It's been almost three years. Three years since I walked - no, ran -
away from a life I thought was perfect. My whole life had led up to
where I was, but I felt so discontent and like I was betraying someone,
everyone, myself by staying where I was. So I left. And when I left,
the words left me too.
--
Words have been my life-force. When I couldn't find them for myself, I would find them in the pages that were so dear to me. I devoured books. Honestly, I couldn't keep enough literature in front of me at once. I would finish one book, put it down, and immediately pick up another. At one point, I was reading through multiple books a day. Granted, it was before I started reading heavier literature, but I was still reading hundreds of pages per day before I even knew how to drive a car. I was that weird kid who didn't want to play outside with the neighborhood kids or go to a sleepover on the weekend because I had books I wanted to read. I needed to read books because it was where I could talk with my closest friends, discover new worlds, and see the mystery and magic of life that I was missing out on. For someone like me, books are truly magical.
--
Someone (lots of people actually, according to Google) once said that reading is the inhale and writing is the exhale. Truer words have never been spoken. Just like reading was the nourishment for my soul, writing became the necessary purging.
I began crafting stories in my head and occasionally I would find the courage to write them down. Childish, immature replicas based whatever I had most recently read, but they were still my own words. I was proud because I had created something. I am not an artistic person - drawing and creating visual art is not a set of skills I possess - but I finally found my art. I could write. I could grow, nourish, and (sometimes) painfully birth people and worlds and journeys.
I became lost in the world of the written word. I took in as much as I could through novels and short stories and poetry, and I used those experiences I gained from other writers to create my own work. I fell in love with my English classes because that is where I began to stand out. I took the assignments as challenges to further not only my education but also my passion. As soon as I began thinking about the possibility of moving on to college, I knew a degree in English was my only option. I didn't know what I would do with it once I graduated, but I would at least have a college degree in something that I loved.
College wasn't the easiest thing I ever did, especially my basic non-English classes, but I made it through those well enough (by the skin of my teeth, sometimes) so I could focus on what I came there to do - read, write, and discuss with like-minded people. Those were honestly the best four years of my life (well, ok - three years: my freshman year was just absolutely terrible). While my creativity wasn't challenged by those 15-page research papers as much as I had hoped, I did great by the standards I set for myself. I learned more than I ever hoped to, I discovered new authors who changed my perspective, and I experienced literature in a new way that challenged everything I thought I knew before.
--
And then I graduated and didn't know what to do with my life.
During my senior year, I had been an intern at a church I attended all through college. They were paying me absolute shit as an intern, but my living situation permitted me to get paid shit and still keep the internship. After some major pressure on my boss (and threats of quitting), they brought me on part-time a few months later (ever though there is no such thing as a part-time church job) and paid me a little more than shit. I was happy there. I loved the people, I loved the church, and I loved what I was doing - writing. Someone was actually paying me money to write.
I don't mean to brag, but I kinda kicked ass at my job writing curriculum. I was raised in a Christian home, my dad was a pastor for a portion of my life, and I was an avid learner and researcher, so everything I had done and experienced to that point was basically training to become a professional Christian. I knew that my job at the church came with a lot of responsibilities (children's souls and such), and it didn't totally terrify me. I had tons of support from my team and the church was big enough that our resources were basically unlimited. So I wrote every day. I read the Bible every day. I talked with Christians every day. I went to church services and events multiple times a week. (I knew SO much, you guys. I was a pretty awesome, knowledgeable, confident Calvinist, but still totally humble.)
And then things started to feel a little off. I began to see cracks in the perfect facade the church was putting up. I began asking questions, hard questions, that either no one could give a straight answer to or they would give me the stock, chuch-foundational-beliefs answer to. And it just wasn't cutting it. So the job I thought was perfect and the church I thought was going to be my forever-church started to leave a sour taste in my mouth. I started doubting what I was doing and why, and things quickly went downhill. I couldn't find a reason to stay, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. Ignoring the issues wasn't cutting it, praying about it like I was told didn't produce different results, I didn't feel like I could talk with my co-workers about what I was thinking because I might "cause discord among the body." I was the square peg being forced to fit into the round hole, and I felt so lost and alone. So after tidying up my three years of work and passing on the torch and many words of warning to my replacement, I left. And when I say I left, I mean that I left everything - the people, the church and their god. And when I left, my words left me too.
--
So now it's been almost three whole years, and I am still searching for the words I once knew. I know when finally I find them, they will be unrecognizable because I am unrecognizable. They might be a shadow of what they once were because I am a shadow. But I will know, deep down in my bones, that they are mine. And I will hold them tight and treasure them and share them once more.
