I wrote a post about feeling displaced last January, three weeks after I’d had to move out to give my [now] ex-husband the space he thought he needed to clear his head and recommit to our marriage. I wasn’t able to tell you all why I was writing that post then, so I shrouded my grief in nostalgia, in childhood memories.

Sometimes people ask why I can blog such personal stuff and not be afraid. I have to laugh, because it’s not brave stuff I’m writing. It’s reactions and analysis, it’s carefully curated glimpses into my reality to bolster my message that you’re not alone and that asking questions and accepting yourself is not just not against the gospel or the teachings of Jesus, but foundational and essential to the health of a church and an individual. But it’s not very transparent.

And sometimes, that’s okay. I don’t need to tell you everything. It would be unhealthy if I was spilling all my guts on here all the time.

But I’m really tired and I’ve been thinking about Brené Brown‘s writings a lot, and this is my blog folks, so I’m going to give you a post with a little guts.

I’m tired of seeming unstable. I’m tired of not knowing if I’m going to have work or not this week. I’m tired of not knowing if I should be trying harder to show people my gratitude for putting me up. I’m tired of packing and repacking suitcases and then not knowing where my cute skirt is, or if I remembered to leave my jacket accessible. I’m tired of telling people that no, I don’t have enough work to support myself yet, that I can’t yet afford my own apartment, that I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.

I’m tired of knowing exactly what I want to do and where and why, tired of knowing who I want to be, but not being able to get there because I’m still stuck chasing these other life essentials. I’m tired of feeling guilty if I write things, because it’s detracting from job hunting. I’m tired of feeling both perpetually emotionally gutted and necessarily poised to respond to an impending crisis. I’m tired of telling my story and not knowing how to talk about my situation well. I’m tired of being afraid.

I’m tired of people being worried about me. It’s really uncomfortable.

All of that is vulnerability–I am in a vulnerable position, I don’t know what I’m going to do next, and I am losing my chutzpah to keep fighting for myself. It’s been almost a year and I just want to sleep for days, to get enough down time to begin to process everything that’s happened, and I just want to be able to take a day to myself not because I am stuck and don’t have work, but because I have worked hard and earned it and don’t need to worry about the financial ramifications. But I’m not there, and I do need people and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

I’ve lived in relative privilege for a long time. This is a very white whiney post. I’m trying to keep things in perspective and not complain because I am still, contextually speaking, in a position of relative security and privilege. I haven’t yet defaulted on a bill. I haven’t yet lacked for a place to sleep at night. I am still able to feed my cat and buy gas and food. I have had a lot of really wonderful people step in when I needed help and have been love with skin on to me. If I started telling you about each of the people who has been generous to me this year, I’d never be able to stop. There has been so much good tangled up with the hard stuff and I am so aware of it.

But I’m also just plain tired. So, hi, it’s Saturday, and this is me being vulnerable.


4 thoughts on “Vulnerability

  1. Thank you so much for your vulnerability and being willing to share it. I have read your blog with interest. I left my marriage of 33 years when he threatened to kill me (other things too) and spent time in fundamentalist church. I have been on my own for 3 1/2 years — painting houses to pay the bills — yes, I have been blessed to have a small duplex that is my space in the world. I have had a enough work to pay my bills, buy food and put gas in my car. Last Monday, after not having work the week before, and just starting a new paint job, I tripped in my living room – fell and wrenched my ankle. I sat on my couch and bawled. I am so tired, tired of being so responsible, tired of being alone, of struggling so hard when my friends are enjoying retirement — on and on. It is encouraging for me to know that I am not alone in this. Thank you again and I’m praying that we both learn to rest on God. The path may not be my choice – but He never lets me down…

  2. Oh, Hannah. {{{hug}}} You aren’t in the least bit whiny. I’ve had some very similar feelings, though the way my story played out is different. And I know very well that this doesn’t speak the half of it, the joy or the struggle. And somehow the joy is all the brighter when you’re living that suffering, though so few understand that it isn’t “either/or” but both in the very same moments.

    A few weeks ago I was rejoicing in a moment of beauty between my two friends and happier than I have been in a very long time … the grief over the contrast of my dead marriage and loneliness welled up. I wasn’t less joyful … but I had both extremes in that moment and my body didn’t know what to do with it, so I laughed and sobbed at the same time. I’m sure you’ve probably had similar occasions.

    And that’s okay, I think. It is real and odd and beautiful.

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