It’s been awhile. A lot longer than I thought, honestly. During this time, it seems like the days drag on and on, but the weeks go by fast. Last time I posted was late April. A time that seems like forever ago. I was packing up my classroom, coming to terms with not being able to go back to school, and trying to keep myself and my recovery afloat while being relatively alone. A lot has happened since then, both in the world and in my world.
When I stopped posting, I didn’t really even care. Up to then, I was so obsessed with posting every week, saying the “perfect” things and generally pleasing people by being on time and consistent. I put way too much weight on the assumption that people cared about all of that and in the midst of it all, writing started to feel more like a duty than something that I loved. Then, when the world fell apart, mine did too, in a lot of ways. I ceased to care about what people would think if I did or didn’t post. I ceased to care about writing at all. I felt empty. Numb. Like I had nothing important to say. I felt indifferent about my blog and writing and well, everything.
As time has gone on, I’ve wondered if people miss it. If people notice that there’s not a new post each week. Sometimes I shut those thoughts down, sometimes I let them play out. I’ve often wondered if this place where I bare my soul is important to anyone else but me. After entertaining those thoughts every once in a while, it has become harder and harder to motivate myself to write.
What I’ve told the few people who have reached out and asked, is that I feel like I have had nothing to say. I feel like I don’t have anything to say that people don’t already know or aren’t already feeling. I felt like me blogging about how hard this time is for me would just be annoying, and even selfish, because this time has been hard for everyone. I shut the people who’ve asked down, and said I had nothing to say, nothing to give. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t necessarily true. I just didn’t have the energy to write an uplifting, inspirational post when I was feeling anything but uplifting and inspirational. Then someone replied with, “Why does it have to be uplifting or inspirational? Why can’t you just write your truth? Your story? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing anyway?” Fine. They had a point. But weeks later, after reflecting on those thoughts, this post isn’t just flowing like they usually do. I sit here and am not even sure this will get finished or get posted. But I’ll give it a shot.
After writing and reflecting on the above paragraphs, I realize that there’s one other tidbit of information that explains my hiatus. You know that feeling where you say something (or write something) out loud and didn’t realize you felt like that until it came out of your mouth? Well, yeah. That just happened to me. I just realized that even more than the numbness and anxiety that this time has caused, it’s not the reason I stopped writing. I’ve written through those things before, actually, some of my best stuff comes from places of numbness and anxiety. In reality, I’ve been having a hard time writing because I’m a little bitter about writing right now. So instead of addressing the numbness and anxiety like I was planning, I think I need to first address my bitterness toward writing and what happened to trigger it.
If you know me or have been following this blog, you know that my dream is to write a book. It used to be a little dream, something that I kept at the back of my mind and would daydream about before I went to sleep at night or when I was driving. Then, it became a bigger dream. One that I told people about, and have written about on this blog. Last summer, almost a whole year ago, I got my hopes up about my book dream. Since I can’t remember what I’ve shared about this here specifically (and because I LOVE this story), I’ll summarize it again.
Rewind to last summer:
Right as I was leaving treatment, the last 30 minutes or so that my feet stood on the desert ground of The Meadows Ranch, a nurse asked to pray over me before she sent me on my way. I happily obliged, telling her that I was in no position to turn down prayers. She prayed for a long time, and in fact, kept walking away and then coming back and adding more. She told me that God spoke to her that morning about me, and that He had some things that He wanted me to hear. What you have to understand about this nurse is that she is a no-nonsense, in your face, straight-shooter and no matter what, she’s gonna lay it on you and tell you how it is. That’s what I really respect about her. So when she told me that God had some things that He wanted her to tell me, I gave her my full attention.
As I said, she talked to me for a long time. She told me that I had received a second chance, a second chance to take care of unfinished business at the Ranch, but more so, a second chance at life. Something that many people don’t get. She encouraged me, and told me that I was here for a reason. She told me that God doesn’t make mistakes and that He wanted me there at that place, at that moment. That I was a light in the world and that God wants me to use it. Throughout it all, she kept grabbing my arms and giving me a shake, asking, “Cassie?! Are you paying attention? Are you listening?” I kept reassuring her that she had my full attention. Finally, she said, “I keep asking you if you’re hearing me because God told me that you're stubborn and don’t always listen, so He said I need to be stern with you and keep checking if you’re listening.” Wow. What do you even say to that? Especially since I knew in my heart it’s true. I’m super stubborn and I admittedly don’t listen well, especially if I feel like someone’s trying to control me or tell me what to do.
