Search This Blog

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Excert From My New Book, Links, And Back Story

 
The knight sat alone, on one end of the banquet hall’s second table, lost in his own little world of thoughts and troubles. He glanced over to where the King sat, at the head of the largest table, between his two closest advisers. His long gray hair reached down towards his shoulders, cascading from the ornate crown that topped his head.

The man to his right was the knight’s superior, General Mortain, Commander of the King’s Army. To the king’s left sat the Minister of The Realm, Lord Walbrook, tax collector to the King. Weighed down by more than chain mail and armor, the knight could not eat, for he knew both men were coveting the crown.

The letter hidden near his breast - the treacherous, treasonous letter - it weighed far more than the iron mail that covered him. Why had he come here? Why had he not stayed in his safe comfortable shire, sheltered from the politics of the court?

He knew the answer: because he was a knight, raised to be honorable, and he could not simply stand by, knowing what he now knew. Another reason: he had come to save the king’s life.

But how? How could he accuse such high ranking men – lords in the King’s Court, and not get his head cut off? Why, one of them was his own superior, the very man he reported to in times of battle!

“Oh, m’lords, I wish I did not know anything,” he sighed to himself. “And my king, I wish you knew everything.”

His attention was distracted for a moment by the antics of the court jester, in his suit and hat of black and white stripes, eating off the General’s plate without being asked. The General did not seem happy about it, but it amused the king, so reluctantly he had to go along. The knight could just read his thoughts: As soon as this old man is gone, that jester’s going to get it!

Well, that would be one positive side effect, at least. He hated that jester. The little man was like a fly buzzing in his face, which would not cease. He supposed that since the smaller man was not strong enough to be a knight, all he had left was annoying people.

The Royal Idiot (the jester, not the king!) was speaking now. “And let us not forget our favorite glutton, Sir Roger!”

Roger cringed. Not now! He had enough to worry about, without having to relive his humiliations. Earlier that day he had fallen into a huge vat of beer, ruining the whole batch. He was not sure if the other knights avoided sitting next to him because they were embarrassed, or because they were mad at him for not letting them get drunk tonight. And now that horrible jester would not let him live it down!

The Fool hopped over to his table, resting his head on his hands in front of the knight. “Tell us, Honorable Sir Roger, why could you not restrain yourself until a wench poured it in a cup for you?”

The jester was looking into his eyes, and though he was not allowed to smile, the man seemed to take some evil delight in humiliating him. There was a triumph, a gleam in his eye. Was the man crazy? What had Roger done to him, anyway? He knew other knights that liked to make sport of him, but he had always left him well enough alone. Why couldn’t that hated clown at least return the favor?

This only made him more sure of his dislike for the man. He hated having him in his face. “Go away, you stupid ass,” he sneered, quiet enough for only one person to hear, “or I’ll cut your nose off.”

The jester merely cocked his head, didn’t seem to be affected by that threat in the least. He had heard it all before. All knights made threats; they were all the same to him.

“I wonder,” he said loudly as he turned away, “what is the greater shame: Sir Roger’s insatiable gluttony, or the fact that he has created the biggest chamber pot in the world!”

The entire banquet hall roared with laughter - at his expense. The jester had no limits; he pressed further, this time with a new target.

“I even saw His Majesty drinking it! Said it was the best ale he had ever tasted!” More howling and slapping the knees. The King loved it, clearly delighted to be mocked, roasted by his clever Fool.

“If I said that, I would be flogged!” Roger muttered sourly.

“But good General, do ye have to fling knights while testing out your catapults?” the Fool went on. “Why, I would have rather flung your good friend, Lord Walbrook! ‘Twould be a service to the kingdom!”

Roger couldn’t believe what the man was getting away with. And he was treated as a hero for it.

“But, Sir Fool,” the old king smiled happily, “what would I do without my advisers? How would I know what was best for the kingdom?”

“Trade that crown for a jester’s cap, and you will feel wiser instantly!” He was sharp-witted, Roger had to grant him that.


He abruptly excused himself, before his ignorant co-counter-conspirator could turn on him again. As he thought about it, he became more and more excited. ‘Twould be so easy! The kingdom would be saved!


