"She isn’t supposed to be an example. Her friends don’t need an example, they need a friend.
A real one. An honest one. A touchable one. They need a friend who
doesn’t think she’s better than everyone, but one who knows she isn’t.
They need a friend who knows she needs Jesus.
And when she hears adults tell her to be
an example, she thinks that means she can never mess up, can never have
problems, can never just be a teenager with struggles like everyone
else.
She might then mature into a woman who
believes being a Christian means having it all together, saying all the
“right” things, staying a few steps above everyone else."
So lately, I've been getting a lot of truly undeserved compliments. And it's all my fault.
Since I can remember, I have been utterly obsessed with being perfect and have struggled under the weight of not cutting it in comparison to everyone else.
I was never pretty enough...
religious enough...
smart enough...
healthy enough...
Nothing I did was ever enough.
Stress built up higher and higher as I sunk lower and lower from my ridiculous expectations and impossible goals. Eventually, my Junior year of high school, I hit an all time low. I was so stressed out, I was literally getting sick. I started missing class and eventually it was bad enough where the social worker, my guidance counselor, the school nurse, selected teachers, and my mom had to hold an intervention at school for me. They all sat me down and told me what I was doing to myself was crazy. I focused too much on my future. There was one point during the intervention where I FLIPPED OUT when someone suggested I skip an assignment or two in order to catch up on all my make-up work.
In my head, those assignments would break me if they weren't completed. If I didn't finish that assignment, I'd fail the class (no I wouldn't). If I failed the class, I would get a horrid GPA (no I wouldn't). If I got a horrid GPA, no good school would ever accept me. With a bad school transcript, I would never get a good job. No good job meant not making enough for health insurance. No health insurance meant I was dead. So in conclusion, I couldn't just skip an assignment or two because I would die because of it.
All the stress that built up because of it took a toll on me. My mind has forever been programmed to be absolutely "perfect" in everything that I do. When I fail, I don't let others see that failure. If I'm not going to be perfect, I'm at least going to look like I am.
That has been my mindset for the longest time and, I admit, still is in a few aspects. That same mindset has manifest itself in my religious life. In youth group, I was older than most of the other girls. I was interested by everything in the Catholic faith so I could answer questions. I was obsessed with the idea of purity, not just because I was called to be chaste by God, but because I saw the true and beautiful romance and love in it.
I talked with others about it. I had chats with girls about it. I explained to other college women in my dorm why I refused to allow my roommate's boyfriend sleep in our room. I made public vows to never sleep with a guy (literally sleep [I hate how society made that term equivalent with sex. Grrrrr.]), to never do more than kiss a boyfriend, to not kiss someone before he met my parents and we were in a committed relationship.
In the eyes of everyone, I was this perfect little pure girl who loved God with a full heart who did know wrong.
Then came my former boyfriend. Every single one of those vows I had made were broken with him. We met and a month later we shared a kiss. It was passionate and full of hunger to be that close to each other. It felt good.
Until I realized what I had done. In tears, I discussed my disappointment in myself with him. As we continued our relationship, we dove deeper and deeper into sexual sin. The relationship was not the relationship of God I had always imagined I would be in. It quickly turned into a pseudo-cohabiting relationship. I slept at his place every night. I had my own drawer of stuff in his bathroom.
And no one knew. I would sneak away to his place late in the night so no one would see. I'd sneak back into the house with hopes that no one would be awake. I was the example. I was the one who sung praises of the joys of living chastely. Who made all these promises. I was the only example people had of someone practicing her faith and living a chaste life.
And it was all a lie.
I allowed myself to be portrayed as this perfect, Catholic girl. I lied about who I was. I refused to acknowledge these sins I had committed. I wanted desperately to be the girl everyone thought I was. I still do. She seems wonderful. Perfect. Filled with the Holy Spirit.
That woman isn't me. That woman won't be me and it's time I own up to it. I am a sinner just like you, Mother Teresa, and a serial killer. I have my sins and it's obnoxious that I keep trying to pretend I don't.
Do I love God? Absolutely. Enough? Absolutely not.
Do I trust God? Yes. Does that mean I don't worry because I know He's handling everything? I wish I could say I don't, but I'm human. I have cried out of fear of never finding a godly husband. I have angrily yelled at God for a situation in my life. I make all these plans for myself without a second thought as to what God's plan is for me.
