On there being a lot

Two and a half years ago, I sat in the office of my therapist for my last appointment. "Just be sure you find somebody when you get there, okay?...you've done REALLY well....you're just not finished yet, you know?" Honestly that's a bit of a paraphrase but the sentiment was that. I'd done a LOT of hard work shoving my way through the heat of the hell that burned in my own soul, and passing through the heat had served to burn away a whole host of things my life didn't need anymore. I also got a lot stronger. Strongest I had been in like...a decade. I felt so emboldened with this new strength that I grabbed right up the false sense of security that is so perfectly human, and nodded my head yes - that I would find someone once I got there (here - where I live now) but I felt so confident that the urgency that flavored every word she spoke was just something I might have the luxury of ignoring...for just a little while. 

So I did. 

Two and a half years ago, with the guidance of this woman and the support of my then boyfriend (who is now my husband), I unlocked and re-entered rooms in my soul that I have described in past posts as dusty museums of shrouded, broken relics. I faced demons nose to nose. I get literal chills thinking about THOSE exercises. The gates of hell are not a casual hangout. I revisited past versions of myself and provided rescue to some of them. 

I did the work. I cataloged it here. I thought it could maybe just be enough to get me through for a while. I DID know that I would need to do some more "sorting out" because here's the thing. As I walked carefully and slowly through the house that is my soul, I DID enter and completely renovate some of those rooms. They are still beautiful. They are delivered from the darkness of a locked door and diverted attention. 

But this is what I did. I made those rooms so truly lovely so that maybe they could, in some way, compensate for the rooms for which I refused to pull the key from the pocket of my memory. I just couldn't do it. I just wanted to revel in the beauty of these parts that have been restored, but lately I've felt the floor even outside the locked rooms get too soft under my feet. The thing with damage is, if you don't stop the decay that it's causing, it just spreads. 

On a day last week is when I noticed it as I passed by one of the locked rooms - I noticed the soft floor. It wasn't just creaky. It was rotting away and spreading closer....to all the work I had done. My attention shot up to look at the door of the rooms that held all the healing, and it hit me. This cannot touch those rooms. This cannot and should not happen. It's time to get to work.

I started the work, you guys. Right now I'm sort of at the point of standing there with my new contractor walking around surveying all the damage from all the storms and all the vandals. After an explanation including as much detail as I could manage (and lets be real - you know I can remember almost every. single. detail - they don't leave you), we each take a breath and then I hear a voice say the same thing I've heard other experienced voices say - "That's....a lot". I sheepishly smile with just my mouth and still sad eyes and try to find a way to explain away how my story is NOT THAT unique. There are a lot of people that have encountered their OWN storms and been attacked and ravaged by their OWN vandals, but then I feel silly because this is not the first job my contractor has assessed. I'm sure there have been many, many, many, and yet the reaction to MY re-do is that there is genuinely....a lot. So I have to acknowledge the opinion of the one who is far more expert than I am and take direction for which part to tackle first. 

I'm scared. Because the truth of the matter is that we aren't talking about a house. I merely use that as an analogy that seems most easily relatable because even if you've never renovated a house, you've probably watched someone else do it. Also...houses become homes, and this life I live on this big round ball is the home for the story I leave for others to read so...we're calling it a house but...the truth is, this is a soul and this reno is actually more like surgery, and I have to be awake for every slice of the knife and every scrape as we find and pull out all the things that could threaten my growth. I don't like pain. I feel like I've had my fair share. There's been a lotta tough, and I'm tired, but this has to be done. 

I'm also excited because when you do this work, you grow. You become that much more unstoppable in the race towards your dreams, and you become that much more usable to a God who needs runners without weights on their legs. 

(oh the analogies) Forgive me. There's a lot swirling around through the rooms in my soul tonight, and finding a way to describe them gives me a way to at least begin to sort things out. Pray for me if you think of me. There is a portion of my life that requires address that is actually a period of years larger than the portion of my life that did not include these injuries. It's a big job. I've got a lot of small tasks and big ventures to sort out and complete because...you know...it's a lot.