Chaos

I happened upon a little boy, sitting on the ground beside a hole filled with baby snakes. He was stirring it with a stick, watching them writhe. When he noticed me, he accidentally flicked the stick. Out popped one baby snake, which slithered away.

Dozens remained inside, but his eyes followed the escaped one, and then he looked up at me, mouth sagging, and uttered one pitiful, shame-filled word.


“Chaos.”

I woke up laughing. I’m not big on dream interpretation, but this one felt like a slap. That little boy was me, and though I don’t love having my work compared to a pit of snakes, the way I treat my books sometimes makes the comparison hit.

My Chaos

That baby snake could be a questionable comma or an uncomfortable plot. Or something vulnerable about me that shows through my writing. It could be my focus on attention for myself instead of a heart for the work. And when it gets flicked out, it’s all I can see. Everything else is in order, but I cry, “Chaos!”

So dramatic.

I got sick over the holidays–so sick I missed church and Journey Groups. It went on for weeks, making me skip Christmas gatherings. I even got off schedule with my writing and publishing, though you would think I could do those things while stuck on the couch. But my brain was mush.

I had finished Sam, (book coming soon!) but I came to a dead stop on The Misadventures of Mia Gibbs and barely stayed above water on Carousel. And as for promoting? Nope. I went from dreaming of readers to hoping everyone was too busy to read. I felt like a failure, with a pit too stuffed to stir.

Reset

Being knocked down was the best thing that could have happened to me. All the pointless baby snakes slithered away, leaving my pit less crowded. I confronted my fear of getting behind … by getting behind.

Then I made a new plan. Not to plan. To lean into who I am. Not just a Vella writer, or even just a writer. I don’t mind letting the wind take me where it will, because my Father makes the wind.

I’m back! Writing, editing, publishing, and loving it. Until the wind takes me somewhere else ….

A Time for Everything

No Time Like the Present?

Or no time BUT the present? I live in a constant state of frantic hurry, chasing moving targets, burning myself out. I take pictures so I can look back, forgetting to look around in the moment. I nearly did that today, even after my son counseled me last night to slow down.

Take deep breaths. Clean out the clutter in my mind.

Time to Celebrate!

I published the final episode of Summer, According to Sam today. The book was finished years ago, accepted for publication, and run through the entire editing process. So I could just shrug and not make a thing of this.

But it is a thing. A thing that made me weep with joy today … and I nearly didn’t tell anyone. I nearly didn’t write about it. If you’ve read the story, especially the final episode, the reason for this post will be obvious to you.

I’ve been doing some thinking, the same way Sam did.

Time to Make Amends

It’s easy to forget that people love me and that it hurts them to watch me struggling. I’ve made no secret of my fight to find joy again, to even want to be here at all. I’m not sorry for that, because I believe people need to know they’re not alone. I believe in being truthful. The part I regret is how rarely I share my good days. Days like this one.

Writing is therapy to me, so naturally, I do it more when I’m low. Even now, I’d rather get up and do something else. The house is half-decorated for Christmas, there are dishes in the sink, and I still have two stories to update on Vella.

But here I pause. And I say thank you. Thank you to my readers, to my family, to my herd, to my Father. Thank you for good days and second and third and fourth chances.

It’s Nice to Meet Me

Remember when I said I was an enneagram 1? You probably don’t, so here it is. If you don’t want to look back at it, I’ll sum it up by telling you that I was frustrated by a situation at re:generation, and I was convinced that my “oneness” made it a particularly cruel hurdle.

Well … turns out I’m not a 1. In fact, I’m so not a 1 that when I start acting like a 1, it’s a red flag, warning me that I’m not healthy.

Danger! Funk Ahead!

So what’s my real number?

Hello 7!

My real number kinda blew my mind. The enneagram seven is nicknamed the enthusiast. The one is the reformer, and it’s where I go when I’m unhappy. So basically, this means that when I’m not healthy, I go from loving everything to trying to fix everything.

I go from sprinkling glitter everywhere to vacuuming that messy crap up. I go from Phoebe to Monica. And speaking of Monica …

Monica friends seven

She pretty much sums up how I feel about my new number. I don’t want to make everything perfect. I want to make everything beautiful. But when I’m low — and I’ve been really low for a long time — I Monica my Phoebe. Hence, the confusion.

I tested as a 1 because I was just that unhappy.

Don’t get me wrong. Healthy ones are amazing. One of my best friends is a one, and I adore her. But a seven acting like a one is a miserable creature.

The New Me

I’m getting in touch with my enthusiasm. There are days when the words are flowing, and I dance through the house in celebration of a well-written episode. But holding on to that is difficult. Sometimes I still try to put my 7 characteristics in a cage. The chaos of my creative heart terrifies me.

