The Chaos in My Head

I have always believed that to write well, one should write what they know. I’ve found some problems with that since my post a few weeks ago. Those are the experiences that are not the easiest to explain anymore. They seem to be the lessons learned the hard way, the loves you regret, or the things you know you felt, but maybe still haven’t found the words to say. Mostly, they are the things that make you feel exposed. My last blog was one hundred percent honest and made me feel one hundred percent exposed. It took everything I had to write it and share it. I deleted it five hundred times. Maybe that’s why I felt as though it had to be shared. It is my biggest lesson-learned-the-hard-way and it comes up every time I try to write. I write honest. I write real. When I sit and explain my heart through words, I have no filter. Since it came up every time I tried to write and I felt I didn’t know how to talk about it or explain it well, nor did I know how to expose it without feeling stupid – it kept me from writing…. But I was born writing.
I love to write in a way I can’t explain. I need it. It’s a way to take off the filter and get it all out, to take the chaos in my mind and create something that’s beautiful to me. For me, it's huge. The religious abuse I went through has affected me in a lot of ways in the past three years. There were many repercussions, but mostly, I have found it has made me guarded. I am once again out going. I am once again out spoken. I once again have a lot to say, but now, I’m more cautious about who I share things with. If I learned anything during the bad experience, I learned that I know nothing for sure. None of us do. My blogs used to be about my theories or religion, life, love and god. Now, however, I feel that I don’t know anything about those things outside of what is deeply experiential, completely intuitive, and very subjective. My opinions of those sensitive areas are based on my worldview and my life, and I think it’s silly to say that someone else should feel something because I do. I used to have so much I “knew”, so much I was sure of and so much to say. Now I question everything – even myself. Everyday. But, I think that’s good. It’s the only way I can stand to be. If you don’t question everything you believe, you have nothing to stand on anyway. If I would have questioned life, people, ideas, and theories then, the way I’ve learned to now, I wouldn’t have ended up in a cult. So this is complicated for me. I believe to write well is to write what you know, but I know now for sure, that I know nothing for sure? I would never want to pretend that I knew something that someone else should live by. I know that sounds a little intense, but some people thought they knew some things I should live by and it destroyed me for awhile. I’m a little afraid of that.
So here it is. I will write what I think… what I think I know… and what I think may be leading me to knowing something for sure. I will just write. I will let it flow out of my heart and not care who it pisses off. It’s part of me and I need it. Maybe something I say will cause people to think out of their box a little. I’m not sure. I’m not sure why I love it or why I feel made for it, but I’m going to pursue it. It’s me like love is me and counseling is me and school is me. It’s just me.
So here’s to putting the past behind me and not letting anything that has ever happened to me or anything anyone thinks stop me from doing anything that I love.
So take that, haters.
(PS: Anyone who messaged me about the last blog – Thank you so much. I will write you back. I promise.)

My Hidden Secret

Three years ago yesterday, I ran away. Usually, I consider giving up or giving in a bad thing. I am a fighter. I think that with my will, I can make anything work. However, this particular time, it wasn’t a bad thing, at all. It was quite possibly the best decision of my whole life. Why? Well, that’s hard to explain. I am always confused about how to explain the two years of my life between Rhema and ORU. Sometimes I say I worked, sometimes I say I lived on the beach, sometimes. . . I tell the truth. Sometimes I will try to get comfortable enough with someone to say that I was in a really controlling, really frightening situation in which I could not be myself, live my life, call home too often, talk to a myriad of people from my school or hometown, date, drink, hung out with people who dated or drank, visit another church, be close to people that did not commit to my church, talk about my life to anyone who wasn’t at a higher ranking then me in their little system, etc. I could try to list the dynamics further, but I don’t think that’s the point. The point is, I was in a cult. Two years of my life are unexplainable, barely recognizable, painful, and pointless. I never know what to say or who to tell.

The thing is, I know it was partly my fault. Things got crazier and crazier and I stayed. Crazy starts to seem normal when you’ve been cut off from society for long enough. And when the 200 people around you think the crazy is holy and the rest of humanity is just “in-sin” or has “an un-renewed mind” and is basically just a group of unworthy outsiders, you want to stay in the group, because the group is all you have. I’ve been studying cults for a long time. And each time I read something new, I hope that the group I was in doesn’t fit the criteria. I hope this one time that it doesn’t add up and that I wasn’t really in a cult. Each time it does. Every time. The way the leader acted, the way the followers acted in response to the leader, the insane boundaries, the isolation. It always fits. And then each time, I look at myself, and say, “Okay, there it is Amanda. You really were in a cult.” But that never makes it better. Explaining it doesn’t make it better. Understanding it doesn’t make it better. Nothing makes it better.

I feel so helpless when I look back. I can’t go back and help the people I knew there. I can’t go back and help the me that is stuck there. I can’t redeem the time. I spend a lot of time worrying about people who are still there. I worry about them a lot, but I can’t do anything. I can’t go light the church on fire. I can’t shake them and say, “You’re good enough on your own. You don’t need this. This does not impress God. You don’t have to fit his mold. You don’t have to be cookie-cutter. Live a life you love. Follow your own damn dreams. Follow your heart. That’s where God is.” But I can’t do that either. If I say too much when I do get that sporadic call from someone who is thinking of leaving. . . I could push them away. I know how badly I fought everyone on the outside, who wanted to help get me out. . . It’s a lot to handle.
I get over-whelmed a lot.

