I talk often about placing men at the Creator’s feet and asking Her to fix them. Men don’t know how to advocate for themselves. Sexism is an eternal stain. I ask God to cover them because the pain resonates through the distance. I feel their heartbeat because it’s familiar. It palpitates from fear just like mine. We’re boxing with the same demons. I think that’s why gravity pulled some of these beings into my orbit. The worst feeling is loneliness.
I’m reminded of what it means to be a disciple, to be a witness. Someone is always watching you. Someone is always looking at you to be an example of how to get through this thing called life. There’s this belief within my community that God puts you through things so others can see what it is that She does. You’re the sign and wonder. Relationship with Her clears a righteous path. Those who draw paths of confusion and deceit lack wisdom.
How I got here is a testament to Her. She shows me that those idols called fear can’t do what She does.
She is the Maker of all things.
She’s also a reminder of the weakness of idols. She breathes, they don’t. She can destroy and rebuild.
I live and breathe as the sheep of the Good Shepherd because of how lost I was until I was found. Even as I try to peel off the mark branded on me as one of those commissioned to do great things because it comes with a responsibility I’m not sure I can bear.
I just want to be a normal girl. I want to be able to catch feelings and not have to reap for them.
God doesn’t shame me for feelings. She certainly doesn’t shame me for wants and needs. She knows my heart and that I mean well.
I just have to be smart about this shit.
I know me. Infatuation is my middle name. I always fall for the idea of someone and whatever it is that they can give me. It’s been a part of my personality since a man’s touch made me feel a way. And held value. So in a season where value can be misplaced, you fall hard for the idea they can count you as something. That vaunted something that’s been escaping you for years: to be seen. That’s all it took.
I keep hearing Her: it’s not a wrong thing, just a misplaced one.
I’m ready to be over it, the idea of whatever I want “it” to be. I wanted it to be the balm to heal unresolved trauma. For every boy that made fun of me, for every man that would rather hide the shame than acknowledge the desire. For every unrequited love and text not returned. For every popular boy who paid me dust but swept me off of my feet in those stories I wrote to escape from what felt like a loveless world. Through all of this I felt like I was the weird girl holding on for dear life. I wore’ irrational’ like a badge of honor.
I told someone that if he liked me, then it would mean something. It would be the bruised heel to a snake’s head. It would heal all, redeem all that was lost. Death would be defeated. I’ve felt dead for quite some time. I don’t reach for intimacy and sensuality out of discipline but rather out of fear. The fear of not being good enough. I fear being the “worst mistake” he could have made. A fear of having to confront my past of searching out for love in places of ruin and paying a price for it.
Redemption may just pass right over me and the blood plastered on the door frame is my own.
But what kind of sacrifice is this?
ciara roslyn-james 