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use your words

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"Come on... Use your words."

I loved/hated that he was turning my own phrase back on me.

I'm a words girl. I value their weight, their gravity, their depth. I love how words can be beautifully strung together in a way that moves my soul. 

I'm a slow writer. Painfully slow. The words don't come easily for me. I have to mine for them, laboring over each syllable.

I want my voice to be true, my words sincere. So I try not to rush the process. I take my time, often only discovering what I truly think or feel as I'm writing it out. This "free therapy" is neither quick nor painless, but it's (usually) oh-so-worth-it.

Backspace is my closest friend. I never get it right the first time. Ever. I edit, chop, change, add, remove, abandon, start over... I rarely land where I imagined I would when I began.

Write.
Delete.
Repeat.

Using my words to talk? Now, that's a whole other story.

I've gotta be honest: I hate that talking lacks the luxury of time and backspace. (Maybe this is part of the reason I'm not a phone person. Hmm...)

When I feel uncomfortable, or want to say something important or meaningful, or attempt to share something vulnerable, I can never find words — the right words — quickly enough. I pause at great length. I hesitate. I sit silently. I get awkward. Really awkward. 

My mind trips over itself, stumbling around my internal dictionary, trying and failing to find the best words to say what I mean.

All the while, growing increasingly embarrassed and annoyed with myself, imagining that whoever I'm with is surely losing patience as I try to lasso my escaping thoughts.

"Come on... Use your words."

It jarred me back to reality, to the long pause I couldn't figure out how to break. Cheeks flushed with awkwardness and frustration, I finally just made a ridiculous face and shrugged. I think I said, "I don't know just yet..." or something else equally flat-lining...

I want to get better at using my words — written or spoken. I want the fuzzy brain fog to lift and for clarity to return. I want to be more aware of my truest thoughts, and less afraid of my own voice. I want to speak and write with honesty, sincerity, and heart. 

I want to be brave enough to always use my words.

joy in the mo(u)rning

Life is hard. 

Good, but hard.  

So why do we pretend that it isn't?

There are more uncertainties than assurances, and more loss and pain than any human heart could ever begin to make sense of...

Life is hard.

I kind of wish I'd been told this earlier on. But maybe if I had, I wouldn't have believed it anyway.

Maybe I actually was told, but didn't pay attention—drowning out the hard truth with naïveté and inexperience. (Ignorance really is bliss.) And even if the message had been heard and heeded, there's nothing that could be done to avoid the inevitable, ya know? 

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Life is hard.

And yet—eventually—joy comes in the mourning. 

In it, not after it. In it. 

For all of us in need of light in our darkness... Here's to joy in the mo(u)rning. 

a change will do you good

Change tends to come slowly, and this case was no exception. 

Welcome — finally! — to Grit & Glory 2.0. 

Anyone who's been to my site in, oh, the past three years knows how old, stale, and stagnant it seemed. Ugh. I cringed every time I saw it, hating this formerly-cozy space that no longer fit me. 

It was so 2008. (Literally.) 

I finally got up the gumption to attempt a complete makeover on my own. Countless hours, a crash course in CSS code (ohdearlord!), lots of Googling, and multiple freak-out emails to a developer friend later... Voila! 

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My brain is sufficiently exhausted, and there are countless tiny things I am still working on, but It was time to go ahead and launch it. 80% there is still lightyears better than my previous site. (Can I get an 'Amen'?)

I love my new online home. It looks and feels so much more like me.

And I have to admit that I feel like a badass right now for conquering something I didn't think I could. What was my One Word 365 again?? Oh yeah... Brave. I'm feeling that today as I kick this thing live. (We all need to celebrate our own victories more, don't we?)

So take some time and poke around. I hope the site feels as warm and comfortable to you as it does to me.

(And if you run into any glitches or find something that's wonky, pleasepleasePLEASE let me know so I can fix it!)

Here's to hoping my new space will inspire me to write more often! But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you...

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hurt hurts

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"When I asked you how you were feeling, you said it was a high-pain day. But you looked to be having such a great time — talking, laughing, mingling with the group. So it just doesn't add up."

I couldn't believe a friend — one of the few I'd candidly opened up to about my chronic health issues at that point — had written this to me. And had already spoken to other mutual friends about me. Out of "concern," of course.

She was calling my integrity into account. For my health issues to be as severe as they are, she decided I should always be forlorn. Quiet. Listless.

And all at once, my back was up against the wall, with me defending what shouldn't need to be defended.

"I can push past it when I need to, for limited amounts of time..."
"A smile on my face doesn't mean I'm being dishonest about how I'm feeling..."
"There are plenty of days when my health determines my plans..."
"When you feel something constantly, it's not what comes to mind when asked how you're doing..."
"I can feel awful, and still have a good time..."

I immediately hated myself for scrambling to explain, for working so hard to make her understand.

::

Sadly, she wasn't the first to respond so hurtfully about my health issues.

And she wasn't the last.

I've been treated as though I'm crazy, or, at the very least, exaggerating wildly.
I've been called a liar.
I've been told to stop being so dramatic.
I've been scolded for not having enough faith.
I've been preached at, talked down to, pitied.

Enduring chronic anything—all day, every day, in varying degrees—is crazy-making, lonesome, and challenging all on its own. Skeptical tones, judgmental eyes, critical words—all they do is make me regret opening my mouth.

And they heap more isolation onto an already lonely road...

::

I still feel tremendously uncomfortable talking about my chronic pain and health conditions—though I try to force myself to open up about them more than I used to.

My breath quickens as I struggle to find words for what seems indescribable and yet is, at the same time, my "normal". With each syllable, I grow increasingly anxious that I am being judged. Criticized. Unheard. Misunderstood.

And being misunderstood is just about the worst feeling in the world—and one of my greatest fears.

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I can't help but think of Saint Francis of Assisi's poignant prayer—

"O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek...
to be understood as to understand..."

So on this high-pain day, I am going to swap my fear of being misunderstood for a fear of misunderstanding those I love. I'm going to be more intentional to put aside my own experiences and opinions so that I can truly listen and open my heart to understand even that which is unfathomable to me.

Because though our pain looks different — physically, emotionally — at the core, it is all the same.

Hurt hurts.

And that I can understand.

Originally posted on A Deeper Story.
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