This past week my mind’s ruminated on that word, commitment. What is it? How do I balance it with my own needs? What is healthy and what isn’t? How does it fit in with God, with my writing, and my friends?
I have to say that in my life, I’ve had all sorts of commitment-phobias. I got married too young. During my marriage I went to college; I changed career directions twice and still got a degree in something that I never used afterwards. After my divorce, I stayed single for fourteen years before re-marrying because being committed just scared the hell out of me.
What does commitment mean? Two definitions are that it is a pledge to do something and that it is a state of being bound emotionally or intellectually to an ideal or course of action. In the last eighteen years, I have continually pledged to live my life with a man that changes from time to time. I say continually most sincerely; marriage is a long effort. In the last twelve years, I have lived in one place as a homeowner and have been seriously committed to getting that mortgage paid off. For ten years or so, we have been members of a church. Eight years, I’ve been going to codependence anonymous meetings and working the steps. I’ve worked numerous jobs, but work has been a steady effort. So I suppose I have gotten over my fear of commitments, somewhat.
Writing for me has never been about commitment until this past year when I quit my regular job and started the first draft of my novel. It has been about something as basic as breathing. I have always used the action of pen-to-paper as a method of meditation, prayer, figuring out what was in my head, making a decision, putting off a decision, coping with grief, and expressing my joys. You name it, writing has been my friend. But now that I am devoting more of my life to writing, I’ve found that my commitment issues of youth seem to surface. I have a god-zillion doubts about my abilities and wonder if anyone would be interested enough to read my work.
Doubt has been my biggest component of quitting something. Those doubts have now surfaced in my church attendance. I am in grief about church and the Easter season. This is a hard time of the year for me, but I’ve usually been able to just go along. I’ve either been very busy at church during Easter, or I’ve been very quiet. I haven’t openly revealed to them that my father killed himself so close to Easter, although if they have read my blogs, they know that now. There’s a thing about grievers-of-suicide, they don’t open up much about that subject, especially not to church friends. It’s too easy a fertile ground for human judgments. And there’s that crying thing that happens with grief—the uncontrollable shit that scares the life out of me.
I think maybe my new writing direction in life has cracked me too open. Lately, I’m too vulnerable in church during Easter. Realistically, I want to give up Easter for lent; actually, I just want to give it up for good. I’m not very good at giving myself permission, I guess. I wonder how well my Christian friends would think of me after hearing that decision, even if it is for my own self-care. The idea that Jesus died for me isn’t uplifting; it’s terrifying.
Amazingly, my relationship with God hasn’t been affected by my fears. I believe God loves me with whatever decision I make on Sunday mornings, and doesn’t pet me piteously on the head as if I were just a poor lost soul that can’t get over her father’s death or the post-trauma of it.
My soul is secure with God, as I understand God. Part of turning over my life and will to God has to do with being true to myself. I believe God’s will for me is to be easy with myself in my grief and worship God however I can. God’s big enough not to take offense that I don’t want to celebrate the death of Jesus. Worrying what others think of me in this issue is unhealthy.
But I have to say, I’ll be glad when Easter is over.
Love,
Karen
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