Rejection

About a month ago, I applied to be a part of the Black Box Residency program for writers on campus. I waited anxiously, and yesterday found out that I was not accepted. In order to apply, I was required to share my works to be reviewed. This news has made me question a few things about myself, and I don't like it. Part of my identity is knowing that I'm a pretty good writer. I love to write. That's become part of who I am. It started in 2014 when I started to write instead of sitting in a therapist's office to talk. Writing helped me heal, and helped me find an outlet.

Since then, the pattern has continued. I started this blog, hoping to be able to show anyone who reads that things do get better in time. I use myself as a prime example that brokenness is mendable through Christ. Along with this blog, I write poems. The poems aren't as uplifting. Quite frankly, they're depressing. But they do help me stay in touch with how I'm feeling. I write to process new feelings and help process old ones that resurface. Whether it's new wounds, or old scars, I write about both with the confidence that I am not alone in my feelings or in this world.

I sent in poems for this application, and now I'm not sure how great they actually are. If these judges or whoever is reading my application, didn't like them, does anyone really? I have a pipe dream to publish a book full of poems one day. But would anyone actually read it?

This rejection has suddenly made my self esteem and self confidence drop heavily. And I'm not sure how to process that. As a person, I need validation from others to believe that I'm important, and I am convinced that as a writer, I need that too. I need someone else to believe in my words. Anyways, here are some of them.

I am a survivor.

I have yet to survive poverty

Nor hunger, abuse, or a bed-less home

I call myself a survivor

Because I escaped

Almost on my own

I have yet to survive a hurricane

Through tornados plenty

Swirling through my brain

They drowned me in sorrows

But who would’ve known

That the things I told myself

Were worse than a torn-down home

I have yet to survive a burial

Six feet under is a long way to go

But climbing back up

That’s not one to be known

Anxiety is the grave

Pulling me in limb by limb

Oh, how I almost let him win

I have yet to survive treatment

That takes the hair off your head

Though sitting in therapy,

Trying not to wish to be dead

Hard work, the painful talks

Never a tear shed

Though I relearned how to walk with God

And all He had to say

He told me that I could make it a few more days

I have yet to witness a miracle

Though I’d say living is one to tell

The thoughts didn’t win

They took a bus to hell

Along with my negativity, internal bruises, and years of pain

I’d say to wish them well, yet they left a stain

I have yet to witness a survivor

Without a story to tell

Whether it be cancer, abuse, or poverty

I hope we stand to yell

Yell at the world

Yell out our strength

“I am a survivor”

Hiding

When I was a child, whenever I felt that someone was upset with me, I would find a very small space and hide in it. Usually this place was a closet. I would sit and wait until someone came to make sure that I was okay, and sometimes nobody did. I believe that the hiding still happens, but in an electronic sense. I leave group chats, and isolate myself in my mind, believing that nobody could care about me in that moment. I believe that the action of hiding in a closet should have been a red flag for the diagnosis of Anxiety. However, I did not know until years later that it had a proper name. I think that I had assumed that every child hides in closets and gets irrationally upset over the smallest things. Looking back, I wish the rational part of my brain would have handled the overwhelming emotions slightly better.

Although I wasn't able to handle my emotions as a child (and still hardly can't), the Bible lets me know that I'm not alone. In the story of Adam and Eve, after they had listened to the serpent and eaten the forbidden fruit, God calls out to them. And what do they do? They hide. (smh, right?) We look at that and start to get our judgemental faces on. ("how could they hide from God?") Well, this is coming from a girl who used to find safety in a closet, so...I'm here to tell you, it's starting to make much more sense. God does find them, and punishes them for deliberately disobeying Him. He punishes future generations, because this is when sin had entered the world.

I'd like to think that we each have our own serpent, tempting us with whatever we struggle the most with. Whether it be the need to feel important and validated, control, power, comfort, alcohol, sexual temptation, or whatever it is, we all have one (or a few). And what do we try to do? Hide from God. If you have not experienced this, I'm here to tell you that it truly sucks. Sometimes when we choose to listen to the serpent, we have to ignore God. I have always had this overwhelming flight instinct when determining if I should fight or flight at something, and I tend to fly from the thing that is the very best for me, or the people that care about me the most. Is it healthy? Of course not. Is it something that I've been working on for years? Yes. Whether it be an actual closet, electronic isolation, or in Adam and Eve's case- physically hiding, God will always find us.

I'm blessed with parents who usually come find me, and very blessed with friends who run after me when I'm feeling unloved. BUT most of all we're ALL blessed with a GOD who will ALWAYS find us. Even though Adam and Eve were kicked out of paradise, they were never forgotten about by their creator. And we aren't either. No matter how many times we hide.