I keep doing this thing. You know, that thing where you get so far inside your own head, you’re not sure you could find your way out even with a map and Siri and a thousand road flares?
I’m a thinker. An over-analyzer. A worrier. I often process conversations from 20 different angles. What are they thinking right now? Are their feelings hurt? Does this offend them? I think I gave them the wrong impression. Do they get my sense of humor or do I just seem like an a-hole? Or worse, will they roll their eyes and yawn? I sensed a weird tone. What did that mean? I’m definitely feeling some wierd air between us. Yep. Crap. It’s definitely weird now.
I hated writing that last paragraph because I know that it paints me as insecure and spastic. And I’m not. I’m rad! But we said we’d keep it real, so I am going to go ahead and tell the whole truth. I over-think things. Like, all things.
My husband calls this Analysis Paralysis. I over-think and then I just sort of freeze up- not all the time, but often at the worst time. I do it with my writing, I do it in my marriage, I do it when I’m afraid to try to something new. My inner monologue has a colorful imagination. It paints abstract, nonsensical pictures that capture my attention and keep me from moving forward. I sit and stare at them, as if I were a spectator in a museum of my own paranoia.
I often lose the balance of being a sensitive person- which is a good thing, and becoming paralyzed with worry- which is decidedly a bad thing.
I guess a lot of it boils down to how I identify myself. Do I find my identity in being the funny, good-natured, easy-to-get-along-with chick? Do I identify as a writer? Do I find my identity as a mom, who is producing two well behaved, Jesus-loving children that everyone approves of? Do I find my identity in the way my husband sees me? Do I identify as the good-girl preacher’s daughter who’s life is exemplary? Do I identify as the young mom who still has all her s*** together? Who has time for her God, her family, her freinds, for serving others, for her workouts, her writing? Oh and her kids have well rounded social lives and her husband is happy because she keeps him captivated on the daily. Who is that woman? Because I’d like to meet her and give her a high five for ruling at life.
It’s laughable right? But like most things in life it’s only funny because it’s true. As ridiculous as it is to say out loud, as unattainable it all is, there is an undercurrent inside of me that compulsorily flows towards these standards. The problem there is that none of it works.
We all know the answer here. You and I, we both know it, don’t we?
The freedom comes when I find my identity in Christ. In who God made me to be. In how he sees me. I think I said once that that walking with Jesus can be pure and powerful and wild and free. It allows me to be me, unedited.
I did say that, so I must know it. But for all my knowing, it’s the believing that sometimes gets tricky. Analysis Paralysis is a real thing. It feels crippling when it happens.
So this is me, reminding myself of the truth. This is me shooshing the inner monologue and reminding myself that the paralysis is only in my head. This is me, taking a cue from my girl Taylor and shaking it off.
She’s not really “my girl”, by the way. I don’t even really talk like that, but I figured it’s safe to call her that because TSwift’s squad has gotten so big that it’s basically all people now.
* This is Day 8 of a 31 Day series on Keeping It Real. You can find all of the posts in this series here. I hope you follow along and join the conversation! *