Where is the proper forum to express you inner demons without judgment or fault? Does such a place exist outside of a behavioral health facility? Even there they drown out the reality of one’s head with pills and liquids that taste like pills. Prozac mixed in water only elongates the dosage misery. I cannot count how many times I have been told to erase something from Facebook. This is not due to my inability to count, most of the time, but because my subject matter actually speaks of my instant moment of truth. The phone is my enemy and there is no one on the other side that can navigate through my head in a resourceful way. So where do I have left to go? The blog.
I always believed that blogs were self-serving, ego promoting platforms to which the wishful high falutants took to writing of their mainstream exploits in hope of gaining fame. Or the other end of the spectrum, we have the dark clothed Goths who spew nothing but sadness and mourning over their lost youth… at the age of seven. I proved myself wrong on a whim, however, and took to pouring out my history and head on to the eternal internet. Here, every word I let go of is forever trapped and can be used against me in a court of law. Has yet to happen, but I’m still young. There lies my problem. Not my eternal youth, but what people believe will be held against me. “What can be held against you?” You ask (I heard you). “Me,” I answered (OK, you didn’t hear me).
I don’t suffer from mental illness, I embrace being different than the world. I never fit the cookie cutter mold of sane. I like that. I enjoy my wrestling with spiritual warfare at night because I now have the tools to fight. I did not take such pleasure as a child, because I feared the unknown of what was happening. Now I have the one tool I need, the name of Jesus, and I’m good to go. Why I can’t share that with the world is hard to swallow for me. Plus I think I’m getting tonsillitis. I like to joke of my past. The world likes to joke of my past. I like to joke that the entire world actually knows of my past. My previous activities are what molded me into who I am now, and I love this person. Someone so disgustingly happy with life she can’t wait to wake up each morning. So what if there are some intense moments in the night. The morning is new and so are the opportunities. My mind is fine, just an extremely different version than the majority of readers.
Now that I have laid out my grievance of the day, and explained that I am not special in a debilitating way, I’m off to catch the Phelan short bus and prepare a home for Given and I. A home we were blessed with because of obedience to being me.
I always believed that blogs were self-serving, ego promoting platforms to which the wishful high falutants took to writing of their mainstream exploits in hope of gaining fame. Or the other end of the spectrum, we have the dark clothed Goths who spew nothing but sadness and mourning over their lost youth… at the age of seven. I proved myself wrong on a whim, however, and took to pouring out my history and head on to the eternal internet. Here, every word I let go of is forever trapped and can be used against me in a court of law. Has yet to happen, but I’m still young. There lies my problem. Not my eternal youth, but what people believe will be held against me. “What can be held against you?” You ask (I heard you). “Me,” I answered (OK, you didn’t hear me).
I don’t suffer from mental illness, I embrace being different than the world. I never fit the cookie cutter mold of sane. I like that. I enjoy my wrestling with spiritual warfare at night because I now have the tools to fight. I did not take such pleasure as a child, because I feared the unknown of what was happening. Now I have the one tool I need, the name of Jesus, and I’m good to go. Why I can’t share that with the world is hard to swallow for me. Plus I think I’m getting tonsillitis. I like to joke of my past. The world likes to joke of my past. I like to joke that the entire world actually knows of my past. My previous activities are what molded me into who I am now, and I love this person. Someone so disgustingly happy with life she can’t wait to wake up each morning. So what if there are some intense moments in the night. The morning is new and so are the opportunities. My mind is fine, just an extremely different version than the majority of readers.
Now that I have laid out my grievance of the day, and explained that I am not special in a debilitating way, I’m off to catch the Phelan short bus and prepare a home for Given and I. A home we were blessed with because of obedience to being me.
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