scream “dignified” in my book (or “sane” for that matter).

And why, you may ask, am I hiding behind a couch, crying and shaking like it’s the start of the apocalypse?

Because I ate a brownie.

I ate a brownie to challenge my eating disorder. Clearly the eating disorder fought back (I’ll spare you the inner dialogue).

I discovered something in that moment behind the couch:

It is incredibly vulnerable to cry over brownies.

I have a loud inner critic that informs me almost 24/7 that the things that hurt me “shouldn’t hurt” or that the feelings I have shouldn’t be “that intense” or that those raw, sensitive parts of my heart “shouldn’t exist” and/or “don’t matter.”

You’re crying about a BROWNIE, Joanna! C’mon! This is idiotic.

And that’s the reason I jumped behind the couch.

Because in my heart of hearts I believe that no one should see me cry over such a “stupid” thing. That my feelings are wrong and nobody should see them. My feelings are too much. I am too much. That the most appropriate and logical thing to do in moments of intense emotion is to go away.

So, I hide. Behind couches, yes… but most often beneath a mountain of “right” answers, independence, introvert excuses and productivity.

In truth, I would rather discuss difficult emotions for hours upon end than feel them for 90 seconds. And heaven forbid there is another human in the room with me when I feel them. I don’t want to be seen crying over brownies. How embarrassing.

Let’s be real, I wasn’t crying about the brownie.

There is a tender part in my heart that aches from years and years of believing that what I eat is a direct reflection of my value as a human being. That if I don’t do that area of my life perfectly, I won’t be seen and I won’t be loved.

So, I wasn’t crying about the brownie. I was crying because it hurts to be unseen, unknown, and unloved. It’s hurts to challenge the voice in my head that is convinced that this is all dependent on the brownie. Even more than that, it hurts that I have believed this since I was a little girl, and as a result, invited the wrecking ball of an eating disorder into my life.

It hurts.

I was crying because it hurts.

And pain is so vulnerable.

Maybe for you it’s not a brownie. Maybe it’s a comment your partner made (or didn’t make), or the job you didn’t get, or craving the substance you are trying to give up, or the flashbacks, or the cancelled appointment, or coming home to an empty apartment, or the unmet expectation that your family will know what to say and when…

Sometimes it just hurts.

Can we learn how to say things like that? To feel things like that? Things like:

I’m hurting
I’m sad/mad/disappointed/confused..etc
It hurt when…
I feel unlovable
I’m struggling with my inner critic
I’m so tired
I need encouragement
I’m scared
I feel ashamed
I don’t have all the answers
Will you help me?

And I don’t just mean when life is crisis. I mean in the brownie moments. In those little things that really are not little at all. I personally try to wait until the big moments to have my meltdowns. You know, the screaming-in-my-face-billboard-you-are-DEFINITELY-not-ok moments.

I want to learn to be brave in the brownie moments.

To tell those tender parts of my heart “you matter” and to invite them to have a place in my life (my not-hiding-behind-the-couch-life). To feel the hurts, even if the cause seems “idiotic.” To allow myself to be seen and loved in those spaces.

This is new territory for me.

I’m scared
I feel ashamed
I don’t have all the answers
and sometimes it just hurts.

If that means crying over brownies, so be it.

in the dark.

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I love the darkness

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I love walking or jogging in the dark with the stars and silent streetlights.  I love exploring caves, climbing on a roof at night, or laying down on cold cement to ponder the night sky.

There is something about the dark that feels safe to me. Comforting. It’s the idea of being enveloped in something and blotted out of view. I feel invisible in the dark, and that feels good.

It’s hard to be seen.

Especially for my ever-loving-self wearied by the constant awareness of how I am seen. For as long as I can remember, I have diligently watched the reactions of the people around me. Reading into faces, tones, words, and trying to gauge how I can present myself in the most acceptable way. I have struggled on the journey to be myself rather than the image I portray.

We are miles down the trail but nowhere near the summit, friends.

I love the darkness.

I’m not sure when that started because as a kid, I slept with my closet light on and the door cracked open. Heck, I even sprinted to the bed after flipping off the light because you know, monsters.

Now, the dark feels like a refuge. A place to breathe, to sleep, to pause. To pretend the rest of the world does not exist. To pretend life is as peaceful and beautiful as it appears in the starlight.

A place where you cannot see me and I cannot see you.

This feels safe…for awhile.

I’m learning a painful truth in this season of pandemic-quarantine-isolation-stay-at-home-national-emergency. Ready?

We are not designed to live in the dark.

(please don’t roll your eyes, I know I’m the only one who JUST figured this out).

I crave acceptance, affection, and unconditional love. I have tried my best to be seen in a way that will provide these commodities. The problem with my efforts is this:

The only parts of me that are able to receive said commodities are the parts that I allow to be exposed. The parts of me kept hidden in the dark will never experience the miracle of being truly, extravagantly loved. 

