I have no prime. I will evolve until I die.
Learning how to no longer think my obsession with suffering is the most interesting thing about me.
For the first time in my life, I think I am sick of talking about myself.
I have been giving myself to the internet since 2017. I have written countless words on all the hopelessly pathetic things I was doing to crawl back to myself, how devastated I felt when falling short. I talked about the becoming, the men, the love, the breaking, the living, the sowing, the casting it away, iiiiiiiiiii tried to drink it awayyyyyy, cranes in the sky! How it ruined me. I could only write about my sense of inferiority but felt superiority because well, I am entitled. I felt entitled to my pain. I remember watching Little Women and hearing the character, Amy March state— “I am not a poet, I am just a woman,” I didn’t understand what she was going on about. I didn’t see the inescapable curse placed upon women the second they left their mothers with female anatomy. I thought the pain was something I invented myself. And maybe it is or it isn’t but we choose to stay in it.
When I became a mother, I was barely a woman. Truth is, I am not the only single mother on the planet. I am not the only single mother whose baby daddy didn’t make it to every birthday or bailed on every pay day. I was just entitled to what I thought should be mine. How could my suffering not make me unique?!?!! I had become a mother and a woman and nothing else. I had sold myself this goal of being perfect at the two. I was being limited. I wanted to be perfect and picked no other space to be anything else. I kept the perfect mother and perfect woman on the altar and assured myself that no other goal would match it. It didn’t matter if I became a good writer, or runner, or even happy. If I wasn’t perfecting motherhood as a single woman, who would care?
Truly. Nobody even thought of me that way. I had idolized my pain. God didn’t even look at me like that.
So much time in between thinking this way and realizing I was hurting myself. I was in a cult I felt I’d sunk too deep into. But at some point, after I told the story of me being sad and lonely and disordered enough times, I realized it was boring. I realized I was made to believe my suffering was sexy so that I’d stay in it. I realized it was time to move on.
I have no prime. I will evolve until I die. I must.
I am writing you love letters from Hilo.
I pray you read this with hope and love. With joy and expectation— knowing Jesus loves you but more importantly He needs you to grow up— in your word reading, praying, believing, hoping, looking for His return.
All my love,
G.
