Okay

September 5, 2020

In recent years, I’ve been on a never-ending quest for peace. Peace comes from God, sure, but more so, a peace that comes from stillness, from silence.

When I had brain surgery, the world went quiet. With migraine after migraine during the initial recovery, I couldn’t stand a lot of noise. For the most part, I’d read. I’d get lost in book after book after book. At the time, Oyster, a “Netflix for books” was active as a company and I’m probably the one that drove them under because I read twenty times the value of my $9.99/month payment.

I spent a lot of time alone. I spent a lot of time in silence.

For the most part, when I was living at home, commuting to and from school, dealing with medical issues, working at a local nonprofit, I had a lot of quiet in my life. Long stretches of silence. That changed when I moved to DC. When I first moved to DC I lived in intern housing. It was very dorm-like with close quarters, zero privacy, and someone around at all times. At first, I enjoyed it. It had been years since I was around people my own age and had the option to hang out with people regularly. I loved it.

But soon, the noise level reached cacophony-heights. My skin itched with the need for silence and my head pounded in demands of stillness. I couldn’t think, couldn’t see, and definitely couldn’t hear.

In December of 2016, as my time in intern housing was drawing to a close and I was moving into a row house on Capitol Hill, I had had enough. I ruthlessly found ways to bring down the noise levels. I deleted all of my social media. I started spending more time intentionally journaling. I did everything I could to find quiet. I just remember sitting on the couch in the living room of my intern housing assignment, clutching my phone, fingers hovering over the “delete account” on my Facebook and then my Instagram, and saying to myself, there’s just too much noise.

It was freeing.

Difficult at first. I didn’t realize how much of a habit it was, reaching for my phone to look at my newsfeeds. But after the first week, it was calming. I enjoyed the time to just think.

Over the years, living in DC, working in DC, meeting people from all around the world, I’d be asked what my Instagram handle was, and I’d just simply reply, “I don’t have social media.” And that was it! Some people we kept in touch over email, some through writing letters, others I’ve never spoken with again. And it was okay.

What was beautiful is that I never felt the need to justify myself. I would say, “Oh, I don’t have social media,” with a sort of shrug and a polite smile on my face, and a light-hearted shake of my head. I never said it in a, “and you shouldn’t have social media either” kind of way. I would say it matter-of-factly, and if someone asked, “why not?” I’d just say, “I just don’t want it.” And that was that.

It was really lovely.

I did try, once, to have an Instagram account again, but I already keep regular contact with the few people I would want to see my posts and vice-versa. So I deleted my account after a week and just kept texting, calling, and writing them.

Deleting my social media allowed me not only time but also peace to think, to dream, to write, to simply be.

In fact, it’s become an indicator that something is off emotionally for me when I start to consume a bunch of content to eliminate that silence. Anytime I feel like I can’t sit without the TV playing continuously or a podcast running in the background or scrolling through different listicle articles on Buzzfeed I realize something is wrong and I need to address it.

The quicker I address it, the better I get at identifying when I needed to process and then either processing it through writing or seeking the help of my counselor, parents, or friend to process it, the sooner I find silence comforting again.

I was looking for the silence; I didn’t expect the freedom.

The longer I went without social media and the more healing work I did through writing and counseling, the less I felt the need to justify myself.

And man is that nice.

When I started having health issues, I was on social media. My profiles and accounts reflected my illness journey. People I didn’t know, who heard about me through a friend or a friend of a friend, started following along. Because of this easy access to my medical journey, many of these people and people that I’d known tangentially, felt like they were part of my illness journey. I understand that. Praying for someone, thinking of someone, feeling for someone, you feel close to that person, if only in your mind and if only one-sided. It doesn’t matter, there’s an emotional intimacy there. I also shared a little too candidly because I use writing as a way to understand my own feelings, but I hadn’t yet learned the wisdom of writing for myself and then editing or asking someone else to read before sharing publicly, if at all.

So there’s this perceived partnership that exists, this sort of in-this-togetherness. Add in some of the perceptions our culture holds of people who are differently-abled and some of the views commonly and widely held in the church relating to illness, and there were people who became judgmental of the choices I made whether it was related to my illness journey or not. How I spent my time or energy or money, what I decided to eat or drink, and so on, it all became fair game for comment. That became a suffocating weight, and one I thought I had to endure.

I wasn’t emotionally mature or healthy enough to know when not to respond, to know if and how to engage, or to see where that person was coming from and how that impacted what they were saying. I took every comment personally and I felt like I had to justify everything I did or said or believed. I felt like I had to justify my life because so many people were now part of saving it, in some tangible or perceived way, shape, or form.

I thought I always had to act and to be noble, worthy, and producing value at all times. A day where I felt physically on the better side but still decided to spend in my pajamas reading through a bunch of Christian-fiction-suspense-thriller-romance novels, ordering in pizza and a cream soda was one that was life-giving to me but always tinged with “how do I justify this? how was it productive? what would those people who prayed to save my life say?”