(See The Jester, Thomas Fool, On Amazon)


When you have lived with the Jester as long as I have, you start to dream of wizards and dragons, you start saying things like "'tis" and "'twasn't," and finally, one night, you get bored and ask him to relate his memoirs to you. And once he knows you are interested, he just won't stop talking. The stories keep on coming. 'Tis like a curse.
This is my attempt to heap my own misery on the world.  Enjoy.

I Cry Myself To Sleep, Part Two


My cat had kittens, five of them. Four of them survived, but they were so small, that was almost no big deal. They grew up. My favorite, Elmo, got scared by the dog barking at her, fell off the roof, broke her back, and died right in front of me. Her anus was open like a hole, she smelled of urine, her eyes were glazed and lifeless, and her body became stiff with her head turned at an angle. I wrapped her in a towel and just sat rocking her, with her sister looking on, until my dad came home and took her away. We still have the dog that scared her. Her sister is especially bonded to me.
My horse died last February, a few weeks after my birthday. She had been my friend for eight years, and I have never met a horse that acted so much like a tame dog. She was big and white, all white, and she used to rub her head on me until I had to hold her mane for balance.
And that is all I can think of.

I assure you that all of these stories are completely true, they just look too dramatic even for me, who’s lived them. Sometimes I don’t even know, which one is it this time? Why does my heart hurt tonight?
I function all right. Most of the time I succeed in staying up until I’m too tired to think about it. Even though I know I should cry, I always find myself wondering, “When can I stop crying? When is it going to end?”
Oh yeah, I finally “lost” my religion a few years ago too. I can’t pretend to be a joyful Christian anymore. When I pray about my circumstances, I don’t feel better. The bible isn’t comforting. So I don’t try anymore. I always wished I could be divinely comforted and strengthened, but I got a rude lesson about that very early. God, apparently, ignores me. (I know, I should not think that way. Please don’t try to tell me about God, I’ve heard it all before.)

During “show and tell” in my church youth group, when I was still trying to make it work, Joey Schlabitz said “Let me guess, something died?” when it was my turn.
I said, “No, but something’s about to.” And everyone broke into huge laughter.
His words still haunt me to this day. “Let me guess, something died?”

Maybe I don’t “cry myself to sleep” every night. But even if my body isn’t crying, my heart is. I laughed a few times when I wrote this blog. I also cried, it hurt. I guess that’s how life is.

I Cry Myself To Sleep Every Night



I moved to the country with my parents when I was eleven. Then my dog died. She was old.
We had a new dog, but the cat lost her mind and attacked my new dog and my dad shot the cat. The first cat I ever had, the one I picked out from a litter that my third-grade teacher, who lived on the next street over before I moved, gave birth to. (Or maybe it was her cat…)
I had a bunny but it ran away. The meth addict neighbor bought it for me, then she released three others in her yard for her boys. She thought the horse fence would keep in something as small as a rabbit. My mom thought I put deodorant on the bunny, because of a weird misunderstanding. Dog Number Two would come in my room and eat her poop like candy (the rabbit’s, not my mom’s). Then she chewed her way out of the cage, probably had five dozen babies, and maybe got eaten by now.
Then it all started happening at once.
Meth Addict Neighbor decided she hated my mom and we couldn’t see Helpless Little Meth Baby anymore. He was almost two years old. He would run down the hill to our house and stay for a few hours, maybe every few weeks, before she realized he was missing. Sometimes his four-year-old brother would come down with him and ask for food. He would be in his underwear in wintertime too.
There was a long custody battle in which my mom testified about all the horrible stuff she (we) saw in those three years. Drunken Redneck Dad got custody of both boys, but for a long time it was agonizingly uncertain.
Cute Little Meth Baby was never ours, but we loved him and knew we could take care of him better. We still know it, and he still isn’t ours.
About the time Meth Baby was taken from us, my former horseback riding instructor died of colon cancer. She had been my first adult friend.
I had a baby wild turkey that had been abandoned by its mother in a posthole. This was right after both the baby incident and the riding teacher tragedy, and it lived twelve days. I shook it and poked it, desperately trying to make it get up, but it was too sick to move, so it just closed its eyes and died. When you’re still a kid, this is devastating. I had taken a CPR class recently and once had to “do CPR” and “clear the obstruction” when it tried to swallow a grasshopper longer than its head. I had been so proud to feed it to her, too.
Second Dog ran away, got caught in a coyote trap at the neighbor’s, and he had to “end her pain.” We didn’t find out until after the deed was done. My mom loved that dog because she killed snakes.
My neighbor across the street was moving away and he promised to give me his tiny goat, Rod. My dad, who hates goats, loved him because he looked like “Billy Goat’s Gruff.” This neighbor had befriended and probably had sex or did drugs with the Meth Neighbor. His next-door neighbor’s oldest son was kind of my ex-boyfriend. I don’t know if he knew of the deal or not. But then Rod escaped Mike’s house and visited “Ernie,” and Ernie shot him. “The stupid goat jumped into the bullet.” Yeah, sure, goats jump faster than bullets fly. I hate that kid.
I was in the local “Young Eagles” program as a teenager, in which kids got the chance to fly in a small plane for free. My dad had worked for a friend of the woman who organized it and flew for it, and Sadie took me up twice. Then I got a job covering the county fair for the local newspaper, as a “teen reporter.” I asked her to take me up over the fairgrounds for an aerial picture. She was so nice, she actually did it.
Then, right out of a noval, she died in a plane crash a few months later. A plane crash! She was a pilot—why didn’t she “help” the other guy with his pre-flight? Oh, the drama.
The last time I saw her, I was at the fair with Goat Killer, when I still thought he was a good person. She was wearing a polka-dot dress and bright red lipstick, and laughing at me for being with a boy. She looked so very happy.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Like Sunshine On My Nipples


