She Was

crazywriterShe was the type of girl who cried at the littlest reprimand or stern look. Her whole world was a fragile house of cards supported by false hopes; and harshness, rejection, and malice were never included. Everything was a daydream: sticks were spears, creeks were oceans, sheds were skyscrapers. Her mind was always on things she could never hold in her hands, concepts far beyond her years. All around her mind were metaphors. Cereal pieces floated apart in her bowl of milk, and her heart broke–to her, they were two friends shattering a beautiful bond. How could they be so cruel? she wondered. But she never stopped to answer her own question, because the next fantasy was waiting, and there was no room in her busy mind for sadness.

Four years later, she was ten, feeling the weight of some cruelly, carelessly uttered insults collapsing her fragile, idealized worldview. Suddenly, she understood. Rejection, exclusion, and sadness painfully squeezed their way into her brain. And in that distressing process, more than a few daydreams were pushed away. The years brought bumps and bruises, wounds that refused to turn into callouses. By thirteen, she was lost. Who was she? Where could she find more hopes to build another house of cards? She looked into the mirror one day and decided that she was nobody. All she considered herself to be was an item for someone else. Countless times she offered her heart and her body to anyone who would take it. She wanted to be loved, and to belong somewhere–anywhere. Nobody could satisfy her deep hunger for attention, connection, and attachment. The highs and lows, the fear, and the insecurities commanded her until she fell to her knees and quit. Once again, she found herself on the bathroom floor shaking, her shabbily duct-taped heart bursting from her chest.

I am nothing and nobody, she sobbed into her hands, praying desperately to a God who she felt could never love her after all she had done. I have been everybody’s, but I have never truly belonged. How can I find who I am when I given myself away more times than I can count? Everything I ever was died years ago. Why weren’t you there? Why couldn’t you save me? Now it’s too late, because I’ll never love or dream or heal again. I am broken beyond repair, defective, and hopeless. 

And the moment she gave up, she felt a warmth deep within in her. There was a voice, and somehow, she heard it not with her ears. It spoke with love–real love, nothing like the cheap imitation she had been filling herself with for so long. Every dollar wasted, every stolen glass of alcohol, every self-loathing remark, and all of the countless mistakes she’d ever made melted away. As she realized that all her prayers choked out in moments of the greatest pain had been heard and treasured, she broke. And somehow, the breaking was more beautiful than words could ever describe.

She was the type of girl who had finally felt what it means to be truly loved. She was the type of girl who could finally let herself begin to heal, despite roadblocks along the way. And right now, she wants you to know that nothing you do could ever make you worthless, and nothing could ever separate you from the loving arms of Jesus. Because you are worth dying for.

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About Dauntlessly Cautious

I’m Abigail, a wildly emotional teenage blogger-empress. Sometimes I blog about my copious feelings. Sometimes–a lot, actually–I blog about my past. Sometimes it’s random and unexpected–romantic thoughts passing by, an odd dream I had, and so on. Oh yes, and I have a lot of opinions. Chances are you’ll disagree with at least one of them. I started blogging in April 2013, a little before my fourteenth birthday. Since then, I’ve published many posts–some groundbreaking and ingenious, some embarrassingly dismal. No matter their quality, however, they all play some sort of a part in my life story. If you’re in a stalking mood, read how my attitude changes from good to bad and back to better again. It’s all me. This is the mind of the odd, imaginative girl you see in the hallways, the cafeteria, and in classes. This is the heart of a human battlefield turned into a wonderful, scar-littered garden of hopes and dreams. Welcome to the two (or three, or four) sides of me–the daunting and the rash, the apprehensive and the careful.

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