So I sat in the nurse’s station with one of my favorite BHT’s (and people) and this nurse, periodically coming over and grabbing my hands or my arms, shaking me, and praying over me, telling me what she said were God’s words to me through her. She had me mesmerized, and a little shocked honestly. Then, when I thought it couldn’t get any more powerful, she said, “Oh, yes, God says you’re going to write a book. Once you’ve nourished your body and your mind, it will just come to you. For some people it comes slow, for you, it will come fast. One day, the words are just going to come to you. You won’t know when, but they will just come to you and it will just happen. Everything that you desire and that He has planned will come to you in His timing if you are obedient and persevere.” The BHT, who I was really close to and had heard my book dream, and I just looked at each other with our mouths open, in awe of what Nurse Cindy had said. My dream of writing a book wasn’t something that I had shared about openly there, and never to her. So although I told her I’d been listening, this really got my attention and proved to my doubting mind that all these things she had been saying may just be true.
Throughout most of my adult life, I’d been frustrated because I felt like God never talked to me. I had close friends who seemed to have a direct line to heaven and would say things like, “God told me ___” or “God wants me to do ___.” This would drive me crazy and make me so frustrated, because if God talked to them, why doesn’t He talk to me?! So in the car on the way to the airport, feverishly writing notes about everything Nurse Cindy had said to me, I came to a realization. She told me things and referenced things that there’s no way she could have known without some heavenly guidance. I had been so angry and bitter that God didn’t ever talk to me, I almost missed it when He did. He made sure to make clear through her that He acknowledges my stubbornness and resistance and lack of listening skills. He reached out to me in a way that He knew would get my attention.
After this turning point and profoundly powerful summer, I was encouraged. I had hope for my future. And I had a newfound hope for my ability to actually write and publish a book. I began to think about the hundreds of journal pages I had meticulously written throughout my two times in Arizona and started to wonder if my book had already started writing itself, in the form of those journals.
Fast forward to April 2020:
We’re in the midst of a worldwide pandemic. I’m working from home and have some free time on my hands, more time than I ever have had before. So one evening, I sat down at my computer and wrote a quick prologue for my future book. Then I pulled out my journals and started to copy them from the page to my Google Doc. This is it, I thought. Until, I realized... it wasn’t. These journals wouldn’t work. They’re written in narrative form, yes, and they are very detailed. But I started to realize that although they’re interesting and engaging to me, they probably wouldn’t be interesting or engaging to anyone else. So there I sat, after days of typing, feeling utterly deflated and discouraged. I went from thinking that the start of my future book lay in the pages of my Google Doc, to feeling like my future book and everything that comes with it, are completely out of reach. So I became angry. At who or what I’m not sure. But my anger and bitterness attached itself to writing in general, and so I stopped. I stopped journaling. I stopped blogging. I stopped trying to write my book. I even stopped reading other books for a while.
So here we are. Me writing, for the first time in months, still bitter about all of it and disappointed. Do I still have hope that my book is still a possibility? Of course. I’m just trying to ride out this setback and trying to open myself up to other possibilities.
I was really mad at writing for awhile. I’m still mad. But I’m also realizing that this anger isn’t all toward writing, actually very little of it is. It was just the closest thing and easiest thing to attach it to in that moment. Maybe I’ll reflect on this anger in a different post, but for now, I’m trying to let myself love writing again. To love this blog, the process, and sharing my story with others. I’m so thankful for all the beautiful things this blog has brought me. So many of you have opened yourselves up and shared bits and pieces of your stories with me. I love that. I’ve always told myself that I’m willing to be brave and vulnerable with my story if it will give others permission to be brave and vulnerable with theirs.
With that in mind, here I go again. But I’m going to try and do things a little differently. I’ll still aim for Wednesday night posts. I stick to the fact that it makes it easier for people to find posts when they know when to look. However, instead of forcing myself into the once-a-week timetable, I’m going to try and relax my own expectations of myself with this blog. I want to keep writing and sharing and being vulnerable with all of you, mostly because it’s good for me. But I don’t want it to feel like a duty or an obligation anymore. I just want it to be what it is. So I’m going to take a step away from that perfectionism and just post on Wednesday nights of the weeks that I have something to share. On weeks that I don’t, no big deal. No more getting down on myself or staring at my screen for hours on end, panicking that I won’t get a post done in time. When I have words to share with you all, I’ll share them. When those words aren’t coming, I’m going to work on not beating myself up about it. How’s that sound?
Overall, I’m SO THANKFUL for each and every one of you for sticking with me and supporting me by keeping up with this blog. I love hearing your stories and how my story affects you and your own journey. Someday, hopefully, I’ll be begging you all to go out and buy my new book. For now, I hope that you’ll stick with me on here. 💜