In the dark I will continue to long, hunger, and starve to be seen. Truly seen.

In the incredible book “The Soul of Shame,” Curt Thompson writes that we are all storytellers. We are all longing, searching, seeking, someone who wants to hear us tell our story.

To really listen, to hear, to see us for all that we are.

So while the dark may seem safe, it is anything but true.

I can hide from myself and hide from you, but there is One who sees my soul.

I am finding a desperation in this season to encounter my Abba with an intensity I have not experienced before. The noise in my corner of the world has both increased and decreased in pandemic-land. I cannot pretend away this reality. I am needy in too many ways. Shaken in vulnerable places. And I am brought to my knees, not to simply “pray” but to pour out my heart and my tears.

In the dark, I need to be seen.

I need Him to envelope me, because the darkness will not hold my soul in a safe embrace.

I see the messiest parts of myself and pretending in the dark is no longer enough. I cannot present the image to those around me because there is no one to see. Nothing but social media, phone calls, and video chat. Showing up at work to be seen, but only with the parts of myself that are appropriate for that setting.  

I am lonely and I know I am not alone.

We are not designed to live in the dark. We are designed to be seen, and to see each other.

Friend, do you know that your soul is seen? That here, in the madness of 2020, you are not invisible? There is One who sees you in your little corner of the world and knows the state of your life, your family, your workplace, and your soul. You are not alone, unheard, unseen, or unloved.

There is safety for my soul in the presence of a good God in the middle of a bad season. I can sit on my living room floor in the morning sunlight or the cold cement at night and I can rest in the truth that I am known and loved, no matter what this crazy future holds.

I hold this truth tightly, desperately.

I am inviting the light. Inviting exposure to the parts of my heart that cry out to be seen, to be loved. If I cannot do that with others in person, I can sure as hell do it with the God who refuses to be confined by physical boundaries. He sees me.

I will find my refuge enveloped in the light, though the dark endures around me and the storm rages inside me. 

Will you join me?

If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,

and the light about me be night,”

even the darkness is not dark to you;

    the night is bright as the day,

    for darkness is as light with you.

(Psalm 139:7-12)

For he will hide me in his shelter

    in the day of trouble;

he will conceal me under the cover of his tent;

    he will lift me high upon a rock.

(Psalm 27:5)

Blessed be the Lord,

    for he has wondrously shown his steadfast love to me

    when I was in a besieged city.

I had said in my alarm,

 “I am cut off from your sight.”

But you heard the voice of my pleas for mercy

    when I cried to you for help.

(Psalm 31:21-22)

child.

She felt the warmth under her bare feet as she took giant steps forward, careful not to step on the cracks in the pavement. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sunshine seemed to cheer everything in sight. With a fistful of wildflowers in one hand, she used the other to carefully pluck the flower petals from their respective stems. Finally in one grand motion, she throws the petals above her head and laughs as she watches them drift to the ground all around her. 

Then, she counts them methodically to see which side of the sidewalk received the most abundant snowfall of petals. 

Petals on the left? Kitten. Petals on the right? Puppy. 

The left side has the most petals, so she shrugs her shoulders and began hunting for more flowers while she daydreams about the color and name of her kitten.

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2:26pm. The soft pink curtains and horse stickers on the wall seem to be staring at her in a hostile way. It's been too many days in this room and it feels as if the bedroom itself is angry at her for overstaying her welcome. She looks at her feet, the lump in the blanket at the base of her bed. It's quiet, but not peaceful. The room feels empty in a tangible way. 

Another cassette tape, another coloring book, another week of homework in bed. 

And she's starting to lose the ability to care. 

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She grasps for the tangled, black mane of what she believes to be the best and most beautiful horse in the galaxy. In the other hand, she balances the green and white nylon reins between her fingers. On Kitty's bare-back, she can feel the excited energy under her seat and along the inside of her legs.  As hooves pound the sod in the field beneath them, her own adrenaline surges to match the horse. 

It's as if she is flying above reality for a few moments where nothing can touch her, and nothing compares to this feeling.

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I don't particularly love vulnerability.

Ok, let's be honest, vulnerability terrifies me.

(If you can think of a more intense, fear related word, insert that).

Now, I can share my story. I can share personal details about myself. I can even share things that felt vulnerable at the time. Heck, I've written blogs that I promoted as "vulnerable." But here's the cache:

Vulnerability is not about what you are saying, it's about the state of being that you are in. 

I can speak "vulnerable," without being vulnerable. Not to brag, but I think I'm pretty good at it. I know the art of faking vulnerability with my words without ever engaging my heart.

Vulnerability is looking you in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on your face and the tone in your voice when you see me. Really see me.

