The Split Path

Man, it really blows to wake up every day feeling like shit.  I didn't feel this way in depression for some time...  I feel numb, hollow, and achy all at the same time.  The actual thought of him never being in my life again is unreal.  I swear it feels like my chest – my heart actually aches. 

Then I go back, always the same, to wondering how in the hell would I ever do this again?  In the past, I wanted to want to marry someone, just because we were together.  Now, I wanted to be with and build a life with him, I began seeing the way we were in each others' lives as beginning to build a shared life.  I saw someone I trusted to share well in life's challenges, who gave me comfort and support and laughter, who shined a light on my dark days. 

There are many reasons and yet no clear one as to why we are not anymore.  Maybe that makes it hardest of all.  He was there and present, loving me so well, I never thought there was a major plot twist coming.  It's like all my systems cannot process the change in course. 

And I believe that love stays.  I value the trust that I've earned, the person who I love...I just don't know my place, anymore.  The one that he wants, not whatever one he thinks I should have.  

My damn heart keeps hoping.  I'm so rooted in my gut, that I can't go in the direction of "shoulds".  It's like I have to follow through, to the end of the path, or the fork, whichever it may be, to believe against her.  It's not that she's never been wrong, that inner voice, it's that too many times I've doubted her and messed things up. 

It does feel like I'm at a fork, and either path appears treacherous.  There is no way without pain.  I've sat here a few days.  I'd started down one, but something didn't feel right.  Maybe I'll just never learn how to not be loyal to a fault.  I've tried before and it wasn't less painful, nor did it evidence being "right". 

I suppose that's kind of how my gut-inner-voice works though.  I'll sit here, at the split path, until she tells me the way.  And I'll do my best to trust her, – and if she's wrong, I'll double back.  But either way there is pain. 

Unlike Anything

This is a grief unlike anything I've ever known. 

It follows me, 

and sees what I see, 

then descends on me. 

My heart has never known 

how to rip the band-aid off 

of love.

I long to do anything 

to lend my mind some rest, 

but it won't take. 

Even from the moment I feel my body wake, 

the sadness is there. 

All day the longing lays in wait, 

for a reminder of your missing touch,

to take my breath away. 

I'd be lying if I were to say

I didn't feel a little foolish 

for setting my heart on something, 

with sureness 

I had no business having. 

But the days slide by, 

drenched in my tears. 

Missing you, maybe forever. 

Maybe,

foolish as I am, 

I'll dare to dream of your embrace.

Single, Pushing 30

One of the hardest things for me to process about the end of this relationship is the implication that I should hope for a new one in the future.

Not long from now, I turn 30. I'm at a place in my life where making new friends is hard enough, let alone the thought of trying again to find a life partner – I don't want to. I'm at this point where I just want to be known. In my early 20's, I loved the life of meeting people constantly and having a lot of brief encounters, finding that the world is full of people to be known and opportunities to have fun. I had so much fun! I knew so many people, just a little bit – which tends to be enough for the good times. I was also constantly learning about life, able to experience it to the fullest in any given moment.

I'm not scared of turning 30, I've sort of been looking forward to it. But for the past couple years I've been feeling the change that comes at this time. It's harder to make friends. It's harder to meet people, let alone people who share your values and your humor and your interests. The people you know are harder to spend quality time with.

As I struggle to begin adjusting to being single again, I can't help but think of how disinterested I am in the get-to-know-you process, particularly teaching others about me and certainly not investing in others only to find out there's a barrier. And I would love more friendships but I want to skip to the comfortable part; to the depth. I don't want to be single forever (and now there's my eggs to think about, thanks 30's), but the thought of wading through profile pictures, trying to sum myself up in a limited amount of characters, getting ghosted from chats and dates, nearly being taken advantage of, and wondering if I'm "their type", if I'll be good enough...

Not to mention, I work hard in relationships. I think a lot about them. I want them to thrive. I want to feel free to be myself in them. In the past few years, I've narrowed my focus to a few close friendships that feed me and give me life. But it's the nature of things that the older you get, the less time we have for one another. So the loss of an intimate relationship at this stage of life is especially challenging. I find myself facing all these questions about the future that I can't possibly know the answers to; I don't bother to try, except that they are my constant, nagging companions in my solitude.

I know I'm past the age where the brief encounters give me life, or where I can convince myself there's a lesson or a purpose; what I want is to be known and to go deep. I'm past the point in my path where I'm hopeful about going back to a stage that was once fun and exciting, that now seems dreadful and hopeless.

And it's not that I need any convincing, it's that I've gotten to know myself better year after year. The past few have been hard, and I know that I am still burnt out. And I thought I'd found my person so I don't want to fill their space. Nor do I believe I could.

A Late Twenty-Something

Yesterday I was feeling daunted by the weight of what it's like to be in your late twenties. To put it succinctly, it's quite lonely.

Now is that time when friends are getting married, having kids, constantly doing something... And I'm constantly doing things. Suddenly the social access of your early twenties and emerging adulthood dries up. There are days, weeks, or even months between meaningful time spent. Worst of all, sometimes when you really feel like you need someone, there's nowhere clear to turn.

