I've built up boundaries for myself, because I'm terrified of what could happen if I thought about all the things that creep up along side me throughout the day.
I've found myself strangely emotional the past few months, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I think it's probably a good thing, because I've prayed time and time again to God that my heart will break for what makes His heart break. It's a definite feeling of the Holy Spirit, and I love that. But it's also so exhausting, so terrifying. And beautiful.
People make fun of me. All the time. And it's always been like this, and I know they do it because they know it gets to me, that I can't take a joke, that I can't tune them out or laugh it off or say something insulting back or be a good sport about it. But that's the thing. I never feel better than what they say about me. I'm so overwhelmingly insecure about everything about myself. I don't feel safe inside who I am, I don't feel like others accept me.
You know how I spend my day? Imagining myself dead.
I'm not being over dramatic here, I'm being honest. That's what consumes my thoughts every day. My death.
And during those times, I make up apologies and tears and words so that I can forgive them, so that I can tell myself that what they say now doesn't really mean what I tell myself it means. I put them in circumstances which demands their absolute honesty, and I make that honesty admirable. And I focus on that.
But then there are times when I zone out, when foreign thoughts break in and slip words to me, whisper them. Things that inevitably tell me of my every flaw, how nobody looks for me in a crowd or wishes upon my arrival, how I try to avoid talking to her every day but you always come back to her because that's who you are and who she is and who I am and I am just the ears you seek, the "Mhms" and the "Yeahs" to keep your tales going so that you can express your heart's desire to someone, since you so long for something that is starting to feel more and more intangible. How my body is too awkward, my voice too timid, how I can say the same thing over and over in a small room but nobody listens because I am just Emily, just Emily, and I'll always be here, just Emily, just the best that any of you could do, just the ears that you seek late at night before you sleep. But if not, that's okay, because I hold no substantial value in the broader scheme of things. There's no hope in my coming or going, no longing, no peace when I arrive. Just Emily, just ears, but no voice.
But when I'm dead, they cry. They love.
And that's what I focus on, and that can sustain the day.