Disclaimer: Before you get excited about this post being "vulnerable" I want to tell you upfront that the most sensitive parts of me and this process will not be broadcasted on the internet. But I do want to share a piece of, you know, the less-authentically-vulnerable version. 
(Later, we can talk about why I believe blogging, texting, emailing, etc. is a near impossible way to be vulnerable anyway).

Back to the blog post.

I think I grew up too fast. 

There is a good chance you might have too.

Childhood can be stolen away too early by a great number of events: broken families, medical crisis, abuse, neglect, loss of a loved one, a major move, etc. Most things could be summed up in one word: Trauma. And newsflash, if you are reading this as a human on planet earth, you've experienced trauma.

Even the most ideal of transitions to adulthood is still quite jarring. For most of us, when we are young there are many things of which we are blissfully unaware and unconcerned. As we approach adulthood, it's as if the blinders come off and the world is suddenly, horrifyingly, not what it seemed. Even many children who experience trauma seem to wear rose colored glasses (or a full-on blindfold) to cope until they reach an age where they are able to digest the full implications of their experience. I believe this is a God-designed mercy.

Not everything about growing up is bad or painful. In fact, becoming an adult has a vast array of privileges. But...I'm not writing to talk about the joys of becoming an adult. I'm writing because something sad happened in my process and I want healing. Maybe you do too.

I'm learning that problem was not actually growing up little Joanna. 
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It was leaving behind little Joanna.
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(I imagine that the mature and sophisticated crew just closed their browser to find more sensible reading material).

Here's the part that is sorta-vulnerable...

I was a really happy kid. I loved life, loved people, LOVED animals. Any disruption to my happy world triggered the use of my creative tool-box of child-like coping skills (AKA: strategies to pretend the disruption doesn't exist).

As I approached adulthood, my pretend-away-problems method started to breakdown. Cue shock, horror, devastation, etc. And instead of helping my young self grow up (which is not really possible to do when you are said young self), I resented myself for being just that: young, vulnerable, trusting, happy, etc.

I was angry with the little girl for laughing without fear.
I was angry with the little girl for dancing freely.
I was angry with the little girl for believing that the world was a safe place.
I was angry with the little girl for the stories she told herself to cover up reality.
I was angry with the little girl for trusting people with her tender heart.

So instead of helping her grow, I locked her away. Somewhere deep inside my heart there is a door to a room where the most vulnerable parts live and that is her home.

I thought that if I ignored her long enough she would wither away, disappear, or die.

But she's still there.
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"Child."

He was subtle, but clear.

"I was there."

Unwanted images flashed through my mind, sensations in my body, and emotions flooding.

That's not me. 

I could picture her, but it's almost as if my brain refused to acknowledge that it was a younger version of me. I felt a wave of disgust and knew that I had rejected this little girl. Though I would never say it to any other little girl, I wanted to call this one trash, worthless, hateful. And I wanted to forget.

"Child."

Please don't see me. 

"I was there. I am here."
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She stood at her bedroom window and stared at the grey clouds outside. She was so angry she could hardly contain it within her skin. She pounded a small fist on the dresser.

If You really exist, You need to prove it right now or I WON'T believe in You.
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"Child, I was there."

Even though I have tried to abandon the child that I was, God has refused to abandon me. Even the most vulnerable parts of me that I locked deep in that room inside my heart.
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This is wrecking me.
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He is taking me on a journey in this season, one that I have kicked and screamed and fought against.

He is showing me how to unlock that door and invite the child He created to come out into the sunlight again. As painful as this is, I find myself feeling and experiences angles of life that I haven't in a very long time. I find myself packing up my camp in the land of denial so that I can stake my tent in the land of those who are truly living with their whole heart.

I cannot undo the trauma and the choices that carried me far away from that little girl. I will forever bear the scars of humanity and an understanding of evil that was not in my original blueprint. But someone else chose to share scars with me so that I can experience healing.

And He was there when mine were formed. 

He is the only one who can say to the little girl who once trusted so easily, without fear,

"come out, come closer
it's ok to trust again
but you need to let Me keep you safe
and you need to let Me carry the pain
instead of pretending it away
the tenderness of your heart is not wrong
it is a piece of My own
so laugh, dance, grieve
and if you must, be afraid
but do not run back into the room to hide
for you belong in My arms, child."

It's exactly what she needs to hear.

So, I'm awkwardly, sorta, (and sometimes not) doing this state of being called "vulnerability."

It's looking Him in the eyes and allowing a chink in the armor of my heart. It is bringing all of myself to the table to sit down and talk. It is a choice to trust. To be exposed. And to risk the look on His face and the tone in His voice when He sees me.

Really sees me. 

And then, I suppose, I might be able to let you see me too.