Baby Alicia didn't expect this. The social butterfly who romped around Northeast Minneapolis for the better half of this decade didn't know the gears would shift so dramatically. The dreaded activity of penciling or being penciled in would become the norm, particularly booking out weeks in advance and struggling to find a common free day. As for the here and now, as a single late-twenty- or thirty-something, it can feel very lonely.

Married friends fill their needs through their partners, and parent friends have so much more to do than me I can't begin to comprehend how anyone manages, let alone has energy for a social life! Another single friend and I were recently talking about the strange distancing one can feel from their family at this stage of life, as well. We agreed that growing into your own person can feel at odds with your family of origin.

All of this isn't a new thought or idea, in fact I've probably written about it before, however, each time I encounter a small bit of grief over this stage of life, I wonder if it's normal. Is this how things have always been for all people in this stage of life, – mostly exhausting? Sure, some of my own personal experience has to do with leaving the Church and the sense of security provided by faith.

That only further reminds me that sometimes I'm prone to longing for answers I will never get. I want to turn things around and around until I understand to a satisfactory level. The last few years of growing up even more, they're hard for me to understand.

I started to feel a sense of independence throughout my twenties; being established in myself. I didn't know how isolating it would feel down the road, that the tough times would be mine to deal with alone.

Maybe it will be different like I hear it is when I cross that threshold into my thirties. The storms will have weathered me, but my rootedness will have withstood the test. Maybe.

There's a Word For This

I didn't know there was a word for it, and even when I found it I didn't know it's what I was doing: deconstructing. Sounds so intentional. So much like taking a wrecking ball to things – wait, no, that's demolition. To deconstruct something is to pull it apart by its pieces until it isn't anymore. That about sums up what I've been doing.

Really, it started as a slow process, more like a loose thread that began a true unraveling. It's not yet finished, either, so it's a little terrifying to name, but not unlike untangling a knotted mess, there is relief the further I go.

It all began when I couldn't hear God anymore. Having grown ever more steeped in the belief that I could not be abandoned, well, that didn't seem to help all that much when I felt the very most alone. When darkness and sadness took up residency in my life, nothing had better answers or a louder voice. I tried, I asked and I sought, though wearily. I persistently showed up on Sunday mornings.

For so long it was so painful and uncomfortable, until I finally allowed myself the space to stop enduring the pain I had been experiencing while still trying to participate. I got up, bussed my coffee cup, put on my sunglasses and coat, and walked to my car – doing my best to avoid eye contact. Far before that day when I walked out of those doors the last time, people didn't seem to understand my struggle and pain, so why would they that day? I didn't want to be stopped. Something had finally begun in me, it was the pieces coming apart.

The next few months there was a dull ache. I wondered if I was betraying everyone I knew, because, well, everyone I know is a Christian and I wasn't sure I wanted to be one anymore. Even saying that to myself was hard, I don't think I uttered it aloud for months. At first it was because I wasn't sure I wanted to walk away, though gradually it became because I had walked away and desperately didn't want to be cornered with looks of concern and offers of prayer that didn't seem to change anything. I felt more well away from church, away from constant attempts to gloss over the pain and errs of the human experience, than I did slouched in a seat every week trying to find peace again. I wanted my choice to be accepted, not challenged and questioned, or worse dismissed.

Some of the time that followed was painful, because I'd wrapped my identity up tightly in all things Christianity and my church, that without it I felt hollow and very alone. At the same time, I knew I was nowhere near ready or interested to go back. Not just that church, any church. I tried once and while it was more accessible and realistic, I still felt uncomfortable. Since I started to let myself question, I wasn't sure what to say I believed anymore which suddenly made the world feel unsteady, too.

Over time it became a new normal and the sense of dread over whether I was missing something started to dissipate. Instead, I found so many facets of the Christian life I lived were with flaw that I couldn't fathom how I'd ever overlooked. It also became harder to reconcile the life I've lived so far, with where I am now and where I'm headed.

Writing this is a risk; a way to say aloud what I've been quietly turning over and over in my mind for over a year now. And it's not even finished – pulling apart several decades worth of layers and intricacies takes time. While some have fallen away like dust, others take prying and elbow grease and the right leverage.

The odd thing is, although it's been a challenging time and the things that brought me to deconstruct changed me, I am still me. Sure, I'm a little different me without church and without a formal life agenda, but I hope that I can be seen and respected for where I am. I hope I can be valued at more than a "lost soul" or a wandering sheep. The peace of mind I have is this: If indeed, God can influence me, surely he can do so without using a human's voice. So, it is to be seen.

Afterword: Although I share this publicly, I ask that you please refrain from digging or sending words laden with overt tone or undertone. I shared publicly in hopes of helping highlight that religion can be harmful and painful, even for those who were formerly a tight-knit part of it. There's no easy way to drop losing faith into conversation, so I wrote a blog instead. 

Girly Girl

"It's okay to be a girly girl, it's okay!"