Ever since I wrote the post “I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples,” I have been challenged and surprised whenever I come up against my old excuses. One way I have been limiting myself is in regards to exercise. I have often had the thought “Why bother working out? I still won’t be as strong as the average man.” But then, who says I have to be, or that I won’t? I guess I’m harsher with myself than I care to admit.
My grandfather, Papa, surprised me the other day. I like to drive his old pickup truck, a 1964 GMC Jimmy. I’ve even been to the mechanic’s recently with him. He told me the story of his mechanic telling him to put power steering in the Jimmy, because “She’s such a little girl.”
“But I told him, ‘She’s stronger than she looks, boy! She’s tough!’”
He loved telling the story, and it made me feel good to hear it. For years he sort of coddled me, “I’ll get that, Baby. It’s heavy.” It used to bother me, but then I decided it wasn’t that important. I wonder if he changed his mind because I didn’t care anymore.
I used to have a German pen pal, back in my Taekwondo days. I learned two new words from her: “zierlich und zerbrechlich.” I looked “petite and fragile” to her.
I’m afraid my reply didn’t make me seem very smart. I must have used the word “coarse” or “vulgar” for “tough,” and I think when referring to my body I used the word for “corpse!” I didn’t hear from her again, and no wonder. (What’s the German word for “moron?”)
So I guess I don’t look like a body builder. For years it bothered me, and it still does, sometimes. When I was in school I was kind of a pushover. I want to look tough, so no one will pick on me. It’s hard to get over your fears when you’re afraid to be seen as prey. Maybe someday I won’t see potential bullies everywhere I go.
I have noticed that relative muscle strength is actually a variable that changes day by day and hour by hour. The four factors that affect it are:

Diet—sugar bad, protein good. 
Rest—deprivation bad, sleep good.
Exercise—not too much, not too little.
Hydration—plenty of water, but nothing with sugar or natural sugar or caffeine.

It’s that simple. I’m not a fitness nut at all, but I know the factors that affect my strength. If I’m sleep-deprived, dehydrated, tired, and just finished a bowl of ice cream, guess what? I won’t be as strong as I normally would.
I eat sugar, but I try to limit myself. It’s all about balance. It also doesn’t hurt, if you know how your thoughts are inhibiting your potential. Only then can you challenge these unhelpful thoughts and overcome them.
So I lied. There are only five things you need to worry about, on your way to building physical strength. You cannot build physical strength if you do not also build mental strength. And only then, once you feel good about yourself, can you conquer the world. 
 


"Shit On Your Neighbor" And The Value Of Writing People Off


Among my Christian friends, I have sometimes had the impression, based on annoyed but “sad” facial expressions, of being written off as lost, because of something I said or did that wasn’t kosher.
“Well, she’s lost,” I can just see the subtitle of their thoughts. I can read it on their face, that I’m blinded by the devil and they need to pray for me (because of something I said?). It has annoyed me to no end in the past, but now I wonder if they’re not onto something.
There is a value, actually, in writing people off. It frees you from the responsibility of having a relationship with them, changing them, or dwelling on what aggravates you about them. Imagine mentally handing them a note that says, “You’re not my problem anymore.”

