If you think about it,
everybody’s naked 100 percent of the time, just with a little bit of clothes on
top.
With some stretching, you could say that you
can never actually be NOT naked. You can’t GET RID of naked, you can just HIDE
it.
We hide our nakedness because
we’re ashamed of it. We cover it up with fig leaves or smiles or friends or
work or WHATEVER, but it’s when we allow others to see us naked that intimacy
happens. When you stand fig-leaf-less in front of someone and they still love
you… that’s TRUE love. No more hiding or pretending. So if you’ll permit me,
I’m gonna be a little naked here. (You are not allowed to not permit me) (This
is all a metaphor okay)
This blog is probably going
to be just as much about my struggles with my mental health as it is about
raucous adventures abroad, because that’s what a lot of my life consists of. The
six months I spent in Costa Rica in 2009 were the hardest months I’ve ever
lived through. While there, I developed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,
suffering deeply from anxiety and depression.
This is me being naked.
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
is not what you’ve seen on “Monk.” It’s not all about organizing things by
color or washing your hands a lot, and it’s not funny. (I can’t talk about it
too much or else I’ll get all riled up about media portrayal of mental
disorders and whatnot)
When people see us naked,
they see who we really are.
So here I am, with issues, on
antidepressants, strugglebussing my way through life, about to plunge into a
scary adventure with one of my best friends. Will it be fun? Yes. Will it be
awful? Yes, at times. Will I have problems? For shiz. Will God be there? Even
more for shiz.
We need more naked. But in order to reach a new nudity threshold, we need to LOVE other people's naked (still a metaphor okay). Tell them you love them even without fakeup (see what I did there LOLOLOL)-- or whatever it is they're using to hide the bits of themselves they're scared you won't like.
A tiny inspirational story:
On Wednesday I started
panicking about my trip. My insides felt twisted up; I was nauseous for the better part of
two (three?) days. My mind raced, saying “Don’t do it. You can’t do it. You
need to stay home. You can’t you can’t you can’t.” In response I cried “Where
are you, God? Eloi, Eloi, lama sabacthani?”(Yes, I said it in—whatever language
that is) When I woke in the morning from a restless sleep, I went to work to
play the part of friendly sporting goods cashier. For several hours I felt so
sick that I almost called my dad to pick me up—then the sickness began to
subside.
At about one in the afternoon
an older man came up to the register with a pair of pants that he wanted to
buy, but unfortunately I discovered a rip in them (this story has a point, I
swear)—so I offered a discount. “Could you get 50 percent off?” he asked
hopefully.
I responded, “Oh, I don’t
have the power to do that. Only my manager has the power.” So I called my
manager up to slice the price in half. When the deed was done and the
transaction transacted, the customer began to leave-- but he turned and looked at me.
“You do have the power,” he
said.
It took me a moment to
understand that he was referring to my comment about not being able to halve
the price. “Oh no, I really don’t have the power—" I began, but he interrupted
me.
“No. Not here.” He jabbed his
finger towards the ground, indicating, I presume, the store. “But you DO have
the power. You just have to believe it.”
Would God really go to the trouble
to send an old-man-angel just to tell me to believe in myself? Maybe. I’m sure
He’s done things that seem much sillier.
And it made me feel better.
And it’s true.
My success in Argentina is
going to depend largely on my ability to BELIEVE I can succeed.
FRIENDVENTURES
No comments:
Post a Comment