“If this is the last conversation we have, I need you to know something. You’re easy to love, okay? You are easy to love.”
He said it so plainly. I looked at him as the corners of his mouth turned up into that smooth smirk I had come to adore. His eyes were full to the brim with sincerity. He meant it. Even as goodbye fell from my lips, he meant it.
Two months ago I started fighting a battle. It was September. Feelings of bitterness had seeped into my body leaving me drained of all my energy, patience and joy. I was angry. I was ready to start a war.
So I did.
The fight was static for two long months. No progress was made. The pain only intensified. The longing in my heart still unsatisfied. Until the end of October brought a shocking blow…the realization that when I started this war two months ago, I wasn’t fighting against my enemy. I had declared battle against the only one who could actually save me. I was fighting my only defense.
You see, I was mad at God. I was frustrated because out of everyone I know, I seem to be the only one who isn’t allowed to have it “good.” I seem to be the only one who has to come “home” to Hell each night. I seem to be the only one who has to sit and watch as addiction sucks the life out of the people who are supposed to be taking care of me and loving me. Years of neglect has led me to internalize the lie that I am impossible to love, impossible to care about, because my own family can’t seem to find me more appealing to love than a bottle of vodka or a cheap joint. Years of helpless by-standing has led to deterioration of hope and as a result, confusion about who is to blame for such seemingly undeserved pain.
So began a toxic cycle of claiming that I loved the same God who I had blamed for my circumstances. My sentences were my swords, each word sharp and piercing as I denounced God for not giving me a miracle, for not making my parents love me. As bitterness consumed me, I turned to people to perform the miracles I hoped and prayed so fervently for instead.
The thing is, humans can’t replace God. We can’t place tiny, fragile, finite people in the role of a gigantic, strong, infinite God and then ask them to succeed. Our expectations will crush them. It will break us.
So came the end of October. The realization that I was fighting my only hope for survival. The realization that I was living a lie. The realization that I had work to do. The battle field wasn’t meant to be between me and God. It was meant to be between me and the Enemy. Between me and the lies.
It’s been six days. The process has been slow, but steady. It has been good.
This time is for healing. Real healing. Not for learning how to become numb to the pain again. It’s for beating the lies and the bitterness. It’s for fighting my battle the right way this time around. For relying on gigantic, strong, and infinite power.
It starts with baby steps. Telling myself something true each day. And the current truth I choose to hold onto is that sweet reminder from the boy I love dearly. The one who spoke loud and clear the words that God had been gently whispering to me for so long.
I am loved. I am easy to love.