Hypocrite.

Warning: This post is about some pretty gritty stuff. Don’t continue reading if that makes you uncomfortable.

I was reading an article the other day about how men and women in the military physically handle the finer points of hygiene in ground combat. (Yeah, I read a lot of things and have no idea how or why I landed on that particular article. It was mostly about defecation and urination and what works and what doesn’t from a physical sense. In the desert, you don’t get to sit on the toilet with 4-ply toilet paper and a magazine. You dig a hole, you crouch, you do your thing, and you hope you remembered to bring something that works like toilet paper. Then you stand up and move on. To me, it sounded humiliating but these service members who spoke to the author loved the simplicity and practicality. Anyway, I digress.) The basic point of the article was this: to be effective in warfare,  you have to always be ready. When a human is in the middle of doing something all humans do, they are at their most vulnerable. Crouching with your rifle in hand on the battlefield meant you could easily stop focusing on yourself and ward off an attack should one occur. And worrying about your preparedness instead of your comfort would probably be the very thing that would save your life.

That article was what I thought of when my night took a turn for the worse last night. I had woken up out of a sound sleep not long after midnight. Again. I figured I was up for another long night of insomnia and old fears and overthinking. Again. Such has been the case for the last few months. As any 30-something woman in her right mind would do, I took advantage of my middle of the night wakefulness to go pee and save myself the usual 5 am knees-clenched-together-shuffle-walk-so-I-don’t pee-in-my-nightshirt thing. It’s a thing, y’all.

And as I was sitting there, my world fell apart. The false sense of peace I have been feeling over the past few weeks slipped away and the truth hit me. Hard. And my heart broke. I couldn’t stop weeping. I felt like a cement block was sitting on my chest and the lies I so often successfully push down were creeping up and I was in all out spiritual warfare. And I cried out to God. “Please. Please help me. Please be with me. Please.” Somewhere in there I found myself slumped over, head between my knees. Which is not a great position to be in when one is sitting on the toilet. And I thought of that article.

I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t crouching with my rifle, alert to any possible danger.

I was vulnerable.

I was alone.

I was afraid my sobs were getting too loud and didn’t want to wake my family down the hall, so I went back to my room and sat at my desk and continued my crying jag and crying out to this God I seek to serve.

It has been my experience that God is the 25th hour God. I call Him that a lot. He shows up when I give up, when I surrender, when I quit trying so dang hard. And He showed up last night, too.

Because I was real done. In a physical sense. I haven’t slept properly in my entire life, but I really haven’t slept the last few months. I’m running on maybe 2-3 hours a night, 4 if it’s real good, and those hours are not running together. They come in bits and pieces throughout an 8 hour period of trying to lay still in bed.

I have a uterus full of tumors according to my doctor and believe me, I knew before he told me. I won’t get into all of that, but I’m tired of how it affects me. Some days are really hard and destroy whatever energy I can muster up from sleepless nights. I am requesting a voluntary full hysterectomy when I go see the doctor in a few weeks. And I feel like when they take my innards, they’ll be taking my dreams of a husband and babies with them.

I have unexplained, but very specific, pain in one of my breasts and I’m frightened for what it might mean. For what I might learn when I go see the doctor soon. I am at high risk for the worst. I hate cancer. The people I love have been dying of it since I was 6 years old and I have a lifetime of memories of poison being pumped into the bodies of my people trying to ward off the inevitable and then watching them die horrible, painful deaths anyway.

I have a lot of life decisions to be made and I’m tired of deciding on them. Unfortunately, they’re a bit too serious to flip a coin. But I wish I could, nonetheless.

The physical burdens have been trying enough, but it’s the emotional/mental/spiritual ones that are breaking me down.

That false peace I mentioned earlier? Turns out it was hiding two things I have suspected but didn’t want to be  true. One, my career goals and the mechanisms for reaching them are not in line with who God has created me to be. Two, there are two specific friendships in my life that I have been dubious about for some time. And things are coming to a head. I am no longer sure of the health of having those people in my life. Nor of my being in theirs. I love them and care for them and want the very best for them. And, for so many reasons, I believe parting ways would be best for all parties.

You see, I never liked the label of being a goody two shoes and a prude when I was growing up. I would sometimes make up stories so I sounded like more of a badass than I am. I would hang out with tough crowds (as tough as elementary and middle school can be) to earn some street cred. As an adult, that has manifested itself into letting myself befriend people who do not have my best interests in mind and who have been examples to me of the fine art of manipulation and hate. I learned a long time ago that people like that take and take until they’ve taken it all and then they throw you away. Yet I still allow it to happen. I somehow still believe that loving them and being patient and gentle with them will eventually soften them. My God, I have been so wrong. The thing is, people only change if they want to. And these people don’t.

They’ve also been examples to me about stepping on everyone else to get ahead and using people for one’s personal career and social gains and gossip upon gossip. I’m tired of that, too. I hate being around it and I hate the taste it puts in my mouth when I do it.

This 25th Hour God used another bad night and tearful prayer and my cousin’s wife messaging me to ask if I was okay TWO MINUTES AFTER I WOKE UP to shake me out of my fog and make me aware of all of this.

Because I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t alert to the dangers of certain people and ways of doing things and returning to things I believe were removed from me long ago.

I was vulnerable.

I was alone.

I am a woman who has lived more life in her scant 35 years than she ever thought she would have to. I have every reason to be a cynic and a user. But I refuse. Adamantly refuse. I have a really soft heart that breaks easily. I much prefer it to the hard heart of stone I once carried. I’m not naive. Though people think I am. They see the tenderness and they assume so much about what I have lived through. They think I’m inexperienced in struggle and loss and pain. They would either not believe me if I told them, or simply be unable to process the truth.

I’m not a badass. I’m just human. And a hypocrite. Because to work hard to get ahead and following the lead of “friends”  at the expense of others with one fist while praising God with my other hand raised palm up to heaven is wrong. And let me tell you right now, evil is exhausting. So exhausting one might find herself slumped over on the toilet weeping with the weight of it all. Striving for things not meant for you is exhausting. Working hard to hide how gentle and how tender-hearted you are so that you appear more viable in business is exhausting.

I want simple things. I want to serve the Lord. I want to teach young women how to quit saying they’re sorry for existing. I’m not a money-hungry, career-driven, win-at-all-costs kind of gal. I want to make babies and biscuits with a bearded husband and live in a cabin in the woods loving the heck out of people everywhere I go.

Because God saved even a hypocrite like me. Because God desires the best for even a hypocrite like me. Because God redeemed even a hypocrite like me. Because God loved even a hypocrite like me.