Often we assign roles to people and certain expectations along with the roles. We want perfect parents, aunts, uncles and friends. For example, I expect my aunt to get off my case about using psuedo-cusswords like “That was freaking huge,” and calling our card game what it really is, Shit On Your Neighbor.
The teacher in our brain grades people according to how we think they should be, not how they actually are. I am actually in favor of a double standard, as far as this goes. There should not be the same standard for everyone, because some people simply cannot perform well as a parent, grandparent, or person. This is not about letting someone off the hook; it’s about protecting yourself from being hurt.
Hurt feelings only result from unmet expectations. Once you lower your expectations for them, they cannot hurt you as much.
I spent many years becoming sad and emotional over the way people had treated me, until one day I realized that I needed to assign them new expectations.
Now I have new, lowered expectations for people. I expect my grandfather not to be conscientious about taking his supplements. I expect my aunt to get me in trouble for saying the word “pussy.”

We’ve all heard the old clichés of “Love people as they are,” and “Accept people on their own terms.” That’s great advice, but I see little practical application for it, no actual instructions for how to implement it. But I think I’ve actually found a way to do it, though loving them is optional.
But first, you often must stop being in denial about them. You cannot accept people as they are without first acknowledging what they are. And here's how:

Write a list of expectations for each person that bothers you. Think also of how you will protect yourself from them, whether they mean to hurt you or not. Then stick to your plan. Don’t feel guilty about it. As long as they don’t change, you don’t have to. Lower your standards, then set up boundaries.
Then, when they do something that crosses the line, you will be prepared for it. It will not surprise you. It will not be as devastating.
It won’t erase hurt feelings, but the mantra “I expected this” will help you get over most of the shock.
Have your list handy, though out of sight. When they do something that makes you cringe, that bothers you, when you think about them and obsess over “Why are they this way?” “Why do they do that?” refer back to your list and comfort yourself that you actually saw this coming, or put a new item on the list. 
Another important thing to remember is to make this list as impersonal as possible. Use their real names, not family names, or put their family names in quotes. Reducing the emotional to the practical helps you sort through your feelings.
You can do this for anyone. Don’t feel guilty because it’s your friend, mother, sister, husband, pastor or even God. You can certainly love them without thinking everything is rosy, love is a separate issue. After doing this exercise, you may decide that being around them is too much negativity, and limit your contact with them if you can. If you can’t, at least you feel prepared.
I did this for everyone that had hurt my feelings, or aggravated me. Because of my strict religious background, I also decided to make a list pertaining to God. It’s not blasphemy, it’s just my imperfect expectations. God can handle it, I think.

And if they exceed your expectations, if they suddenly become the person you wanted them to be, then that is wonderful! You can enjoy the surprise without comparing them with an impossible standard. In other words, you can relish any kind of progress, however incremental.
  
And if they never change? Then that is fine too. You have more room to live your life, and it’s no longer about them. This practice frees up your brainspace to be creative, to be happy, to come up with ideas and to avoid such negative distractions. It frees you up to live your own life, not theirs.
And don’t forget, the stuff they do may still make you cry. It’s okay to be upset. Just don’t be surprised.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Everyone Should Be A Writer


I love to write, almost as much as I love breathing, but I don’t like to describe myself as a writer, because I think everyone either is a writer or should be. Everyone should compose something, even a little thing only for their family and friends. So why don’t most people bother? What makes those who write, even if they are not published, stand out from the rest, in the fact that they do something? What makes a writer?
Three things make someone choose this creative outlet. They are all important, but the first one is the greatest:

They believe that they can.
They want to.
They make the time.