I worry that I’m too much and too little at the same time. Can I really write fantasy novels and enjoy myself for a living? Isn’t that too self-indulgent? Shouldn’t I be the queen of clean?

Do I dare to allow myself to get used to feeling joyful?

I’m currently on step 7 in re:generation. I didn’t plan to wait and share my real number on this step. But it works out great, because step 7 is to follow. It’s time to put the things I’m learning into action. No more going in my cave, no more seeking out the comfort of loneliness. I need to move forward, to be brave, and do new things.

And it’s really hard to move forward when you don’t know who you are. I’ve been trying for so long to be what I thought I had to be, that I don’t know how to let myself breathe. I feel guilty for my good days. That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic, does it?

There’s joy in the juggle, if I will allow myself to be the scattered, creative person God made me to be.

Flat on My Back

Last week was rough. I feel less like I’m on a roller coaster now and more like I’m on a seesaw. Still up and down, but not nearly as exciting.

Re:generation is hard. Inventory is hard. I thought I had knocked it out. On the first week of inventory, I got a hotel room and plowed through it. I even wrote insightful little summaries about each category. Then I found out I had skipped an important step. I had to face some hard stuff–stuff I didn’t even want to think about, let alone share with my group.

I hadn’t knocked it out. It had knocked me out.

Back to Start

Inventory again. Not where I wanted to be. Instead of getting another hotel room, I visited my childhood church, intending to approach my new problem using an old, trusted method.

There used to be these huge cement tables behind the building. Once when I was young, I spent hours lying on my back on one of those tables, asking God for help. I had nowhere to live and no idea what I was going to do. I think back to that day when I’m at my lowest, and I remember feeling like God met me there. So it seemed a great place to visit.

After packing up all my re:gen stuff, I drove to Providence, Texas. I needed a date with God, lying flat on my back. I brought a plastic table cloth, because the last time I had seen the tables, they were covered in weird fungi and droppings from the trees. Nothing was going to stop me climbing up there.

And this is where the tables used to be.

Rerouting …

Now I’d driven more than an hour to lie on a table that didn’t exist anymore. I stood there and cried about it for a minute, feeling rejected. The same way I felt the last time I was there. I showed up for my date, but where was God?

Not knowing what else to do, I went around the building, searching for a place to sit that might mean something to me. But I’m allergic to wasps, and they seemed to be in all the cozy places. Alone, no EpiPen, hardly a signal on my phone, I wasn’t risking getting stung.

I took a few pictures as I wandered.

I love taking pictures, but it wasn’t what I came for. So I kept walking, eventually into the cemetery. Providence is a small community, so I knew a lot of the names on the headstones. It was nice, and a little sad, to think of them. I loved this broken headstone that used to say GONE HOME.

Reading Into Things

I wondered if God was telling me to go home. I couldn’t do what I came for. I wasn’t really trying to accomplish anything specific anymore. Just reminiscing, trying to make some use of what felt like a pointless trip.

And then I came across this, and it brought me to my knees. I knew Carolyn and Buddy were there, because I had been to their funerals. But this was the first time I saw their headstone.

They were the answer to that prayer I prayed the day I was on the table. Carolyn came and got me and took me home with her.

A New Perspective

Maybe not completely new. I’ve come to the conclusion many times that my story isn’t one of abandonment, but one of rescue. It’s easy to lose perspective when you’re listing every horrible thing that ever happened to you.

This was the reminder I needed. I’m not doing this alone. I can’t see the full plan yet, but there is one. God showed up for our date, just not where I thought He would. His plan was better than mine, as usual.

I wasn’t supposed to lie on a crusty table, focusing on feeling lost and alone. He wanted me to remember that when I’m flat on my back, I should be on my knees. Still looking up, but also forward, because there’s something good on the way.

I made a little wildflower bouquet for Carolyn and Buddy, and then I spent some time right there, thanking them both for what they did for me. And I’m still processing why I also felt like I needed to apologize to them. I’ll be working on feeling like a burden for a while yet, I’m afraid. But at least I know I need to work on it.

Leaving it Behind

The last picture I took is a reminder to myself to put the past where it belongs. I have to dig some stuff up in my recovery process, but I don’t have to dwell on it. I certainly don’t have to relive it. It’s time to let it go.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’ve always been a pencil person. I have a power sharpener by my desk, and I zip a pencil in it every time I so much as jot down an item on my grocery list. Then back into the pencil cup it goes, tip upward, one yellow beast in a bouquet of wrist stabbers.

The Point?

