“The we once were, they’re coming back to us now.” –Brandy Walker

I still remember, I still remember the way that my hand would shoot up and my heart would start beating. I remember how sure I was that I would be picked, how sure I was that what I said mattered. 

I miss that feeling. I miss that the girl.

The one who came with shaky breath and shaky legs to say what she had decided she was not going to say, because she was sure the Spirit was calling her, whispering to her that someone needed to say it, and it may as well be her. 

I miss the feeling of annointing. I miss the sure but shaky breath. I miss the simple equation of He speaks, I do. 

When did things become so complicated? When did the equation become tangled with variables? With what ifs and how comes and can I trust myself to speak? I miss the girl who just did. 

I remember the way I used to pray fervently for healing. I remember how sure I was, walking away from that pulpit or stage that I was healed. And I remember how the sickness would slowly creep back again. I remember wondering why I wasn’t being healed. 

And I remember saying yellow was fine when my heart was really longing for purple, and purple was right there. Why didn’t I just say what I wanted? I remember hiding in my bedroom, doing things my mother would have approved of, playing with the old makeup she had given to us for this very purpose, but afraid to admit I was interested in. I wonder where that came from, in a house as loving as mine. I wonder how the lies of the world leaked in through the thick armor of parental love. I wonder about the lies that will get to my girls….as much as I try to protect them. I wonder if I always believed that I was too much. 

I remember crying in my bedroom my senior year. I had come home from the state speech tournament empty handed again. I had already missed the cut for nationals. I was devestated. My best was not good enough. I remember the note from my mother, waiting for me on my bed. She had placed it there before the tournament even began. Before I came home, empty handed or elated, she wanted me to know just how proud she was of me. How talented I was. How much she loved me. 

I still can’t talk about that letter without crying. Of course my mother knew my deepest fears. Of course she knew how much I long to be picked. 

And I want to take that girl I once was, hiding in the bedroom, hiding her desires, crying over dreams that did not come true. I want to cup her face in my hands and breathe the truth into her. This world is harsh, and your heart is built for feeling. It will seem easier to tuck pieces of yourself away. It seems like if you stop dreaming big you will stop hurting so badly. Don’t do that. The dreaming is worth it. Even if they don’t always come true. The believing in the impossible is part of who you are.

Your fears are founded. You won’t always get picked love. I wish that you were, but that isn’t how these things shake out. Your heart will break more than once over dreams that are not to be.

I want to warn her, to promise her: You won’t always be picked. But I promise: You are always chosen. 

This is a a post for The Story Sessions Girls We Once Were link up. I hosted an annonymous entry here. Get your hankies and head over. The submissions are truly beautiful. 

This is an annonymous post for The Girls We Once Were link up. There is some explicit language; sometimes those are the only words we have for the darkness of this world. But there is always light, and it is always coming. I think this woman handles that beautifully, and I hope you will hold her heart carefully. I am so honored to host her story here.

Before there were fairy tales, before there were courtship manuals, before there were dating horror stories, before marriage was made an idol, before there were wedding night promises, before I learned to expect my first crush to last forever, did I once believe in true love and that I deserved it? Was I once that naive?

 Before there were small hands playing at grownup pleasures, before they whispered “it’s just a game” and taught me how, and I so small, and I so young; before there were dark daydreams and darker lusts; before the screen was filled with chiseled biceps groping and bruised breasts groped; before the deep, relentless shame, was I once innocent? 

Before there were clandestine garter belts and lace beneath good girl dresses, before there were muffled groans in the back seat on a country road, before there were unsatisfied no-really-it-was-goods, before there were the guilty sounds of pulling our clothes on after, before there were late-night commitments to never again, to this was the last time, was I once pure?

 Before he tried to make me some fantasy — thinner thighs and fuller chest; before I confessed to him all my former sins and he held me tender, heartbeat-softkiss-whisper tender — until he stopped holding me at all, until I wasn’t good enough, until he wanted me but not-me, skinnier and willing to fuck like the goddamn whore I felt like already; before he begged me to then blamed me when I did; before him, was I once whole?

 Before I learned the thou-shalt-nots and knew I’d already, long since broken them, before the Lord God cast me out and an angel barred the way of my return with a flaming sword, did I once dance in Eden, naked and glad, naked and unashamed? Before the Fall, was I once good?

 I don’t remember that girl I once was, maybe. I don’t remember the bright tall grass of Eden, a sweet, simple garden where I tended strawberries and hopes, grew snap-peas and trust. I cannot see my face there — was I smiling? did I laugh? was there no shadow of shame cast across me?

 And that tree where it started — that mean, forbidden tree. Is it fair the first fruit was sliced up and placed in my eager hand and they said, “taste, it is good,” and I didn’t know not to, couldn’t say no?

 I remember that fruit and its juices still stain me, but I can’t imagine who I was before I ate it. Naive, innocent, pure, whole, unashamed, good? Maybe I was. But that was before.

And now it is after, and who has that little girl grown up to be?

After the disillusionment, after the memories came back haunting, after the long grief; after I saw myself broken, and swore I would be whole again; after the “we’re through,” after I walked away, even when he followed me begging, even when he said “I’m sorry” and meant it; after I wandered the Earth, looking for Eden’s welcome; after I looked that angel of shame in the eye where he stood with his sword, cutting me with its hot edge, and after I noticed the shield in my hand, and after I noticed Another who’s fighting beside me; now I am healing, and laughing sometimes. Now I am trying. And I will be free. And I will be good, and pure, and unashamed.

The girl I once was, I believe she’s still here.