Lincoln Diaries: Rivers to Cross
There is a boundary. I do not see it, do not know what it looks like, but it is there, and it takes up space, grows even. Looms larger and larger until I cannot ignore it, until I admit to myself that there is a world in which I insist on the smallness, the fearfulness, the inadequacies. Right across from that is another world in which I become. One in which I am not hiding my strengths, not belittling the things I care about, not talking down on this mind, this body, this heart. It is not only where I stop telling lies to myself about myself, but also where truth lives, pronounces itself fiercely, asserts itself with evidence, and demands my belief. This is often where I fall short—seeing the good for myself, believing it for myself, and accepting it for myself.
At one of my appointments, I tell my therapist, “I don’t know why I do this. There’s no reward to this distorted way I see myself. I get nothing from this.” And yet, I do it again and again because it is safe and familiar, and because if I can arm myself with self-deprecation, then the world can’t hurt me. If I am so deeply entrenched in the narrative of brokenness, what more can one say or do to me? What can they possibly find beyond the ruins if not more ruin? Whatever they say, whatever they do, none of it will ever surpass what damage I have already caused. And right there lies both my self-sabotaging power and helplessness. I bring the disaster upon myself first, clothe myself with the wreckage and I wait, desperately, defensively, anxiously.
It is as though all my life I’ve been waiting for something to happen to me. I sit, the boundary in front of me, waiting for it to take shape, to shift, to come apart somehow. Or is it a river and how deep? What I should do is cross it, stretch my leg over its thickness, and see what I would find: a self I do not recognize because I’ve so stubbornly insisted on one way of being in the world.
When I really think about it, the boundary might be inside of me. A high fence no one can reach. A wall of stream that divides me from me. Must I split this body in half to touch the thing? Must I face myself in the mirror and carefully trace the two beings? Do they like each other? Are they in my eyes or in my mouth? My tongue is where it starts and ends. A sharp instrument of unkindness. On most days, I cut myself here and there, and do nothing to stop the bleeding. I do not remember one good thing I’ve said to myself. I remember the rest. It is easy that way. The harder thing is to wrench my mind from what is false, exaggerated, and twisted. The real work is to get in the way of myself, hold my own hand, and lead myself down a new path. To know which of my many voices to tune out, which to blast so loud it is the only thing that lives in my head. To not simply give in, surrender to whatever strikes, to refuse to be trapped in the confines of whatever the world projects. To not offer myself to be defined, to be claimed as one thing or the other, to have my life and not live it. Or worse, to have my life and crouch under the shadows, living fearfully, miserably, longing longing longing for my other self. This will not be the story. I will unwrite it tirelessly. I will tear it apart and begin again. I will live out the new life defiantly until all the past knots come undone.
Look at me now. When the time comes, I pack my life into the trunk of a car as my friend drives us thirteen hours away from Lincoln, away from the safety of my friends, from life as I’ve come to know it. Here I am, doing it all over again. Leaving something behind, reaching for that which I do not know. Tennessee with all its newness. Greenery everywhere in Athens. A land of beauty and awe. It is breathtaking. I walk through the neighborhood. New faces, new names, new places to get used to. My heart, I can feel its quickening pulse. One of me thinks I cannot make it. One of me thinks I can. I want to admit they are both right, but I must choose which side of the boundary to lean on. I cannot rest my head on the fence, I cannot plant my feet in the stream and stand still. No, I cannot playfully entertain one for when it snatches me by the throat and forces me to accept it as my life, it is brutal and merciless and will drag me into its pit. I stop the noise and pluck myself away like I would a flower. In the quiet, I talk to my heart softly. My tongue a tender, loving thing, learns to speak life. I do not say much, but the only condition is to have faith and to believe that which is true.