But as I’ve matured, as I’ve been healing emotionally, as I’ve been off social media, as I’ve stopped regularly updating on CaringBridge, as I’ve gotten to know God’s character and known he’s fine with days like this and even gives them to me, I’m okay. I’m comfortable with who I am, with how I spend my time and money and energy, and with the choices I make. I’m thoughtful and intentional, and I strive to always be in line with God’s will, so I don’t intentionally misuse, abuse, or waste any of the resources given to me.

The more time I spend in silence, the more I embrace the stillness, the quieter the voice telling me what I should or should not be doing or should or should not be thinking or should or should not be justifying becomes. I embrace new ideas or thoughts and explore them rather than dismiss them as something I shouldn’t be doing or thinking because of what other people will think or say.

As much as I’d like to take credit, I think it’s actually just that I’ve finally given God the time and space to present or allow or plant new ideas, desires, and thoughts into my heart and mind. After a long day at work, I’ll drive home with the radio off and let my mind drift. I’ll find a random prayer related to my day is a thought or an insight about a tough situation comes as I’m switching lanes and it’s revitalizing.

I’ll wake up, and as I move through my morning skincare routine, and while I’m making my London fog latte, I’ll leave all of my devices off and really wonderful thoughts and creative insights and deeply held truths will rise to the surface of my consciousness and it’s delightful!

I find myself relishing in the silence. Craving the stillness. And when I leave it to move on through my day, I’ll have the remnants of it within my soul, and, hopefully, spilling out into the environment around me.

The more time I spend in silence and stillness, the more time I want to spend in it. The more I seek to spend in it. The more time I spend in silence and stillness with God, the more centered I am and the more me I am.

That’s not to say I don’t still watch Netflix or listen to podcasts or listen to music. Of course I do. The difference is that it no longer seems to control me, and I no longer feel like it’s a permanent fixture in my life, something I have to do each day. It’s now shifted to a place of enjoyment, a supplement to my life not an anchor for it.

And… I’m back on social media. I had to rejoin Facebook and Instagram for work, to run accounts there and as networking in this local, small city, where inexplicably everything happens on Facebook.

But it no longer feels like a compulsion. It did, for the first week or so I rejoined, and I had to seriously assess how and why I was using it and remind myself frequently of the bounds within which I’d set for myself. Ultimately, though, it’s become easier to put into a healthier place, because the silence and stillness have a stronger draw now. I still have to ask myself sometimes, especially when I’m not as emotionally healthy, if I’m using it to justify myself again or if I’m doing something to build a persona rather than operate authentically and without apology. And man it stings when I realize that I am falling into that trap once again.

But I have a test for myself.

When I’m thinking about posting something to justify or for a persona, I ask myself if I’ll enjoy it any less if I simply don’t post it. Or if posting it will make me enjoy it more. Chances are, if posting about it makes me enjoy it more, then it isn’t authentic enjoyment. It’s either justification or persona-building and neither of those has a place in my life.

I can spend my time, energy, and resources in ways that no one knows about apart from myself and God, and that’s okay. I don’t have to broadcast my life or my illness anymore, even if people are praying for me or reading what I’ve written and thinking themselves part of my journey. I’m grateful for people’s prayers, I’m so thankful for the people who have walked along and given thought to my suffering. It’s kind.

And yes, when I share about my illness journey it’s opening me up to criticism or other people’s expectations and beliefs. But I like to think that I have the emotional maturity and the (mostly) healed perspective to know when to respond and when not to respond, how to respond, and how, with kindness, to correct or love or ignore. I know that I’m teachable, that I have close friends, family, mentors, and people in my life that I listen to and that correct me, and that have a personal relationship with me along with the ability to speak into these areas of my life, a place that I’ve invited them in.

At this point in my life, single and child-free, no one has the right to any or all parts of my life. I have the autonomy, the choice, on who to include and who to invite into it. And I know that I’ve invited well. It was something that I didn’t realize early in my illness and something that caused me a great deal of pain and heartbreak.

I’ve got to be comfortable knowing and understanding that to some, my life might not look like what they think it should, or that because I haven't shared some parts of myself, the incomplete view of what they see is an inaccurate representation of the whole. Therefore, people will disagree with me, people will dislike me, people will judge and even condemn me, but I know me. The people in my life know my character, my heart, my mind, and if and when they see something concerning, they point it out, and I strive to listen. And more importantly than that, God knows me. He knows my heart better than anyone on earth ever will, regardless of how freely I share the depths of it in these words. He knows me, He loves me, He refines me, and He guides me. If something is concerning to God, he’ll take care of it. I trust in that. He knows me. And I actually think he kind of likes me.

So I seek quiet. I live in stillness and in silence. There are facets of me I’ve never shared in my writing and I don’t intend to because it’s just for me.

I’m comfortable being more open with my illness journey again because I know I’m okay. I know not everyone will understand completely. I know that people will come from all different backgrounds, perspectives, personalities, beliefs, and will see my illness journey through their own unique lens. Sometimes it will be blurry or obscure, other times, it might alter the lens a little, and sometimes it might be seen so clearly it provides relief. All of which are okay.

I’m okay.

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