I have gone to counseling twice now and brought up everything in the world besides… well this. And this… is probably the one thing that needs to be talked about in counseling. Talking about your ex-boyfriend and dealing with your time management issues are great, but I have to stop letting this hidden secret, be a hidden secret. I have to know what to do with it, day to day. I have to get help. So that’s where I am at on this journey. I left three years ago yesterday. I drove down A1A Beach Boulevard with everything I owned in my car, in the middle of the night, afraid of everything, but knowing that if I could just make it out, I would go to school, I would live my life, and I would make a difference in the world. Now, I am living my life, going to school and making a difference in the world, yet the pain hasn’t stopped. I guess I’m ready for what’s next: dealing with this. I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.

When you find an old journal

I've been writing my entire life. I started when I was 5. I have probably 100 journals completely filled with my hopes, dreams, desires, visions, fears, all the guys I thought I'd marry, and more. When I found this entry. . . I sent it to the guy whom I wrote it about. Years have passed, and we have found ourselves living completely seperate lives. . . however, reading it reminded me of how much less cluttered I feel when I get my overly analytical thoughts out of my mind by writing. My ex told me it was beautiful and I promised him I'd start writing again. This one’s for you . . .

June 2007 - - -
"I don't know what I expected it to be any different than it was any other time we have found ourselves in each other’s arms. It's like - you love and despise it - you're intrigued by the chemistry and romance - the way he looks at you and kisses you - kisses you like you're delicate and if he isn't careful - you might break. . . When do I feel so bad the next day? Is it him? me? We laughed, cried and danced on the beach, but why am I retarded?! It's not worth feeling like this the next day. I should have been able to put down my desire to be with him. I shouldn't have been willing to see him. He wants to meet up again just to enjoy my company and I don't think i could even have motives that pure - I want to meet up for how he makes me feel. I am going to put down the flesh and go on with life. No. I can't."

Isn't it funny that at every age we reach - we think that everyone younger are just babies? I think 19 is young, but when I decided I was in love at nineteen years old, I didn't feel so young. We had it all planned. We would move to Florida, work in ministry, get married, make babies, etc etc. My internship was 45 minutes north of his. We would date just a few more months, and be engaged by the spring. What could go wrong?! We were in love - and that's stronger than anything else. . .
From the day I left Tulsa, we saw each other twice in the next year. We didn't even break up in person. It was the most mundane ending, to the most beautiful love. And I gave up easiest of all. . . but that's a different life-lesson.
So here we are. . . one year from our break-up. . . middle of the night, on the beach. I don't remember how we hugged for the first time, or said hi. I made it complicated as always - I brought a blanket, water, a camera. I acted as ridiculous as possible. I was once very amazing and keeping life from being simple. This never differed him. . . he handled me insanely well.
I remember as I looked at him it was so unusual to me that he still loved me. I could see it so clearly. I could see so much in his eyes, not simply passion, or lust, or desire. He was completely in awe. Completely intrigued. Completely in love. He didn't care that I broke up with him for a guy who lied and left. He didn't care that I had settled completely and had given up all my dreams. He didn't care about any of that. He was a good man - he just wanted to be with me. I have never known someone so good at being in the here and now.
He called and wrote and looked for me, and here we were. We sang our song to one another while the waves crashed in the background and water slipped over our feet. We lied on the blanket and laughed. I let him hold me. I let him love me.
Yet, I left thinking that I was wrong, [and sinful,] and would not do that again. He "was not good enough for me". He was not who I "was supposed to be with."
Here's the part that shows my age. I still believed in "supposed to." I walked away that night and didn't cry. I walked away and believed that a memory like this could be a mistake.
In the weeks following I got on highway 95 south every single night and ever single night, I turned around.

I let fear win.

The things of the heart are the dreams that don't go away, the loves you can't shake, the things that fulfill you.

I eventually left the world of doing what "is best for you" and found the world of my dreams. I am on the way to many passions and desires that make me, me. I actually finally get to pursue the things that beat within me. After I read my old journal entry and pondered that night on the night on the beach, I thought about my dreams and desires. You know, the things that God places on your heart, the things that keep you awake at night. When something makes you move, makes you turn South on the highway for no reason, makes you want to go to college, makes you want to be in business, open a store, be a psychologist, whatever, you mustn't write it off a just a dream, or silly fantasy, - it is the dream, the only one that matters. Don't Ignore It. We must learn what makes us tick and do that thing everday. We can not let fear win. The fear of failure is always worse than failure itself.

Even in love. He and I would have broken up anyway, so why not embrace a night of dancing on the beach. . . why not drive to him and dance on the beach every night for a month? Why not let love win. . .

I have loved since this man, but it's not the same. Not in a bad way, just in a each love is different from the others. And this particular love, I was afraid of. I ran away from it.

I guess the good news is, I've learned. I believe in reckless abandon. I am following my dreams. I've learned to take a chance on impulses, to let your emotions lead when necessary, and not fight yourself on matters of the heart. Follow your heart.