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.