The Roles We Play
I lose sight of who I am most days.
It's difficult to chronicle who I am, what I want, and why I am still here at times.
I feel decay in my dreams, wrongness in my wishes, and errors in my existence.
I see the world around me and become so deeply dismayed. As Marina from Marina and the Diamonds put it in her song "Savages:"
You can see it on the news
You can watch it on TV
You can read it on your phone
You can say it's troubling
Humans aren't gonna behave
As we think we always should
Yeah, we can be bad as we can be good
I feel like I play many the false role in my story.
As an aspiring English teacher, I've come to find out I have three core beliefs.
1. Words have power.
2. Stories have power.
3. We are stories - we have power.
In poems I've written, I noted that I often feel like I am made of words. That they flow through my veins, fortify my heart, and stir my soul. A non-stop rush of words and meanings and sounds jar my brain every day - it is never silent within my skull.
I trace my steps back to my earliest memories, sorting out the words that made up who I was and see if they still are engraved into my being today.
I realize that in my story, I've played many roles.
And those around me have stepped into different characters.
And there are costume changes every day.
The lamenter. The mourned. The victim. The scapegoat. The hated.
The lost. The forgotten. The pariah.
The one who got left behind.
The beloved. The celebrated. The hero.
The broken. The discarded. The fool.
The teacher. The mentor. The counselor. The wise.
The student. The apprentice. The next in line.
But are we ever the author?
I know the pen is not in my hands when it comes to my holistic life story.
It is because of the words, of the events, of the chapters, of the many beginnings and endings through which I've endured that I have come to believe I am not the one creating my own tale.
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Jesus, Founder and Perfecter of Our Faith
Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself, so that you may not grow weary or fainthearted. In your struggle against sin you have not yet resisted to the point of shedding your blood.
-Hebrews 12:1-4
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My brain would not be working, my hands would not be moving, my heart would not be beating.
If the pen had been in my hands, I would have done myself in many moons ago.
I would be dead.
I know this to be true.
I used to be the broken. The shattered. The bullied. The ghost.
I desired with every fiber of my being to be invisible. I wanted nothing to do with anyone. I had no trust, no solace, no place to go.
I drifted.
Time drifted.
I was in a vortex of blurry eyes and tearful nights.
Maybe the tears never physically poured down my face, but they were there, dammed up and pressuring me to release.
Words have power. Labels peel off.
I had release.
And now I have ever-changing roles in my friends. In my family. In myself.
I am a daughter. A sister. A Christian. A bearer of bipolar disorder. An aspiring teacher. A shower-singer. An all-things-blue fanatic. A lover of creatures and creations. A writer. A reader. A bride-to-be. A princess under the King of Kings.
I am many things entwined.
And those around me are:
Hero. Sun.
Conqueror. Defender.
Solace. Castle.
Guide. Light.
Wielder. Brother.
Analyst. Protector.
Many roles.
Many words.
Many stories.
All once strangers to my heart.
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