I keep coming back to this…

by epi

I was 21. And even though my tiny boos don’t know how young that is (they think I’m crazy when I talk about 25 like it’s 50; it feels like it)… I remember. I keep trying to forget, keep trying to move on, but I can’t. Because I remember being 21. That was the year I decided I needed to have my heart broken. That was the year I told God to leave me alone. To let me be. To let me LIVE. (To remember… hurts. I mean really hurts. My heart pushes and pulls, as if memories are carried in blood, and that bad blood needs to be forced out so I can heal. But so many of my memories… It hurts.) And that’s the beginning. It’s a part of my story I can’t hide if I want to tell people how I love God, who I am. I do though, hide it. Because… I was 21, and I said, “God let me get my heart broken. It’s what I need to become a good writer. I don’t have anything to say right now.” I thought heartache and heartbreak would feel beautiful. Like a run; it hurts, but doesn’t–all in one, it’s everything (and in the end, it feels worth it–that’s how I imagined heartbreak would be.) And so, joyfully leaving God behind, I went. I lived my life. I woke up every day, and slept every night, and in the middle tried desperately to find someone who would love me enough, who would break my heart. (Now I know that what matters in the matter of heart-break is not necessarily how much someone loves me, but how much I love them. I didn’t know that not loving someone could break my heart. I didn’t believe that anyone could ever not love me. I didn’t know that losing someone you’ve loved means losing a piece of yourself. I didn’t know. And now I do. And now I wish I didn’t.) I lived carelessly. Imagine a busy street, a rush hour highway even. Imagine a girl slowly moving moving across that road, weaving in and out of cars. Even though most attempt to swerve, attempt to avoid her, some can’t. Collision. That’s how I found heartbreak. A collision. It wasn’t beautiful. It didn’t make me a better writer. It made me unsure; it made me timid and fearful; and it made me lost.

I keep coming back to this because I want to punch 21-year-old me in the gut. I want to change the past. I want to undo what I’ve done. I want to plead with God for forgiveness. I can’t. About the latter, I should, but I can’t, because I’m ashamed. I don’t even know why I’m writing this, on this public forum. I barely write anymore. Everything I have to say, hurts. I want to love God more. I want to give Him everything. But I keep coming back to this: I asked God to leave me alone, and I think He did, and it makes me mad. And that seems wrong, but it… it feels like truth. Some things just are; even if they don’t have to be, they are.

Praying with my little boos tonight, I pleaded with them to turn to God now. I asked them not to wait. I told them… if I could be where you are… If I’d only known. My cries were those of desperation. I can’t undo my past, but surely… surely, I can play a role in changing someone else’s future?

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