The words felt like they hung in the air, swirling me befuddled into a confusion – I just said "That's not me," because it's not. I haven't been much of a girly girl since I was little. I'm okay with it. I remember when I stopped wearing daily makeup and what a relief it was. I love that I don't have to wear curve-hugging clothes that give me an impression of being feminine because they more readily display my figure – which is all any woman's good for, after all.

I'm surprised I didn't take on the title feminist sooner. Though not that surprising, it took stepping back from my Christian bubble to fully understand how much it aligns with me.

I've always looked at the women in my life and felt so grateful for being surrounded by powerful, tenacious humans like them. And yet, so many women still don't know their power and tenacity outside of their relation to men. Many still don't know their value aside from the gender roles we've given that require them to "put on their face" every day, act polite even when being disrespected – be a girly girl.

Women are not allowed to be what we want, we're instead told it's okay to fall back into the stereotype of our gender. What if I want to wear baggy, comfortable clothes instead of heels? What if dressing up and putting on makeup is a special occasion thing, not an everyday thing? Also, can I just damn grocery shop without being catcalled?

Unidentifying as a Christian

I've gone around in circles about it in my mind, how to talk about where I'm at – whether to, or whether to keep biting my tongue through one uncomfortable conversation or comment after another. Over the years I have learned that when it comes to pain, given the options to keep silent or speak your truth, truth is always best.

My truth is that I am astonishingly uncomfortable with christianity. I have not attended church regularly for nearing a year. It's been freeing, but it's also been incredibly painful. My worldview, once narrow, rose-colored glass, is now wide open and seemingly boundless, true colors screaming. It's not unlike how very sheltered children sometimes later struggle to function independently in adulthood. Not viewing the world and life through one distinct vintage lens has me feeling a little lost at times.

"Pray for me because...," the words echo within me like a pinball ricochets off walls. I don't really pray anymore. But I can't say that.

You see, I had enough of life's pain, let alone blatantly invalidating responses to it from Christians. Whether it was a 'part of God's plan' for me to question if I had the will to carry on living, or that He would 'give me something better' if I just remained joyful – you know, while suppressing the grief I had festering inside me – I couldn't keep subjecting myself to a club where reality isn't real. A group in which God is attributed with all the pain we endure in life, because He at least has a good motive in the end.

And don't get me wrong, I tried. About two years I spent feeling unbalanced, unfulfilled, sad, and yet I showed up waiting for that feeling to be zapped out of me. Sometimes, I think I thought it was [out of me]...only to see it rear its head again later. Until one Sunday, I couldn't keep fighting to be there, hurting and feeling like a heretic for it. Sadly, after nearly a decade at the same church, I could no longer sit through a service without my skin crawling and my heart racing, my stomach churning. So I stopped. I got up and walked out.

If I'm honest, I hadn't been praying much for a while. Any time I felt something resembling God's presence, it was conveniently interrupted by an exhortation to be even more loudly faithful. I found I needed to protect myself by stepping away.

Little did I know, all sorts of questions were laying in wait for this moment. Years of being in leadership in the church, growing up in the religion, and suddenly I was stumbling into big, difficult questions I never imagined I'd be asking. I also sighed a breath of relief that I was done striving! No more constantly attempting to whittle away my imperfections and become some perpetually joyful saint seemingly impenetrable by life's tragedies. No more being forced to be alone in my pain in a crowd.

I didn't even give it more thought, I sort of walked away and kept going. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a wild heathen or a satanist. But deciding that it was okay to leave church if church wasn't a place that could appropriately address pain, that was a decision that allowed me to begin to heal. I was able to be alone with my pain without anyone trying to force it to become something else; force it to be okay when it felt furthest from it. And that was so freeing. As I look back on it now, it's disturbing how hard it was to be a person grieving and angry in church. I felt like there was no room for me to be there, not that version of me.

It has led to all kinds of trying to parse out God from The Church. Having gone to a public university and worked several places that weren't christian-affiliated, I wasn't ignorant to the fact that the world doesn't understand Christians – in a bad way. It's become even more apparent how invalidating Christians can be of the rest of the world's experience of life. It's become difficult to identify as Christian because sometimes Christianity looks like an extrapolation of what it was meant to be at its core: a way of life centered on love as a gift of self and inclusivity in spite of differences, brokenness, and imperfection.

Since letting these questions marinate in my subconscious, I have struggled to re-engage with Christianity. And yet, I haven't dumped God. I don't really know what to say to him, or how our relationship looks without The Church. But I'm not ready to explore that. That's one reason I share this all, that every well-meaning or assuming comment is like a little scrape on a still-healing wound. You didn't know, and how could you? No one ever expects a faith-filled person to slingshot the other direction into doubt. But as a good friend recently said to me, "I think God is not so insecure as to be distraught over your doubts." To which I'll add, I think God is not so impatient as to abandon me as I process through pain.

Therein lies the second reason I share: I am not alone in this experience of doubting and struggling to find an appropriate way to view the world and perhaps still believe in a good, loving God.

So, whether this encourages practicing Christians to try to validate others' reality, or reassures fellow questioners that doubting and pain are normal parts of life and faith, my story serves its purpose.