--
Words have been my life-force. When I couldn't find them for myself, I would find them in the pages that were so dear to me. I devoured books. Honestly, I couldn't keep enough literature in front of me at once. I would finish one book, put it down, and immediately pick up another. At one point, I was reading through multiple books a day. Granted, it was before I started reading heavier literature, but I was still reading hundreds of pages per day before I even knew how to drive a car. I was that weird kid who didn't want to play outside with the neighborhood kids or go to a sleepover on the weekend because I had books I wanted to read. I needed to read books because it was where I could talk with my closest friends, discover new worlds, and see the mystery and magic of life that I was missing out on. For someone like me, books are truly magical.
--
Someone (lots of people actually, according to Google) once said that reading is the inhale and writing is the exhale. Truer words have never been spoken. Just like reading was the nourishment for my soul, writing became the necessary purging.
I began crafting stories in my head and occasionally I would find the courage to write them down. Childish, immature replicas based whatever I had most recently read, but they were still my own words. I was proud because I had created something. I am not an artistic person - drawing and creating visual art is not a set of skills I possess - but I finally found my art. I could write. I could grow, nourish, and (sometimes) painfully birth people and worlds and journeys.
I became lost in the world of the written word. I took in as much as I could through novels and short stories and poetry, and I used those experiences I gained from other writers to create my own work. I fell in love with my English classes because that is where I began to stand out. I took the assignments as challenges to further not only my education but also my passion. As soon as I began thinking about the possibility of moving on to college, I knew a degree in English was my only option. I didn't know what I would do with it once I graduated, but I would at least have a college degree in something that I loved.
College wasn't the easiest thing I ever did, especially my basic non-English classes, but I made it through those well enough (by the skin of my teeth, sometimes) so I could focus on what I came there to do - read, write, and discuss with like-minded people. Those were honestly the best four years of my life (well, ok - three years: my freshman year was just absolutely terrible). While my creativity wasn't challenged by those 15-page research papers as much as I had hoped, I did great by the standards I set for myself. I learned more than I ever hoped to, I discovered new authors who changed my perspective, and I experienced literature in a new way that challenged everything I thought I knew before.
--
And then I graduated and didn't know what to do with my life.
During my senior year, I had been an intern at a church I attended all through college. They were paying me absolute shit as an intern, but my living situation permitted me to get paid shit and still keep the internship. After some major pressure on my boss (and threats of quitting), they brought me on part-time a few months later (ever though there is no such thing as a part-time church job) and paid me a little more than shit. I was happy there. I loved the people, I loved the church, and I loved what I was doing - writing. Someone was actually paying me money to write.
I don't mean to brag, but I kinda kicked ass at my job writing curriculum. I was raised in a Christian home, my dad was a pastor for a portion of my life, and I was an avid learner and researcher, so everything I had done and experienced to that point was basically training to become a professional Christian. I knew that my job at the church came with a lot of responsibilities (children's souls and such), and it didn't totally terrify me. I had tons of support from my team and the church was big enough that our resources were basically unlimited. So I wrote every day. I read the Bible every day. I talked with Christians every day. I went to church services and events multiple times a week. (I knew SO much, you guys. I was a pretty awesome, knowledgeable, confident Calvinist, but still totally humble.)
And then things started to feel a little off. I began to see cracks in the perfect facade the church was putting up. I began asking questions, hard questions, that either no one could give a straight answer to or they would give me the stock, chuch-foundational-beliefs answer to. And it just wasn't cutting it. So the job I thought was perfect and the church I thought was going to be my forever-church started to leave a sour taste in my mouth. I started doubting what I was doing and why, and things quickly went downhill. I couldn't find a reason to stay, no matter how hard I tried to make it work. Ignoring the issues wasn't cutting it, praying about it like I was told didn't produce different results, I didn't feel like I could talk with my co-workers about what I was thinking because I might "cause discord among the body." I was the square peg being forced to fit into the round hole, and I felt so lost and alone. So after tidying up my three years of work and passing on the torch and many words of warning to my replacement, I left. And when I say I left, I mean that I left everything - the people, the church and their god. And when I left, my words left me too.
--
So now it's been almost three whole years, and I am still searching for the words I once knew. I know when finally I find them, they will be unrecognizable because I am unrecognizable. They might be a shadow of what they once were because I am a shadow. But I will know, deep down in my bones, that they are mine. And I will hold them tight and treasure them and share them once more.