Mistakes get erased. No dull-tipped pencils, and certainly no pens, ever cross my desk. My eraser dies before I run out of graphite, so I keep a pack of extra erasers handy. Because what good is a pencil if you can’t erase mistakes? What good is any writing utensil if it betrays you by revealing your imperfections?

This is, of course, why I have 15 novels sitting here unpublished. When I was in therapy, I told my therapist what I felt my headstone should say.

Here lies Rachel.

She nearly did so many things.

On Valentine’s Day, my friend gave me a gift. A journal and a pack of glitter gel pens. I’ve had some of these babies before. I doodled with them, admiring the slick way they lay down ink, turning the page to watch the sparkles. But I’ve never really written anything with them. Especially not in a wonderful new journal! It’s even my favorite color!

So what was I to do? Every pretty pen I’ve ever owned has dried out, wasted, owned by the wrong girl. A pencil person, unable to shine. Girls like me don’t deserve shimmery ink. Do we?

Trying Something New

Deep breath. It’s just a pen and a journal. The pages can be torn out. I worried that I would have bad penmanship or get behind trying to record a scripture while the pastor was talking. I worried that the ink would bleed through the page. I hate that. I might misspell a word. The horror.

But, wielding a glitter pen, I committed words to the page. And I made a mistake. I knew it! No eraser. I needed to start over, maybe tear it out and rewrite all my notes later. Then it occurred to me that I could take notes in an ugly notebook, in pencil of course, and then transcribe carefully, slowly, into the journal. That’s when I realized that my perfectionism was rearing its ugly head, not only making me feel horrible, but causing me to miss the sermon.

So I stopped. And I wrote this verse, because it was from my re:generation book, and it had hit me just right.

“For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.”

I wrote it in green glitter and then added some red, which made it look like a bad attempt at making it 3D. But I didn’t care. I’m free. Flawed, but loved. I went back to my sermon notes and scribbled out my error, and it made a nice little glittery blob on the page. Man, you could really see the sparkles in a blob! Beauty from ashes.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’m officially a glitter pen girl now. I still try to turn my mistakes into perfect round spots, or even better, hearts or flowers. But I’m not so worried about erasing everything now.

Inventory

The re:gen book asked for my first impression of the inventory process. Usually, I find narrowing down my response difficult. I can write thousands of words in minutes, but summaries slay me. Today, not so much. In a word:

NO

In a few more words:

NO NO NO NO NO

I don’t want to leave it there. Someday, some unsuspecting person might fall onto my blog. Maybe they’ll find it because they’re starting re:gen and want to get an idea what it’s like. Maybe they’ll find me when the group starts whispering about inventory. And I don’t want to scare anyone away. Heck, I’ll probably be the one who sent them here. Having survived, I’ll look back at this post and chuckle wisely. So let me clarify.

Just kidding. But seriously, I’m not looking forward to this. And to make matters worse, a storm came through last night and caused us to shut down the church on the very evening we were supposed to be trained to do inventory. Trained and encouraged, which I NEEDED.

If you’re an enneagram person, let me explain by giving you my number.

1

If you’re not an enneagram person, let me explain what it means to be a one. I need order. I need to know how to do a thing correctly before I can do the thing. I’m driven by a need to make things better. Straighter. Cleaner. PERFECT. Hence, the re:gen journey. I’m doing re:gen to work on perfectionism. And now I’m supposed to start the one part of the experience that kept me from signing up long ago … without training?

I’ve never felt so connected to Bill Murray in my life.

If you haven’t seen Groundhog Day, I judge you. Don’t worry, I’ll beat myself up for it in my inventory.

Seen

I’m working on my need to be seen. In today’s Bible Recap I read Psalm 104. The author is unknown, which I’m realizing even as I write this, helps me to make my point. Tara-Leigh mentioned in the audio portion that this Psalm, all about creation, makes her think of creatures on the bottom of the ocean that we won’t ever see. Creatures God made for His own enjoyment.

They may never be discovered and appreciated by humans.

I experience so much joy when someone reads my work and engages with me about it. I was afraid for a long time that if I ever released my books, I would be disappointed by the lack of interest and interaction they brought me. It kept me from sharing. You can’t be disappointed by an outcome if you never let it come out!

But now I think I’d be okay with remaining as obscure as a tiny, glowing snail on the bottom of the ocean. No one has to find me as long as God enjoys me.

Step One

Admit

I’m nailing this whole blogging thing, right? I’ve finished groundwork and am already in a re:generation closed group, starting week two of step one, and I haven’t shared anything since … well, whenever. I considered giving up on this whole thing and admitting that I’m not a blogger. I’m not, after all. I prefer to write what I want, when I want. So basically, I’m spoiled. But that’s not even what I’m working on in re:gen.

