The F word will be used

Fuck! It screams through my head, and drowns out every other word. I wish that word isn’t the one I choose when I want to drown out all the swirling thoughts in my head. It’s not a very pretty word, Fornication Under Command of the King, (an acronym I was taught to associate with the word, but isn’t actually correct,) but then it always seems to fit so ironically. Sometimes I feel satan (Please notice the non-capital s, it’s the literary middle-finger) has been given free reign to screw whatever he chooses, and the King, although not commanding it, is allowing it and that is equal to commanding it in my book. If not worse, at least if He was commanding it I could be sure He knew it was happening, but the just allowing business I’m not sure about.

When I write I find my answers, when I write the screaming calms, the confusion funnels out onto paper, and eventually my own typed words answer my questions. When I write everything turns to order and one letter follows a letter, and then a word, and then a sentence, and then a paragraph, and then an entire idea. I love the order, I love the way God speaks, I love the calm in my brain when I’m done.

Anyway that’s not really the point, the point is to come, in fact I don’t know the point, but I know that by the time this is finished, I’ll probably know the point. Something has begun to soak in today, something I’ve suspected for a long time, and this something is that anyone can be hurt by something I have done. I will tell them they are right, I was wrong, and if they don’t believe me I will continue to explain it until they agree with me. I am very good at this. The only problem is that whenever I talk to someone about how I am hurt, by the end, I am depressed and convinced that I am being childish, and just hurt the person who, allegedly, hurt me.

To me, anyone can be hurt and I will understand it. However, the moment I feel hurt I chalk it up to childishness. I, honestly, believe that I should not ever be hurt. There is always an explanation, there is always something I missed, there is always a reason I should have seen for their actions that will explain everything away. My grace should be limitless; my love should not just cover a multitude of sins, but all sins. I should let go and move on. I should be able to never be hurt. Not as a protection mechanism, not as I WILL NOT BE HURT, but just simply, I cannot get hurt, nothing you can do will hurt me I love you too much, or some other poppy-cock. If I am hurt I believe that I am over reacting. Unfortunately, if someone else told me this I would laugh, I would say they had a right to be hurt, and in not being hurt and working it out with that person they are enabling that person to continue hurting others in the same way.

I swear my own words have a horrible habit of coming around and biting me in the hind-end. I hate that little mirthy voice people use when they quote my words back to me. In that moment I understand exactly why they hated me so much in the first place, when I said those very words to them. The end question would be, is being hurt wrong? Then the end answer would be, no it isn’t, I know this. Which leaves me with a dilemma, how do I decide when my hurt is just and needs an apology and when my hurt is simply my problem and I need to grow up?

Honestly, I don’t think there is a set of rules and regulations that can make us know for sure when we are justly being hurt, and when we are being childish. Each individual person has rights, God given God ordained rights, and being hurt is a sign that those rights have been trampled. Those who attempted to teach Christianity to me taught me that I have no rights, I am to be humble, I am a sinner of the basest proportion, I owe the world and everyone in it, for me to stand up for myself is either to go against authority or to be prideful. In fact we get so caught up in how humble and how easily we can be run over that we become the proudest people on the face of the earth, we are proud of our humility.

Perhaps for me to be hurt is to show my humility, that I am not an unbreakable wall. Perhaps to be hurt is to glorify God, by standing up for a child of His even if said child is me. I will fight to the death for anyone who I see has been hurt for one reason they are a child of The Most High King, and they deserve to be fought for, in the same right should I not stand up for myself?

Whenever I feel hurt my first reaction is to take it to God, explain to Him why I should not be hurt, and then ask Him what’s wrong with my idea of my rights. Sometimes He tells me, ‘you have no right to be that person’s first confidant, they never gave it to you, allow them to have friends,’ or something similar depending on the situation, but sometimes He seems oddly silent. I am beginning to wonder if He isn’t waiting for me to recognize who I am, that I have the same rights as the person I fought for yesterday, that I am indeed a daughter of The King, with all the rights and privileges that go along with that title, I wonder if He isn’t waiting to see when I’ll get it, and stand up for yet another one of His children. When I’ll stand up for myself.

