Ok, seriously, I need to start writing again or I am going to explode. It is so therapeutic, like I can imagine Confession must be. Actually I wish we practiced Confession in Protestant circles – it would be amazing just to let it out and know that someone, with skin on, knows what I’ve done and think. I don’t need them to absolve me, just listen and tell me Jesus will forgive a wretch like me.
Anyway, that’s not what I intended posting today.
The other day I was having lunch with my mother and grandma and we began talking about life. My grandma commented on how young I looked and I told them that I am finally at a place in life where I am comfortable with myself. For some reason I always thought that if you didn’t know yourself by 21, it was a shame. I hid this for years, looking at other women wondering if they were at peace with themselves and trying desperately to hide the fact that I was not. I was saying all this when my 81-year-old grandma says, “37!” I looked at her as she delved into a long-deglected storehouse of memories, “I was 37 when I finally knew who I was.”
That was enough for me. At 35, I can finally say I know who I am, and more importantly, I’m happy with that and more importantly than that, I don’t care how everyone else feels about my personal-identity destination. I am free.
I have to say that I didn’t get to this end in a very healthy manner, but recommended or not, I arrived there none-the-less. I guess I got to a place where I wasn’t going to ignore the essence of me for the sake of others. That sounds horrible, but actually, it’s not. I didn’t stop being what I was for everyone else, I just decided to be more me along the way. It’s stirred up so many things that I’ve allowed to lay dormant, but they were all there waiting for me. The things that consumed me before, don’t, and the things that I ignored are more a part of me.