herlucidlife

Sometimes I think if I’m always hiding behind a wall then no one is ever experiencing someone authentic. Do I even know who I look like?  What if my new self isn’t on the spectrum my raggedy self lives on? At what point have I stopped hiding from myself that I may actually get to know that person and not the person I think I should be? Growing up it saddened me to know that only mommy knew me through and through.Then I got older, I stopped telling her things, soon it felt like she no longer knew me either just the poster of a good daughter I wanted her to buy into. 

No, the beings I call my brothers and sisters knew, but then I started noticing that only certain people obtained specific details about my life. Eventually it felt like no one knew me, not even myself because I was doing things that didn’t align with who I thought I was. Hiding, from self, hiding from God, hiding from the scars that scream, “you’re hideous and there isn’t anything you can do about it.” I built walls so tall  that I don’t even want to climb over. Walls so high that it would take Jesus standing on stilts to remove the first brick. 

Hiding is fear in operation. Even Adam hid from God, seems like I’ve learned the family trait, solid. Funny how God didn’t give me a spirit that would hide in fear, yet that is the most natural disaster I’m seeing in this lifetime. I almost believe that the moment I touch down on this earth a little bit of evil is woven into my skin, closer than goodness. Why do the fear traits arrive before the good? You don’t see me so don’t lie.

You said, “I see you,” but who were you seeing when you couldn’t even see I was broken inside while you praised me for being strong? Strong enough for you to trample on, but weak enough to still love you anyway. You couldn’t have seen me because I couldn’t even look at you for my soul to be visible. Like a secret tucked away, it’s really inconsiderate to blatantly be in a corner when I was called to light the world from the inside. How are others supposed to experience the miracle inside me when it’s cemented inside my mind?

The miracle is that God molds beauty into raggs. The miracle is that whilst hidden God is preparing my heart for an escape, an entrance into something special. Concealed can feel safe until that eats away at the fragments of the mind that kept me sane. No one shares that when sitting in trauma too long it can affect the way common sense regulates the psyche. Something in trauma is too heavy for my mind; rather I’m not hiding more so I’m buried in my own sea of sores.

Hidden allows evil to win lurking in the dark shadows I’m in his house. God lives in the light, He brings things out to be seen, healed, heard, experienced. My mask is cracking under the pressure of all the wounds protruding from underneath. Compact can’t breath from all the covering, please help me wiggle free so I can see who I really am.