Most people “don’t want to” or can't find the time because they don’t feel they have something worthwhile to say. They don’t think the world would be interested. But they don’t have to please the world: for every creative product, there is a market. Find your niche, don’t try take on everyone.
What I have noticed is that there are published books that I think are poorly written, but are popular or are bestsellers. I’m sure there’s someone out there who absolutely hates what I put out (or would if I were actually that famous!), and someone else who absolutely loves it.
I see inspiration everywhere. My Papa could write about the time he spends reading the Bible and how that makes him feel, or his perspective on religion or life as a senior of an older, southern generation, or the philosophical aspects of baseball—and he is retired and watches TV all day! He has more interests than he thinks: Baseball, bluegrass, Dolly Parton, his family and what they mean to him. Somebody should tap into the market he belongs in. Why not him?
My cousin could write about the challenges of being married with two children at twenty. My Mom-Mom could write one of those romantic stories she loves. My mother could publish a book on life-coaching or her theories for a happy marriage. My Grandma could post something on websites about recycling or the environment, my Grandpa could send an article to a running magazine. My dad could talk about his favorite knives and guns, his boss about working as a bouncer in a Swedish brothel or meeting Timothy Leary at a love-in.
Or any one of these people could use their imagination and make something up. People love fiction.
But why is it so very hard to convert these people? They have plenty to say, they could find the time if they wanted to, and there is always a market. And now it’s easier than ever to have a blog and self-publish, and it’s free or cheap! (Hell, they even let someone like me do these things! You don’t even have to be competent, and I’m living proof!) So why not?

Because either:

They don’t think they can.
They don’t want to.
They don’t have the time.

But I have found that often the last two reasons are really only excuses for the first.
You make time for what is most important to you, often what you do for others. Many people seem unable to do anything just for themselves, out of guilt or a feeling of unworthiness. I am “selfish” sometimes, because of my favorite creative outlet. But it’s harder to be selfish if you are out of practice.
Of course, I realize that not everyone wants the kind of life I aspire to. I have “written” my own story lines since before I was literate. I would peg the age at about six years old. For many years, I didn’t sleep, I just lay there and thought of the newest exploits of my favorite Disney characters or superherpes (sorry, I meant to say superheroes!). I still do that, only now I’m older and supposed to be more mature. I pretend that I am.
And I’m not judging any of the others as having low self-esteem (well, not everyone). But I want them to be winners with me, when I become one. Why settle for mediocrity?
Find what your interests are, make a list, then narrow it down to your passions. Or, think of a character and build a story around them, maybe based on someone you know who is funny, quirky or annoying. And remember, there is always a market. So find yours.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples!


“Why is Wonder Woman so happy?” I wondered the other day, while trying to stalk her on the internet. “She’s such a feminist.”
Yes, we’ve all heard about the stereotype of the bitter feminist that hates men, and I know some men who can get very upset about it (as if they were forced to date these women, or they were the only ones available). But really, even with all the backwards practices in the world, I think the answer to our problems is not in hating men, but in loving ourselves.
Most feminist theory is just a cop-out against being happy. Yes, I said it. “I can’t have a good life because I’m a woman.” Men don’t have that excuse. They must be short, bald, fat or old instead. But really, even in the dark ages of history (his-story, that’s the root of the word!), there have been women who have had good lives, who have managed to be successful and happy. So why not now, even with all the unfair stuff that goes on?
I am not against feminism. How can I be, if I benefit so much from it? I don’t think women should submit to their husbands or stay home, unless they want to. But why are all these smart, aware women so miserable?
We all have excuses that “prevent” us from having the life we want. We are all handicapped in our own minds. Being a woman shouldn’t be one of them.
I guess what we should really be asking ourselves is “What are my excuses?” Instead of being resentful of nature or of men, our fellow humans (or huwomans), ask, “What are my obstacles really? How can I overcome them?” You will probably find that most obstacles are the ones you set up for yourself. They’re in your own mind, not in the outside circumstances.
What I like to do is think of in what ways I feel slighted personally, not what happened two hundred years ago or what happens in Arab countries. I feel oppressed when a man takes off his shirt and I can’t. Why are my breasts always made sexual, when their function in life is to nourish children? I want to feel the sun on my nipples!
Infantile men make breasts into sexual objects, toys, and women go along with it. If some men can’t handle bare breasts without lust, how is that my fault? Why should I take responsibility for someone else’s faults? “He couldn’t help but rape me, officer, I was wearing a tank top.”
That is the only thing that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, consistently, the male privilege of my father and brother walking around outside or in the house with no shirt.
The important thing, the one thing that will eventually change our circumstances, is voicing the problem aloud. We must complain if anything is to be done—the squeaky wheel getting the grease again. The women’s rights movement began when women started talking to each other about what they thought was injustice. Do you think men thought women wanted to vote, before they said something? Find out what bothers you personally, what you feel is unfair about your outside circumstances, and say something. Voice your concern to other women and especially to men. And remember that happiness is often created from the inside, rather than from how you are treated on the outside.

