the capacity to hurt.

I'm making a resolution to think less.

(I realize that blogging about this resolution does not bode well for its success. Still. Hear me out.)

I'm good at teasing through problems; I'm great at speculating. It's probably my #1 hobby. I plunk through things on piano, I tinker through phrases on paper, I type torrentially. All in order to understand life. A worthy effort, certainly.

The problem: I'm dishonest. I don't write truthfully. I write according to what I should feel, what I ought to want, who I ought to be. And that person, the ideal me, is not afraid of anything. And she is also incapable of embarrassment. And she is never, never, never found in a place of vulnerability. And she is stunningly articulate, all the time. She is not someone who can be abandoned--that would be impossible. It's not in her vocabulary. She is not someone who suffers hurt, because she is not someone who cares. If I don't care, I can't hurt. Simple enough.

I'm such a storyteller--I rewrite everything. So I rewrite my own story, mashing my imperfect, real, hurting self down into this mold. I over-think and re-write and then use that as protection from having to feel, to participate in relationships. By writing I can control.

But relationships are messy--I mean all relationships. I can't be so concerned about maintaining control; I'll miss everything. In fact, the same goes for faith. I can't profess to follow after Christ while keeping a death grip on my safely-constructed image. Our faith hinges on the willingness to be remade in the image of Christ. That's freedom. I can't be so concerned with avoiding hurt that I miss out on that freedom.

I don't mean I'm going to stop writing. And I don't mean I'm going to stop thinking. But I want to stop over-thinking in order to rationalize away pain. I've got to release the image that holds me hostage and keeps me far away from real emotion. If a situation is hurtful, I want to give myself permission to hurt. Even if it's humiliating. Even if I'd rather lie and say I'm unscathed. If I'm angry, I give myself permission to be angry. Even if it feels futile. Even if I feel weak. And if I'm twitter-paited, or joyful, or hopeful, I want permission to be that. Without probable cause or a visible safety-net. Without an escape route. Even if I end up looking like an idiot.

A shorter metaphor with the same theme:

I hiked Mt. Wilson yesterday. I woke up this morning aware of muscles I never even knew existed. Every time I stand a different twang in my butt or shoulder resonates. But I don't really mind. I know those twangs will turn into strength I didn't have before.

And I wouldn't mind if life felt more that way. I wouldn't mind waking up with some aches I didn't know I could feel: the realization of failure and the loss of my build-up, idealized identity. I know it will hurt. I know it will turn into strength I didn't have before.