I realized something the other day as I tapped out an email to the Christian Realists and reread the words that I posted. The longer I looked at the screen, the more depressed it made me to realize something. I really miss existing.

That sounds like a silly thing to say, because, damn I exist. I still breathe. I still have two feet firmly planted onto terra firma, but after weeks spent in isolation, I feel like the kid with chicken pox, looking out the window and watching all of her friends play outside. The only difference is that I’m not contagious; I could go out there and play at any time. But I’ve chosen not to. Why?

Because I am afraid to exist.

I used to exist. I used to be an open book with all the pages laid out before the world to see, because I was not ashamed of who I was. I even accepted it just fine when I knew I was a contrarian, because this helped me make sense of part of my own personality and I knew both what to expect and look out for in my own attitude.

But then I went too far in a lot of regards, so I have been told and so I have come to see myself. I still don’t have the foggiest idea where the boundaries are for any of that, though, because everyone has a sliding scale of sensibilities, yet expect you to fit within theirs or else there is truly something wrong with you. It’s hard to know what really is a sin when so many things offend so many different people’s sensibilities.

So, my grand solution was. . . do not say anything. Don’t speak, don’t have an opinion, don’t question anything and everyone will back off and leave me alone. That worked for a while. It isn’t working out anymore.

I want to trust you guys. I want to exist. But I don’t know how to.

I have to breathe somehow, but with that comes a bit of acceptance now that if I say what’s really on my mind, that this is the internet and people will send my words wherever they please for whatever purposes. Something I should have realized from the get-go. So, I’m not going to feel as confident being as frank about everything that I once was and that includes a lot of personal details. Such as my family, where I go to church, even what I write about, unless I deem it something innocuous enough for general consumption.

At the same time, though, I will confess I am very tempted to be snarky, brazen, and apathetic. Help me through this. I just brushed cheeks with a mental breakdown and so I’m a bit numb and dizzy yet. If you catch me talking out of turn, bop me on the head in love. I’m still a work in progress.

Still alive and sort of prickly,
Jules

Move along. . . move along.