Am I perfect? Nope. And I never will be. I think admitting that and humbling myself to the position of a lowly sinner who can do nothing but ask for forgiveness and try not to sin anymore is what, ironically, makes me even better of a model to others than living under the facade of being perfect ever did. When I confessed the many things that I was sorry that happened between me and my ex to my best friend, her first response was that she felt a lot better talking to me about stuff because admitting all of that made me more human. And it's true. Through my own struggles, mistakes, and sorry regrets, I feel I am able to better minister to others in my world, in my church, and in my sorority house.
I've been called perfect, a lovely example of a Catholic woman, a true witness of Christ. I have been called many things. From now on, the title I am most comfortable with is sinner. A sinner who wants nothing more than a full love of Christ, who struggles all the time with it. A sinner who will fall to sin again and again, but will come running back into the Lord's forgiving arms.
A sinner who would love to be the imperfect role model. Who shows the world that of the only two people who were perfect in this world, one died on the cross and the other had to endure her son's death on the cross.
All the stress that built up because of it took a toll on me. My mind has forever been programmed to be absolutely "perfect" in everything that I do. When I fail, I don't let others see that failure. If I'm not going to be perfect, I'm at least going to look like I am.
That has been my mindset for the longest time and, I admit, still is in a few aspects. That same mindset has manifest itself in my religious life. In youth group, I was older than most of the other girls. I was interested by everything in the Catholic faith so I could answer questions. I was obsessed with the idea of purity, not just because I was called to be chaste by God, but because I saw the true and beautiful romance and love in it.
I talked with others about it. I had chats with girls about it. I explained to other college women in my dorm why I refused to allow my roommate's boyfriend sleep in our room. I made public vows to never sleep with a guy (literally sleep [I hate how society made that term equivalent with sex. Grrrrr.]), to never do more than kiss a boyfriend, to not kiss someone before he met my parents and we were in a committed relationship.
In the eyes of everyone, I was this perfect little pure girl who loved God with a full heart who did know wrong.
Then came my former boyfriend. Every single one of those vows I had made were broken with him. We met and a month later we shared a kiss. It was passionate and full of hunger to be that close to each other. It felt good.
Until I realized what I had done. In tears, I discussed my disappointment in myself with him. As we continued our relationship, we dove deeper and deeper into sexual sin. The relationship was not the relationship of God I had always imagined I would be in. It quickly turned into a pseudo-cohabiting relationship. I slept at his place every night. I had my own drawer of stuff in his bathroom.
And no one knew. I would sneak away to his place late in the night so no one would see. I'd sneak back into the house with hopes that no one would be awake. I was the example. I was the one who sung praises of the joys of living chastely. Who made all these promises. I was the only example people had of someone practicing her faith and living a chaste life.
And it was all a lie.
I allowed myself to be portrayed as this perfect, Catholic girl. I lied about who I was. I refused to acknowledge these sins I had committed. I wanted desperately to be the girl everyone thought I was. I still do. She seems wonderful. Perfect. Filled with the Holy Spirit.
That woman isn't me. That woman won't be me and it's time I own up to it. I am a sinner just like you, Mother Teresa, and a serial killer. I have my sins and it's obnoxious that I keep trying to pretend I don't.
Do I love God? Absolutely. Enough? Absolutely not.
Do I trust God? Yes. Does that mean I don't worry because I know He's handling everything? I wish I could say I don't, but I'm human. I have cried out of fear of never finding a godly husband. I have angrily yelled at God for a situation in my life. I make all these plans for myself without a second thought as to what God's plan is for me.
Am I perfect? Nope. And I never will be. I think admitting that and humbling myself to the position of a lowly sinner who can do nothing but ask for forgiveness and try not to sin anymore is what, ironically, makes me even better of a model to others than living under the facade of being perfect ever did. When I confessed the many things that I was sorry that happened between me and my ex to my best friend, her first response was that she felt a lot better talking to me about stuff because admitting all of that made me more human. And it's true. Through my own struggles, mistakes, and sorry regrets, I feel I am able to better minister to others in my world, in my church, and in my sorority house.
I've been called perfect, a lovely example of a Catholic woman, a true witness of Christ. I have been called many things. From now on, the title I am most comfortable with is sinner. A sinner who wants nothing more than a full love of Christ, who struggles all the time with it. A sinner who will fall to sin again and again, but will come running back into the Lord's forgiving arms.
A sinner who would love to be the imperfect role model. Who shows the world that of the only two people who were perfect in this world, one died on the cross and the other had to endure her son's death on the cross.
