Stitching Up The Seams

Everything is blurry.

Posted on a friend’s wall, under my real name, in response to something she wrote about how so much of fundamentalism is simply not Christ. Writing this under my real name was slightly scary, but not so much anymore. Weariness sometimes drowns out my fear. Who knows? This may even go in a more public sphere under my real name. It’s not fear that keeps me from doing so, so much as it is the realization of how much I will lose and how much more weary I would become. It’s funny how the love of others for me is entirely contingent on how well they think that I love God and “obey” Him.

Please know that I do not wish to be convinced. Rather, I do wish to be convinced…but most likely it will not come from a person. I don’t know. Everything is blurry.

I think you know I am wavering very much between atheism and deism. Actually, I am often both in the same day. Today it seems that I am a deist (though I was an atheist for most of last week). But this makes me want to believe. I want so much to believe that God is not a monster.

“Real love feels safe.” Part of me reaches out ever so tentatively to that statement, to wrap my trembling fingers around it and try to bury it deep within my heart, scratching it on the walls of my mind and soul. But “perfect love casts out fear” is already scratched there - in harsh angles dripping with a slow-killing poison. So much scripture is carved on the walls of my soul and heart and mind in those same cruel strokes with that same seeping poison. Things that may have once been meant to comfort that have only tormented.

I do not believe I can find “real love” in the church. Right now, I’m not even convinced I can find it outside of Michael. Many days I’m not convinced I can find it in him, though I realize those days are often marred by my own fear and self-hatred choking the life out of me, blurring my sight and senses.

I don’t know whether God is blurry because I hurt, or because I only hope to see Him when He is in fact not there.

A love that is stronger than our fear.

For as long as I can remember, there has been a steno pad on the counter at my parents’ house. For the past 18 years, my dad has worked an insanely early shift - 5am til 1pm. So he gets up at 3am, showers, exercises, does his devotions while eating breakfast - and takes time to write my mom a note. It’s not a romantic note, usually. Just going over details of the day - what he’s done to help prepare for dinner, letting her know he started laundry, etc. And somewhere in that note, there is always the sentence “I sure do love you.” Then he’ll gather his things for work, and leave the house around 4 or 4:30.

Mom gets up at 5 and showers, works on laundry, eats breakfast, and puts together things for dinner - and reads Dad’s note. Then she sits and writes him a note of her own, verifying any questions he had in his letter to her, letting him know if there are any deviations to the normal plan happening that day, etc. And she always signs it, “all my love.” When Dad gets home around 1:30, he reads her note, takes a nap, and does whatever it is that she may have asked him to do until she gets home and they can be together.

And so it goes, every weekday. There are boxes of these steno pads in the basement of their house. I remember reading those notes every day to know what we were having for dinner, so I could be prepared (I’m a picky eater…inherited from my dad and also I suspect part of a currently undiagnosed sensory processing disorder). But I’d also inadvertently find things out about me or Eddie - or rather, about how they felt about us. How proud they were of us. How worried they were about us. How they would rearrange their lives for years on end to accomodate basketball practice and games, volleyball practice and games, piano lessons, driving lessons, sleep-overs, choir rehearsals and concerts…Ed’s expulsion from our Christian school, my battle with anorexia and suicidal depression. And consistent within it all was their overwhelming love for us, their undying love for each other.

When we go to visit, sometimes I still read those notes. It’s comforting. And they haven’t changed all that much, even though Eddie and I are married now, even though Dad is dying. Their love is quiet and strong and consistent. They are quiet and strong and consistent.

And they have taught me so much.

Observing a crack in the armor.

Recently I celebrated my 50th blog post.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ve changed in the past six months since I started my blog.

I can talk about my sexual assault now, even if only for a little bit with much fear and trembling. (Granted, when friends take liberties they ought not take I still can’t say in the moment, “STOP. Do not touch me. Do not look at me like that. Do not treat me like that.” I’m still petrified by fear and disgust. Working on it, though.)

I’m more willing to publicly own what I believe regarding gender roles, feminism, gay rights, patriarchy, child-discipline, religion. It pisses some people off, but somehow that’s not the worst thing in the world anymore.

Missing church doesn’t make me feel like a horrible Christian anymore. I’m not bound by legalism so tightly anymore. I talk to God a lot. I try to read the Bible when I can (meaning, if I’m reading and I start to shake or get angry, I put it down and say, “What the hell, God? This is weird and I can’t take it right now. But we’re okay. I just need to find You here, and I can’t with these layers of misunderstanding right now.” (And yes, I swear at God. I think it makes Him chuckle.)).

When my parents say horrible things to me, I can stand up for myself better. I can look them in the eye and say, “You are never to bring this up to me again.” I can look them in the eye and say, “Don’t blame me for my PTSD. Don’t put more burdens on me.” I can disagree with them without feeling like I’m going to have a panic attack.

I can sing again. After 6 long years, I can sing again.

I’m writing again! Also after 6 long years. I’m being honest.

And these are things that are occurring in my real life, as a result of donning the moniker of Stitching Seams and writing, as a result of the literally couple of dozen people who have surrounded me with love and care and support and prayer and amazingness. Friends I’ve never made before. Friends I’ve had for years that I let into my Stitching Seams world - my real world, the world I’ve spent years trying to hide.

My heart is so full. My armor is cracking - the Ice Princess persona I tried to own for so long is disappearing because I don’t need it so much anymore. Because I’m healing and growing stronger by the day.

who are you?

thelysslyss:

unharnessed passion
ironically hidden  
in delicate lips

Alyssa writes some of the BEST love haikus.