Dancing with my shadow

Creative fraudulence, middle-places, and my personal Black Forest.

I’ve written some about being in the middle place — the place in-between.

Unsurprisingly, I am here, writing about it again.

In all this typing, I just want to find peace in the constant hubbub of inner doubts and unfulfilled dreams, hoping to dance to a new rhythm as my fingers tap, tap, tap.

Going through articles and articles I’ve written, I have recognized a common thread for months of my writing: this wrestling of trying to keep up (with what or who I can’t name) and the exhaustion of carrying a faith that’s supposed to carry you.

Somewhere, I’ve lost the drift and instead I’m drifting out to sea, holding onto the last remaining part of a ship that I deemed sturdy enough to sail in, but it wasn’t. It fell apart, plank by plank, right beneath my nose but just out of my line of sight.

Here’s the thing. I want to be a Christian writer who’s got the answers, who has those brilliant lines that just dash across your screen, who’s writing has you feeling at peace in a world gone mad. I want a content creation schedule and tidy quips that just say it all in ten words or less.

But most of all, I just want to believe what I’m writing — I don’t want to be a fraud. I don’t want to stand up and say that I am journeying forward, inviting you to come with me as if I could lead — especially when it often feels as if my spiritual growth has stopped completely or worse, is going backward.

The Blind Leading the Blind by Pieter Bruegel

I’m not creating a sob story for myself, nor revealing a valley moment just to reveal at the end I have answers. Actually, I’m just tired. As a creative, as a writer, a woman, a Christian. Who can say whether it’s depression, moodswings, stress, or OCD-like tendencies? I certainly can’t pin it down, so instead I’ll put a pin in trying to finding the answer.

Instead I’m just here to be honest about me dancing with my shadow, as Benjamin Hastings sings so vulnerably.

There is this cycle in my head and in my heart, and it comes every three to six months (I should name it, since it has become my lurking companion). It’s this realization that my faith is a fine golden thread, weaving in and among the quintessential Black Forest of every child’s darker fantasies, the ones that whisper promises of inch’s-long thorns, watchful eyes, and decaying trees.

This reincarnated circle has me running through the lonely menacing forest, just gliding my hand over the thread lest it snap and disintegrate before my eyes.

Before I reach the end, there is always existential doubt, deepseated fear of that thread finally snapping after years of hanging on. I know, this doesn’t make sense.

I always find my way out, but increasingly, the dread of going around the bend again has left me in a constant state of spiritual burnout and high levels of emotional distress, which I try to cure with breathing exercises, litanies, and desperate prayers.

I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’ve said this heartwrenching phrase countless times to my mom and to Lord only knows who else.

Constantly searching mentally for a way out, or even just a semblance of peace in the endless forest of disappointment and mustard-seed sized faith.

Needless to say, my journey through my personal Black Forest affects not only me but everyone around me, and that only adds to the distress and anxiety inside. I don’t want to burden others, I want to bear their burdens with them. But it’s like it’s impossible for me to keep the emotional turmoil in anymore.

I found this sadly humorous meme the other day,

Unfortunately, my close friends and family can attest to this being the case. And yet after all the talking sessions, the wandering in circles asking the same questions over and over and yet over again, my heart and mind weary beyond capacity just wanting it all to take a break — I still find myself crying, alone. Something strange (and probably unhealthy, yes, I know) about me: I avoid crying in front of anyone at all costs. I watch most movies by myself because the chances of me crying will be high.

Following the meme, there have been many times in recent months where I find myself unable to hold back the flood in front of someone, but it’s still rare. I prefer the solitude, the silence, rather than being frustrated into anger by well-intentioned placations and cliche proverbs.

And still, those tears feel like they are falling into empty space, making me feel like a lone heroine in renaissance portraiture, drooping as she covers her face with her hands.

I don’t know if any of you sees or relates — I hope that you don’t, but I have a feeling that you probably do in some way or other. And I guess that’s why I feel okay in sharing this, beecause I don’t want to be fraudulent. I’m so tired of forcing myself to write lots of things that I know I’ll believe again, but just can’t summon the strength to right now.

I’m in the middle, maybe you are too. I can only cling to the knowledge that He welcomes my absurdities and looming doubts — they are small things to Him, but significant, too, because He knows how much they haunt me and the ways that they leave me disillusioned and lonely.

And in this deserted place, I’ll just be dancing with my shadow.