There has been a call on my life to write for a long time. I think about writing every day. I know that I’m supposed to write. And yet, I can’t seem to write.

Is this the way of humans or just my own private struggle? I think this may be the way of humans…this deep knowing or calling to do a particular thing followed by the overwhelming sense of inadequacy for the task. Are we truly inadequate or just fearful to our core? Perhaps a bit of both.

I know that I feel inadequate to write and share my story, my wisdom. Why does it even matter, this story of mine? And what about my lack of writing skills, and my struggle to complete projects? And then there’s procrastination and perfectionism. Let’s face it. I’m a mess! Surely there is a better candidate for this writing assignment.

Lord, how do I overcome all of this mess and write anyway? Better yet, can You use this mess?!!
Of course I can use your mess!
I don’t see a mess.
I see a beautiful Child of Mine.
I see you, Child.
I am with you.
Just write. Don’t make a big deal about all this….Just write.

So there you go. I will keep writing.

I will humbly try to share this story of mine and encourage you with my journey of healing. I am so thankful to be on this journey, doing this work. If my bottom would have been deeper, I might not have survived it. The bottom that I hit when my Dad died was devastating. But that time of grief and sorrow beyond measure, that total unraveling of my soul, somehow enabled me to cry out for help.

I can’t help but cry just thinking about that time.

You would think that I was really close to my Dad based on the depth of my grief. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case. That wasn’t the case at all.

That’s what I longed for….to be close to my Dad…to be Daddy’s Girl. He couldn’t give me that.

As an adult, I can see that he was engulfed by his own struggle and possibly some mental illness. As an adult, I can make some sense of that. But a child can’t logically connect those dots. A child doesn’t understand that the ongoing harsh criticism isn’t really about her.

I see myself as a 4-year-old longing to be loved and adored by the man that I saw as perfect and wonderful. I see myself standing before him, fearful of his words and laughter. Fearful of making a mistake. Fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing….scanning my mind trying to determine what the “wrong” thing was….willing to do whatever I could to avoid his punishment, anger, and cold shoulder. His pulling away was as devastating as his anger. (That’s called “emotional abandonment” folks!)

I desperately wanted him to hold me, to notice me, to see the good in me, to love me.
As an adult, I can see that this is about him.
As a child, I thought it was about me.