Verbal Vomit

Sometimes I find myself staring at an electronic rendering of a blank sheet of paper with nothing to say. My heart aches, and my head aches, and my fingers ache, and I have to write. Problem is I don’t know what is causing the aching what is driving me to write, or what I am supposed to write about. Jeremiah put it best really,

“But if I say, “I will not remember Him
Or speak anymore in His name,”
Then in my heart it becomes like a burning fire
Shut up in my bones;
And I am weary of holding it in,
And I cannot endure it.”

Make it Mad wrote, “Writers write because they were born to bleed to death, pouring their hearts out upon the page. As the delightful Maya Angelou said, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Writers often don’t write because they want to, (that’s just a generous side effect) they write because they cannot not write.” I think I might have just plagiarized, I’m not sure the rules, I don’t think Jeremiah cares he’s dead, but Max might. . .

I don’t know if I’m a writer or not, but I do know that at times words gnaw at the inside of my heart and I am forced to spill them on paper or have my heart eaten by ink. Must say it’s a rather artsy-fartsy romantic way to die though.

I have acknowledge of few things about myself of late, that perhaps kicking an addiction to porn wasn’t really something to hold your chin up about, when you’re a compulsive liar, and a masochist. I also realized I take life too seriously, get all worked up about it yet don’t get off my ass to do anything about whatever it is I’m panicked over.

There are times when I loathe myself. There are times I simply cannot look my reflection in the eye without being completely repulsed. I also know that I haven’t the slightest power to change myself. If you look up alcoholics anonymous they will tell you that will power will do nothing for you, you have to let the idea that you can change yourself go. I was shocked. I thought they’d say man up, or something similar. I looked up how to kick a porn addiction, and they said the exact same thing. (Now that you’re all going to go look these things up, go to the tools button and click inprivatebrowsing, or better yet, just call your significant other in to explain what you’re doing, so they don’t think you’re actually trying to kick an addiction you don’t have, or if you are, call them in anyway, after they get over the shock they’ll be your best ally. (How was that for a run on sentence?))

Honestly, I don’t know what to do with that information. If I was an alcoholic, or still addicted to porn, I’d drown myself in a bottle or a computer. Because if I’m not going to save myself there sure is hell no one out there who gives a damn about saving me. Then I found out there were people who would help me, and that made things worse, because then I really actually had to want to kill the addiction. Wallowing in self-pity, in the idea that you’re beyond redemption gives a really great excuse for continuing in being a sorry excuse for a human being. You can’t be helped, so why not watch porn all day, or in my case sit on an electric fence and let the pain course through my being, because I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at all.

Then there is this idea that has taken root, and refuses to go away, that I have in the back of my head, I’m perfect. Christ didn’t come to give me clean clothes, I died, became new. My heart of stone, He replaced it with a heart of flesh, my identity He took and gave me His. I’m new, different, perfect, free, a child of The Most High King, and the Righteousness of God. No excuses, no if and or buts, just newness, I’m clean, pure, etc. I try to forget this sometimes, because it doesn’t always make sense, but My Girl makes sure I don’t, because there was a time when I beat it into her head.

Only problem is I don’t understand a damn thing about it. I don’t understand how I can be all that and a bag of chips, and a slice of cake, and still be addicted. I’ve yelled at God that if I’m so righteous and perfect and free and shit, I should not be still sitting on my little electric fence needing the feeling of pain, as much as I need to eat. He told me that if He set me free like that, He’d be stealing something from My Girl and I because there is no one you know better than someone you’ve had to fight for. I don’t like that answer.

I honestly don’t know if I’m doing it all wrong, if I just went to That Christian Book Store, and bought that Book, or quit cussing, or quit eating pork, if suddenly I’d act as perfect as God claims I am. Sometimes He baffles me. Okay, fine, He always baffles me. Here’s to the fight, here’s to the pain, and here is to the oh so satisfying victory. Keep fighting, No regrets, no matter how many times you fall. I’ll cheer you on from my seat on my electric fence, and you can cheer me on from the bottom of your bottle, or your computer, and together we’ll, eventually, we will get where God’s wants us to go, because He promised to give us the desire of our hearts, and my desire is that I be exactly where He wants me.