My Struggles

I spent a lot of time figuring out why I was there, aside from being pestered into it. Kidding, but not kidding. Now, I’ve narrowed down my list to the bare bones of what’s putting the hitch in my get-along. I’m told it will change as I continue the steps, but right now, I feel like I know what I need to work on.

My intro goes like this:

“I’m Rachel, and I have a new life in Christ. I struggle with perfectionism, low self-esteem and fear of success.”

Yeah, you read that right. Fear of success. But I’m not going to dive into that one yet. I don’t even understand it. What I do understand is that I spent entirely too much time deliberating whether or not to use the Oxford Comma in my list of struggles.

Ah, perfectionism.

Some of you love that comma, and some of you hate it. You may think one way is correct, and the other is incorrect. Some of you are googling Oxford Comma. And now I’m stressed out, because I can’t please everyone.

I can lose hours on a single comma. And I’m a fiction writer! We use commas like rests in a sheet of music, and that’s totally okay. Fragments are super cool. Like this! But my persuasive paper writing brain wants to get involved and tell me that I’ll alienate readers if I don’t follow the rules.

I think I just accidentally figured out why I fear success. At least part of it. It’s so much easier not to worry about what people think when no one knows I exist.

Loneliness Beckons

Sink or Float

All week long, I’ve circled the pool, eyeing the water and coming close to dipping a toe in. But not quite. A dip will break the surface. There are things under there that can grab me. The water is still, so I can see what’s below. Some of the things I tied down with bricks are working their way up. Doubts. I consider confronting them, but I’m not sure if they’ll sink or if I will.

There are things left unsaid. They’ll find their way onto the pages of someone else’s story. Nicole’s, most likely. But what about my story? I’m trying so hard not to hear the doubts. They’re clever and convincing. They play chess with emotions. Say it or don’t say it. Chew on it. Hide. Don’t lie, but don’t ever come completely out of the cave. There’s that little secret thing that makes it where you can exit quietly and then be angry when no one notices. Hold that like an ace up your sleeve so you can use it again when things get iffy. Hold onto it like your therapist can’t see it. But maybe she does. Maybe she has all along. If you hide it today, it has to stay hidden.

Loneliness waves from the shadows and crooks his finger. He’s so predictable that it’s almost comforting to think about curling up with him. He doesn’t ask questions or criticize. He wants company badly enough to accept anyone. It’s so easy.

I don’t want to go to him, so I dip my toes in the water. “Let’s do this.”

Missing the Murky

I wrote the piece above months ago when I was about to stop going to therapy. It was the only thing I wrote during that time that I never shared with my therapist. The lure of loneliness is strong. If it becomes your crutch, you can actually miss it when you start doing better.

I’ve been studying the gift of desperation this week, both in re:generation and in my women’s Bible study. And I see a pattern in my past. When I think I’ve beaten my demons, I stop seeking help. And then I wander back into my cave, at first out of habit, and then out of fear. I don’t have to tell anyone how I’m feeling when I’m there. I don’t have to deal with how I’m feeling.

Trust the Process

They say it all the time and even comment on how often they say it. Trust the process. After six weeks, I feel so strong, not tempted by my cave. I feel connected to my group leaders and fellow group members. My habits are better, my quiet time is solid. I’m even praying again. It would be so easy now to throw out my chest and declare myself well. We have a few bottles of antibiotics in our medicine cabinet with one or two pills left in them for this exact reason. When the symptoms settle, we think we’re healed.

But I’m staying the course, trusting the process. There really are things still tied down that I’m not excited to see coming to the surface. But I’m going to face them, and I’m not alone.

Your Thoughts

Do you find isolation comforting?

The Grumpies

Today I’m trapped in an angry brain space. Triggered, frustrated, not in a good mood. I have tools but don’t want to use them. Don’t want to make memes or be cute. I’ve been trying to figure out what got me here, but I just don’t know. I could blame things that annoyed me, but I sail through those things on better days. This is internal. Deep.

Maybe it’s because I only got three hours of sleep last night. Or maybe I only got three hours of sleep because I was already trapped. I get nighttime anxiety, like my sanity goes down with the sun. And if I have to get up the next day, it’s worse. Tired, hangry, loaded with coffee, I went to church today and immediately got a burr under my skin. Then I talked about it, claimed it, dwelled on it. People helped me out of it, and then I went back in.

Whatever this is, I want it gone.

If I hadn’t promised to be raw and real, I would wait a few days and delete this, never share it on my blog. It doesn’t feel like I’m helping anyone, just dumping the grumpies. But I promised dark corners, and here they are. Sometimes I’m just mad. And now that I’ve written it, here come the tears.