Messy

I think I recoil from being the messy one.

It's ironic, really.  I've advocated for the value of honest and messy for years now.

But I have an aversion to it, too, from all those years of depression.

A learned response to being the person others drew back from.

It wasn't their fault, or mine.  But it was and is hard to remember that.

That it wasn't me they were retreating from, so much as the questions and uncertainties my own issues raised within them.

The questions the seemingly unanswered prayers for help and healing raised.

I know about those questions.  I lived them too.

But it's left me with a seeming aversion to messy.

I get tired of it quickly.

The emotional valleys.  The swinging moods.  The tears.

I hesitate to share it. 

I tell myself that that is out of concern for others.  I'd rather not stir their questions.

But more selfishly, I'd rather others not see my own questions, my own brokenness.

And I fear, too, a return to depression.

I have trouble leaning into, trusting, the promise of Romans, "The gifts of God are irrevocable."

Even my healing.

And I hide.

From myself.

And others.

I'm needing to make peace with messy again.

To remind myself of extenuating circumstances.

To lean into trusting.

To believe that this, too, shall pass.

To hope.

I started thinking about all of this simply because of a stupid goal.

I'd like to go a full day, sometime in the next week, without bursting into sobs.

Because I'd feel more together if I did that. 

Less messy.

Time to reconcile with messy again, apparently.

It's never pretty, but sometimes so necessary.