Strawberry Jello and an Unexpected Visit From Insecurity

This is the writing of a terribly insecure girl. I would say woman, but when I am face-to-face with Insecurity the maturity of the title “woman” does not seem appropriate, and the tiny title of “girl” feels right and safe and fitting, much like my gray wool sweater that I hide in during winter.

I don’t like having Insecurity sneak up on me unannounced. This happened last night. I’d prefer she call ahead and give warning, allowing me time to dust and mop and straighten a picture frame here or there. Showing up at my doorstep and ringing my doorbell though, without even so much as a text ahead of time, just doesn’t seem fair. Sometimes I’m not even fully dressed. And then what? I rush to hide the naked parts of me because I am not prepared to share them.

Caught off guard, I am a bit raw. I find myself back pedaling, tripping over fear once again. Fear because I can’t prove myself or my choices. I am little more than a free-spirit, chasing after what I believe God is telling me in whispers. But even that seems far-fetched.

“You hear from God?”

“I do. I think I do. Although God’s voice sounds a lot like mine and it’s in my head.” Now I’m starting to feel like I should be laying on a couch, having this head of mine analyzed.

I feel emotional and unfounded and fact-less when faced with a world that demands proof and scoffs at theory and “perhaps” and philosophy. I am trying to nail this jello to the wall, but it is in a constant jiggly motion. A chunk falls through my fingers and lands in a SPLAT on the floor below me. That chunk, of all things, was the piece that made sense yesterday. That chunk was the one I thought for sure I had solidified. And I mourn the strawberry mush at my feet, because it is a creative idea that didn’t turn out as I expected.

I loathe Insecurity because she reminds me that I am not perfect, and at times that feels like my greatest fault.

I become defensive when questioned, not because someone may not trust my answer, but because I realize I may not even have an answer. I’d do much better to respond with a simple “I’m not sure.” I’d do well to learn the fine art of elegantly flaunting the “I don’t know.” To wear such words with confidence instead of regret. With anticipation instead of dread. To be content with riding an ever-changing wave. To trust the mystery that is ever un-folding and to welcome with open arms that nearly everything is at all times open for debate.

Instead I stare coldly, with squinted eyes at Insecurity as she peeks in my front porch window. I try to devise a plan that would allow me to pull the blinds without her seeing me. To talk in shushed words so she can’t hear me. To keep the lights off so she thinks no one is home. I wish I understood that she just needs a little gentle hospitality. A warm porch light turned on, an arm around her shoulder, a cup of hot chai tea with honey and milk or maybe even a cold beer. I wish I could sit down on the other side of the couch and hear her out once and for all. I wish I knew that she could be tamed with but a little acceptance, a little leeway, a little room for mess. Instead I wrap my gray wool sweater even tighter around me, hoping if I ignore her she will just go away, and I return to time-consuming activities, like nailing strawberry gelatin to a wall and become increasingly embarrassed at the sticky floor beneath me.

Tagged as: Imperfect, imperfection, insecure, insecurity