Angela, Meet Ms. Woolf

In the last few days I have sat down at my computer numerous times to write an entry and all that has come out of me has been a jumbled mess of ideas in irregular shaped words. I've been thinking a lot about self-deception, about my tiring introspection, trying to discover my "untruths". I've been thinking about reality, about how we live in the world that we create in our beliefs of what the world is about. I've been thinking about my failures as a writer. How I seem to be unable to write about anything but myself, wondering if that is failure, or if it is just the way writing works. Wondering if there is any point in trying to write at all. I've been wondering about why I talk to myself so much, why I blush at the drop of a hat, why I care so much about what other people think. I've been thinking about how I'm going to pay my bills (the rent cheque bounced again) wondering how much longer I can continue not to worry. I've been thinking about worry. Wondering how I can stop feeling irresponsible for not worrying. I've been thinking about trusting God to take care of me and India. Thinking about what it means to not try to earn God's help, just to receive it, to not worry about perfecting myself but believe that God will take care of us even though sometimes I screw up. Even though days, I feel like all I do is screw up. I've been thinking about love. About how bad I am at it. How I'm always saying the wrong thing, expecting the impossible and giving so little in return. I've been thinking about my future, how much of it looks like a great big blank. How terrifying that is. I've been thinking about turning thirty next week. Wondering how I feel about it. Poking sticks at thirty, seeing if it will bite me, or roll over. I've been thinking about sex. How much pain it has caused me. Wanting to believe in the beauty and intimacy of it still, but being afraid to completely. I've been thinking about Christmas, how I'm a little nervous about it this year. Wondering what Christmas morning is going to feel like.

And there. I write it all out. No. Not even all of it. Just a beginning of it. And I begin to see why maybe words are failing me. They still fail me. I want to find a unifying theme to draw all of these messy pieces together. I want to get it together. I was reading a friend's blog and she said something about trying to urge herself to be an adult, to not loose it, to act like a thirty year old and I thought to myself, "maybe crying and having fits of panic at ineptitude is acting like a thirty year old. Maybe this is how adulthood looks. Maybe this is it."

So then God, if that's true, if my threads will always run loose at times, if I will cry and feel alone and disappointed in myself and others and you then... then what?
Then God, help me not to run.