I probably shouldn’t be writing any of this. And you probably shouldn’t be reading it. So proceed with caution.
I’ve been having a lot of thoughts, a lot of feelings, and an inability to grasp them or make sense of anything. My writer’s block has been turning me inside out and hitting me against the pavement, but I still haven’t found the words I need. But then I went on a long drive today and I began to collect them all.
My grandmother, my last living grandparent, and the only one I kinda sorta knew, died yesterday morning. I was on break at work when I got the news. It came as a shock, but then I just didn’t know what to do with the information. Am I supposed to cry? Because I don’t really cry unless it’s forced, or when the dam finally breaks I don’t really know what’s happening anymore.
I’ve said before that family is not a big deal to me. I’ve never been exceptionally close with any of my family, immediate or otherwise, and I don’t really know any of them at all, other than little stories here and there. I sound evil and stone hearted, but family is not as important to me as it is to other people. I don’t want a family of my own; in fact, I’d probably be fine being alone.
So when I got the news, the first thing to touch my heart was guilt. In August, I was getting ready to begin my last year of college. My parents were driving to Wisconsin to attend my grandmother’s 90th birthday party. 90! Frick. I thought a lot about what I should do, I prayed about it, and then I got asked to go to a bonfire on the beach the Friday before the party, because my friend Kenney was proposing to his now fiancee Andrea. So I took that as a sign that I should stay here, rather than go to Wisconsin and miss my first week of school, and I knew I would also be saving my family money by not having to fly back early. I hope this makes sense. We had decided that after I graduated I would go out and see her. To be honest, as much as I did think that would happen, I don’t really have a deep desire to go out of my comfort zone and stay with relatives that feel almost like strangers.
In other words, I skipped her birthday party, and now I’ll never see her again.
But that’s not what this blog is about.
As most people, I hope, know, I am manic depressive. Yep, I’m crazy. And I’ve been on a pretty strong streak of happy for a while. Somewhere in the last few weeks the manic side of me snuck back in. I can feel my cracks opening again, because I am still broken. I’ve been dealing with this extra stress, while also trying to figure out some things about my future.
So I went on a drive today, up a mountain road that I’ve never touched before. A guy that I’ve been sort of dating told me about this road, and I knew that I needed to see something new for a little while.
On my way up the mountain a poem came on in my car, yes I listen to spoken word, I don’t only write it, and I thought about how passionate the writer is about using biblical references in his poetry, because that really is his ministry. I fell in love with poetry, and with writing in general, but I realized that I only write for me. I sometimes say that writing is my ministry, because it is the only thing I know, but am I even ministering at all? I write what is in my heart and what is on my mind, but unless God hits me hard that day, I usually write about why I’m broken and how confused I am about whether or not I really want to find real love. So I thought maybe I should find that hunger for God again. I know I used to have it, or otherwise I wouldn’t have gone to freakin’ Bible college.
Close to the top of the mountain I pulled over. I pulled out my camera and took some shots. I grabbed my notebook and sat on the dirt with my feet hanging over the side and wrote. And then I prayed. And then I wrote. And I realized my heart is torn. I would have stayed there longer, but I started to get uncomfortable when a sheriff’s car drove by.
On the way down the mountain I began to ponder and question everything. I go to school for ministry and get religion shoved down my throat, but does it even resonate with me anymore? Because my future, although it may impact lives, has become about my dream of being a writer. I don’t find my thoughts so profound and Jesus-y that people might turn to Christ because of them. I don’t even know how to actually witness to a person besides simply living my life with them and letting them see who God is to me. But who is God to me? Why am I still following Him? As horrible as it may sound, it may be because of fear. Fear of losing eternal life.
I know, without a doubt, that God created the world and that His Son Jesus died on the cross, forgiving all of our sins. I know that I would not be alive today if it weren’t for what God has done in my life. People have told me that they’re glad I’m alive, that I didn’t die, but I’m not sure that I am. Do I even want this life?
Because I wonder why God would allow me to live a manic life, when I don’t see a reason. I wonder why people think I have it all together, why I might be seen as a good influence, when I contemplate death so often. Should I continue on, graduate, and live a life that makes it seem like I hate everyone who does not believe in Jesus? How am I a Christian when Christians annoy me more than most people? I can’t hear God’s voice anymore, even though I used to hear Him all the time.
Should I even be writing this? Should you even be reading this?
Maybe forget everything.