Wrestling with God’s imperishable love for me, in spite of me, thus encountering myself, totally confused, as if my name can only be written in a ball of wool, sandwiched by unanswered rhetorical questions, a cottony feeling and unspoken or unfulfilled needs, while it is precisely my intense desire to draw and set straight all the boundaries in my life, to scratch them into the cement under my feet and not let them touch each other either. Deviation from degrees that are not a plural of 90 or 0 sounds like musical dissonance to my ears and I endure it only by not breathing any more. If this scenario resembled a money exchange, and dissonances were printed on five euro notes, I would only change it for five euro coins, but never for any other money. The next step in my life is that boundaries do not have to be underlined, but can be set freely as the road meanders along in my head, without seeing it in reality. I am one big mess. Is this where God wants me? Escaping from what mental health professionals might call a tangled family, now enclosing myself in my own threads of incapacity?

WhoamiwhoamIwhoamIwhoamI.
Do I fill myself with approval from others?
Do I comfort myself with drugs?
Where have I lost my security?
Can it be restored in Him?
Where have I lost my identity?
Can it be restored in Him?


Did He throw me in this sea of fearful black waves where I had to throw everything overboard I thought was dear to me, because otherwise the boat (me) would sink? In my Jonah echo I too wrote on the dried-out chambers of my dead heart. I discovered two things, both of them taking first place:

  1. I would find freedom, and that freedom was to be totally and increasingly OK with not sharing anything about myself. I would discover how it feels when people really leave me alone. That feeling will give the incentive to draw pencil-borders of my new path. My silence (apparently) is okay.

  1. I would discover that what I share is okay. That people do not judge, look at me strangely, reproach me or reject me, that people don’t look up to me, or down on me. Because I was not put on a pedestal, or used as a doormat, I discovered I had two feet on my own to stand on. On the throne in my head I stepped off of the pedestal, and walk away of the doormat. Sharing my story made me see that I was mostly holding myself captive in lies. My story (apparently) is okay.

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