just call me seven

In Which I Spill My Guts, Just A Little Bit.

Day Nine of LaBloShoeMo. This is only my eighth pair of shoes. However, I am not about to be legalistic about the whole thing, so that’s that. It’s hard to be all girly and excited about shoes when you don’t feel anything like a real person, let alone a girly-girl.

These flipflops, I bought at Wal-Mart (I know, I’m the devil) for two bucks, at the end of summer like 3 years ago. I loved them so much (because they were squishy and conformed to my feet) that I went back to buy more pairs, but they had sold out, to my great dismay. I proceeded to wear them for three years, and I still own them. But I don’t wear them very often, because I happen to think it’s a bad thing when you can feel the cracks in the sidewalk. Through your shoes.

They’re so cute, though, that I can’t get rid of them just yet.

So they languish in my shoe bucket, passed over time after time for a better pair, a prettier pair, a pair that works better or a more practical pair.

On a completely unrelated note… I am so tired of being fake. If I have to tell one more person that I’m doing “pretty well,” I just might scream. I hate that our culture (and more specifically, the church) puts so much pressure on everyone to be this perfect specimen of life and love and happiness. Revelations of doubt, self-loathing or temptations are met only with shock and disappointment. Pleas for help hit the brick wall of an expectation of perfection that, let’s face it people, can NEVER be attained this side of Heaven.

I’ll get really honest: I struggle to believe that I’m really saved. I’m afraid that somehow, despite my intense desire to know and love the Lord, I am not one of the elect. I’m terrified when I consider what my life would be like if I never get married, if I am doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. And people say that “if God calls you to that, He will fulfill you,” but I have a hard time believing that. Because you know what? If I’m really honest, God doesn’t feel real to me. I don’t hear His voice; I don’t have confidence that when I die, I’ll hear “Well done, good and faithful servant;” I’m afraid of death; I wonder when everyone is going to figure out that I’m a fake, that I’m not that good Christian girl who reads her Bible day and night and prays without ceasing, who, when her phone rings with the “Jesus Loves Me” ringtone, answers with a hearty “Praise Jesus! How ya doing?” The list goes on. I am full of insecurities and devoid of the smallest shred of confidence that anyone would actually like me if they knew the real me.

But it gets old to always be the downer, too. Because I’m afraid that no one would ever want to be around me if I showed my true colors; I hate to be that girl who is always depressed, the one whom you avoid when you see her coming because you know if you don’t that you’ll be subjected to an endless litany of all her problems. I guess I figure that if people are going to be nice enough to put up with me when I’m around, I might as well do them a favor and at least attempt to appear okay, so they don’t have to deal with the mess that is me.

Some facts:

Fact: I love to sing, and while I feel my voice has gone downhill in recent years, I think it sounds pretty good; at least that’s what I’m told. I sing at church a couple times a month, and I would love to do it more, except I am certain that people would think that I think I’m hot stuff, which isn’t true. So people ask me why I’m not singing in the choir, and I come up with lame excuses like that I’m too busy (I work 15 hours a week. I have like 21 hours to kill every single day) or that I don’t know, when I know perfectly well why. It’s because I am so worried about protecting my Good Christian Girl alter-ego that I can’t do anything that I think might jeopardize that, like making people think that I’m vain and love the sound of my own voice. (Fact [since I’m being all honest and stuff]: I am vain, and sometimes I do love the sound of my own voice.)

Fact: I worry that no boy will ever love me (Fact: I worry that girls don’t love me either).

Fact: I feel like I am a disappointment to everyone I come in contact with: I make mistakes in my work; I am jealous of other peoples’ happiness instead of rejoicing with them (which makes contact with happy people sometimes awkward instead of joyful); I tell Smalls, when she asks me to do something with her, that I don’t feel like it and promptly go back to my dinking around on the Internet, doing nothing of importance and worrying my mother with the amount of time I spend on this life-sucker; I don’t respond well when my dad tells me stuff; I don’t ever call my siblings who don’t live here; I don’t call my siblings that do live here; I don’t call my friends; I come across as rude (I know I do, and I can’t seem to stop it) to people I don’t know very well, because I am so uneasy in social situations that I can’t even answer questions with much more than a two- or three-word sentence, and then can’t think of anything to say/ask in reciprocation, so an awkward silence falls, while I die of mortification because while I know I’m being rude, I have absolutely. nothing. to. say. ever.

Well. I think I’ve said quite enough, and I will probably regret being this open in the morning, but I am sick to death of putting my little mask on and pretending that I don’t cry myself to sleep on a regular basis. I’m not looking for affirmation, so don’t feel like y’all (if anyone actually reads this) have to clog the comment form with gushes of nice things to say about me. I just wanted to spew all this out so that I can start to be a real person instead of just a cardboard cutout.


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