So, in summary:

1) Create your own happiness—don’t use feminism as an excuse.

2) Find out what bothers you personally, what affects your life, not others’ lives.

3) Speak up about it—but don’t harp on it.

Note to men: A lot of men have oppressed and hurt women, both in the past and foreign countries, and right here in our personal lives. Please understand that it is hard not to think that all men are like this, if this has been our experience.
In one of my short stories, which will be published on Amazon soon (I promise a link), a jester decides that he hates all knights, even as the knight he humiliates thinks that even though other knights have picked on him, he has not. It’s not exactly the jester’s fault; they are both victims, in this case. Please keep that in mind if you are not a chauvinist. Perhaps you will be lucky enough to change a few minds.




Ingredients For A Conversion: Four Emotions Every Christian Experiences And Thrives On


According to my latest theory, based on my own religious background, Christians only experience four basic emotions, which they sadly mistake for their spiritual states. Two of them alternate in cycles; one is a supplement to those two, and the fourth is a tragic side effect of the other three. These are only emotions; the “reasons” given can vary widely, depending on circumstances and individuals.
Please note: This has been my experience of Christianity. It may not be yours, but I’m betting it is. I hope I don’t seem disrespectful in this post.

Despair: This manifests itself as anything from “How can God ever forgive me?” to “I’m no good at being a Christian.” It can also be “How can I ever make this marriage work?” or “Why can’t I stop thinking sexual thoughts?”
No matter what the issue is, low self-esteem is the result.

Euphoria: This is an emotional high caused by a stirring worship service, or an intense prayer session, or really anything that makes you feel “close to God.”
It is not God’s presence, it’s just your emotions, and often it’s false or fleeting. This does not mean God approves of you, that you are in the presence of God, or anything else. It’s just an emotion.
Sadly, most Christian activity is just a pursuit of this high, or a way to convince oneself that you are a good Christian and a good person.

You may have noticed that the typical salvation experience involves both of these two emotions. In fact, the incentive for salvation used by the church is an artificially induced dosage of despair. First, show them how sinful they are. Then, thank God, there is a way to be saved. Most Christians go through an endless cycle of despair-euphoria-despair, all of their Christian lives. How many times have I been saved? About a hundred, maybe. When the euphoria is gone, they worry about their salvation, and the process is repeated. Perhaps it didn’t “stick” last time.
I am not saying Christianity is a false religion. But it helps to know the tactics used within the church.

Suspicion: This is often referred to as “discernment” or “guidance of the Holy Spirit.” This suspicion can apply to other Christians, nonbelievers, churches, movements, pastors, or even physical objects. Other Christians are not truly saved and are used unwittingly by the devil; inanimate objects are demonic or are idols. That pastor is living with hidden sin (the Holy Spirit told me!); unbelievers are spiritually blinded; that church movement believes non-biblical things; why did she do or say that, if she’s supposed to be a Christian?
Too much suspicion can turn people into judgmental, self-righteous hypocrites. It’s not fun being around them.
Suspicion can also apply to having too many rules for one’s conduct. You can’t joke about sex—“I don’t find that funny!” You get other people in trouble for what they say or do, because they have to know you don’t approve. Nothing about God or Christianity is funny.


Tiredness: Finally, the tragic result of all that suspicion, euphoria and despair. You get tired of always seeking euphoria, “God’s presence,” spiritual highs. It’s all too much.
A few years ago I “cracked.” After pushing all my life, I just got too tired to push any more. I stopped reading my bible; I don’t pray anymore. Neither of these things feel natural to me, or ever have. Churches do not feel like welcoming places anymore. I don’t belong there. And I’m generally happier, now that I’ve stopped trying so hard.
No one can say I didn’t try, really hard. And I know many, many people who are only a few setbacks away from cracking like me. The other three emotions keep one from cracking. I have experienced all of them, but no more.
Are you suspicious of me? Perhaps you are tempted to be offended or be sad or write me off as lost. Are you afraid you will be like me, someday? Does the pressure to be a good Christian seem too much? You’re not alone.
Perhaps the bit on suspicion has got you feeling “convicted,” or guilty about a sin. Prepare for another despair session. Please don’t be too hard on yourself.
Believe me, I have been where you are. My heart was truly sincere; I really wanted to please God. But now…I’m just so tired.