Displaced Idiosyncrasies

“Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he who finds himself, loses his misery.” —Matthew Arnold

So as the days draw closer to my birthday, I’ve found myself in a rather nonchalant mood. My inner peace had become estranged by the subtle background noise that has claimed pieces of my easy-going temperament. To put it bluntly, I’ve just about reached my limits of dysfunctional joint connections!

When my body engages in “stressors,” either of two things happen: I eat or shut down. Recently, I’ve become too familiar with both. My sour disposition has been the direct result of failed rescue attempts and unsuccessful interventions. I’ve continually overextended myself, leaving very little behind for my disposal. I’ve managed to abandon my goals to make myself available for others— those that have already decided that they don’t want my help because they haven’t even acknowledged that they needed it. In turn, my “perceived failure” forced me to realize that I’m trying way too hard! I’ve unsuccessfully tried to climb mountains to “rescue” people that kept moving further up rocky terrain, away from my clutches.

The repeated cycles of exhaustion have triggered physical warnings to my body via frequent migraines that it’s time to quit!

I undoubtedly removed the dressings from my wounds to bandage others. Others, who have freely decided, that they would rather hold tight to their afflictions. I’ve subconsciously mastered becoming the martyr at my own expense.

I entertained demons that were not my own.
I carried burdens that weighed me down.
I tried to save people that were committed to drowning by their own bloodshed.

In desperation, I lashed out in a self-sabotaging, familiar ritual by cutting the roots of everything that’s grown within my immediate vicinity. In fact, I shaved my head in an act of public submission to live out my bitter grievances. My body often serves  as the “blank canvas” in which I openly express my raging emotions—good or bad.

This “epic failure” was way too overwhelming for my dedicated nature to silently contain and
my loyalty forced me to stay confined longer than I ever intended. My energy unraveled from the seams of restlessness coupled with an anxiety tonic.

My burst of anger showed up as eloquent rage! A walking, bold, controversial statement screaming curse words (that I couldn’t allow to escape my mouth), accompanied by a glaring look that snapped, because it’s mine and I can cut it, weave it, or do whatever I like, unapologetically (whenever people questioned my free will).

Eloquent or displaced?

Only God knows the “creative root” of this eccentricity.

Remember: Don’t judge public actions without examining the private reasoning.

Emotional Hoader

My relationship with God has been somewhat peculiar to say the least. Trying to make sense of life's "mayhem" apart from him can leave you discombobulated and blue in the face. Gasping for air in the cracks of uncertainty, I found myself reaching for answers in the surrounding toxic air.

For over two decades, anytime exhaustion settled in, I found myself on the couch curled up in the fetal position with a white blanket. My attempts to swaddle myself and suffocate the pain from my heart’s memory bank were always unsuccessful. My morning routine of affirmations landed on deaf ears.

God’s armor felt too big for my britches. I subconsciously blamed my childhood family dynamics for not being prepared to stand unmoved in the fight. There wasn’t anyone available to lead; therefore, I skipped basic training. The sword felt bigger than my hands could rightfully hold. The enemy poked holes in my helmet, so I experienced headshots during attacks. I kept walking out of my ill-fitting, secondhand shoes. We couldn’t afford a belt, so I made do with rigged up safety pins. My breastplate was nothing more than a recycled, remnant of fabric materials. My shield was an old piece of plywood that was missing from the old wooden floor of my grandma’s sitting room.

I was ashamed that my foundation required patching up. The visible wear and tear required regular maintenance. The leaking roof sent the five-gallon buckets into a constant flood of tears at the threat of inclement weather. The awnings shook forcefully with high winds. My dwelling was an eye sore in direct violation of God’s word. His promises were filtered through unreliable past experiences, brought to life each day that I refused to let go. Trauma, loss and pain that I couldn’t depart with. It was my home of familiarity in the unknown of darkness.

As I stood in the back yard and my eyes scanned the debris, I realized I made a home out of the left overs. I had stuffed, piled, and stored outdated things that no longer fit. I was an emotional hoarder. I made use of things that others discarded. I found value in restoration. I found security in physical abundance. It was my distorted escape from the poverty mindset of lack! It was the reason my drawers, closets and shelves remained packed beyond capacity. It was traditional dysfunction recycling unhealed wounds.

Spiritual warfare can manifest over the years by keeping you attached to an umbilical cord of demonic oppression. Know when it’s time to cut the cord. My Pastor said in service on yesterday, “You can’t give away what you refuse to conquer.”

Today, I’m “intentionally” giving away everything that no longer serves me. I’m packing up fear, doubt, defeat, anxiety, worry, shame, guilt and returning it to the pit of darkness from which it came.

Search your space for anything that needs to be replaced, repaired or rebuilt.

Toss those things that doesn’t bring you peace, joy and LOVE.