Perhaps, what we’re really afraid of is disappointing people.
For a long time, I think she never knew who she really was. Head prefect, top student, vice-president of the students’ council… Everything outside seemed so praise-worthy. But deep down, I think she was afraid that if she didn’t do, didn’t perform, that possibly, deep inside, there was… no one worth being loved.
And how frightening that would be. Achievements are a perfect distraction.
The smartest, most capable people, are often those grappling everyday with a sense of who they are, a deep-seated insecurity. The prettiest, proudest people, are often those who feel most ugly inside.
But now that she's older, and wiser, and cleaner because of God, at least she can make decisions better for herself like quitting commitments which give her nothing but Posts and Statuses to cover up for a false sense of validation.
Today, now, she is doing everything she can, and not doing the things she should not,
not to be the person she used to be- the person who had everything and nothing at the same time, the angry, hurt, over-achieving, empty child who lost absolute control because she tried to control everything she possibly could.
God and church saved my life, twice- I know Ive told you that before.
Kitesong. But even then, I wonder. What if-
- there was no
Kitesong. What if I was just… normal? Would you still like, love, be as inspired and as much drawn to me as you are now?
What if.
What if I told you I have demons I battle with every day, that till now, I am still- in recovery, that every choice I make is a battle won or lost, and I am either dying brave deaths to bad messages from my childhood, or dying senseless, hopeless deaths when I stop fighting.
What if I told you I’m not nice to everyone, that I have absolutely tactless moments, I don’t remember everyone’s names, and when I break, it can be into many, many pieces- and that what you see on this clean, white space is only but
one part of me- and if it’s the only part of me you know, then it’s not the real me.
What if I told you, the real me still struggles with something as basic as my self-identity, that for all my talk about loving strangers, I struggle with releasing unforgiveness to the people who raised me, that for all my talk about missionary work, I am also very, very spoilt- I don’t do chores- and am still… learning.
That I am having not only to learn, but to
unlearn the many, many things I thought was truth, but were lies, all lies. Not just having to unlearn, but having to forget, to forgive, to release, to re-learn, to just… let go.
Let it go.
What if I told you that this was only but one facet of me, and that what you are drawn to is not me, really, but writings, light, God, and things of universal loveliness- things we cannot see, and not me.
I am trying to learn.
Would it still be okay. Would it still be okay?
More than anything, I think she’s just morbidly afraid that if someone found the truth out, she wouldn’t be loved anymore.
So this is the truth.
I'm
still learning, a work-in-progress.
Still learning, stumbling, falling, getting up all over again. Still free-wheeling, bleeding, dying and blooming.
We keep covering, hiding, and we keep doing. We keep doing. We keep doing all we can. We keep fighting ourselves to be who we are not, and become just that.
We keep fighting. We keep fighting so hard. But it is a battle that must be lost, either now, or later.
I was in the bathroom the other day and wondered to myself- how kind you all have been. I remembered the emails, the messages on this tag-board, and the letters... I was and am very grateful- it is these words I remember whenever I get discouraged about writing, about this site, about
A Taste of Rainbow, about the occassional person who shows disdain with regard to my naivety- but also very embarrassed.
Everything here is so clean, and white, and you speak of me like I am some kind of saint. I was embarrassed because I wondered what you would think of me when you really got to know me in person- when you got to know that my heart really ain't that big, sometimes I really am tactless and unforgiving, that I'm impatient and edgy with my parents sometimes, that I really do think terrible things, that I'm not nice to everyone and that I really dread doing mundane things like sweeping the floor, that I really am a spoilt brat... when you got to know how real I really am.
I think she's just afraid people think... too well of her. That maybe, just maybe, if they knew her better, they'd see she's not always wearing white- she's in tatters and rags sometimes, with a smelly rag doll nobody wants, and a mop of frizzy, untamed hair that causes sirens to go off.
…
It's a burden too heavy to carry- to fear disappointing other people.
And then I found… a Place, with white, white walls. I go to it and find myself at once, at rest. For once,
accepted, for who I am, in tatters and rags, with a smelly rag-doll and having an illegally bad hair day, disappointing no one.
This Place. It used to be a discotheque. A dark, sleazy, smoky kind of discotheque- MUSICWORLD, they called it. Where the clean, bright stage is, used to be huge cages where the bar-girls would dance in. Where the whitewashed walls are, used to be gargoyles and medusa sculptures sticking out.
Sunday at church. I like it here.
Within those white walls, suddenly I feel like I know myself again. Within those white walls, suddenly I feel like I'm seven, and my own size again. In church, miracles happen often, missionaries are the heroes of their own epic adventures to save the poor, sick people get well.
Two weeks ago, I met two lovely church staff members, one who used to be a prison warden and who now spends all her time organising community service projects to help people, and the other, who dedicated her entire life as a single, as a teacher, to teach, help, inspire children, even went to Vietnam and Africa for extended periods to help the underprivileged.
Within those white walls, and amidst all these wonderful people who hardly claim the glory for themselves, suddenly you feel Real again, that really, there's nothing to try and show for, there's nothing to try and desperately attain, or to be prideful of. Suddenly you feel Real again not in a I-feel-inferior-to-these-saints kind of way, but in a I'm-so-humbled-by-the-lives-of-these-Ordinary-people-here kind of way.
It is in that moment, within those white walls, that all these so-called things to show for, Kitesong, my being a medical student, writing books, giving talks... ... become Normal, become not achievements, but gifts, blessings from God for our faithfulness to the faith.
It is in that same moment, within those white walls, that you can come to terms with your imperfection, your sheer earthy normal-ness, and rest in knowing that God’s love is big enough to cup our ugliness, because some days you feel so ugly.
And suddenly I feel like I could be in tattered and torn clothes, with a smelly rag doll and big ugly hair and still, I would stand in church. God would love me, still.
And I wouldn’t disappoint anybody.
Suddenly you feel clean inside, not because you are, but because you know, somehow, in spite of all your imperfections, God loves you, still. Because He knows you're trying.
For maybe all we are now are grimy discotheques.
But the white walls, the white, white walls, holds for me promise of a future that is to come, that is coming soon, because I am trying so hard. Holds for us promise that transformation is possible, is coming soon, because I am trying so hard, and because above all, God can.
He did it for this place.
I can’t, because I’ve been trying so hard all my life, and only became... more broken, more desperate, more afraid to disappoint. We can’t, because we are only human.
But God can.
He did it for this place.
White, white walls.
And so maybe, no, and so I know... ... He can do the same for me too.
Even if I'm in tatters, with a smelly rag doll and unforgivable hair.
White, white walls.
