Voices

“There are crazy people out there...people don't need to know everything about you. It’s time to just let it all go. You’re forty-six and nothing will change the questions you are asking yourself today about yesterday.” Her direct message surprised me. Ironically, it followed minutes after a direct message from a friend who wrote, “Keep sharing - your words are helping others walk this same path.” Two vastly opposite messages, yet my heart latched onto the negative of the two. Hours later, I was in a dark place, questioning my writing and even my calling in life. I wanted to help people. I wanted to use my story for good. I wanted to inspire others who were facing similar rejection and confusion. Maybe I was just beating a dead horse? Maybe I was just trying to get attention? What was my problem? I felt pathetic for seeking out validation in social media likes. Maybe I needed to get over myself. I had been derailed. I felt stuck. My heart was deluged in a flood of shame and self doubt. I felt vulnerable and worthless. And it all started with a random direct message after a Facebook post.

I’ve always been a sensitive person. As a kid, one vague word or crooked look would shove me down a twisting slide of emotional instability. My surroundings didn’t help. The Gegner home wasn’t a safe place for emotion. My mother was stoic - nothing seemed to phase her. My dad was at times depressed and self consumed, yet so often I was told that I was “overreacting.” My sensitive nature often led me to second guess myself. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone and I didn’t want to be shunned for screwing up. I despised my emotional makeup. Throughout my twenties and thirties, I tried to convince myself that my feelings didn’t matter. Somehow, I trained myself to look at my emotions from the outside - much like a ghost observing the living. I couldn’t stop the pain, but I could control it.

Around 2004, I started blogging. At times, I felt like I was screaming into the Grand Canyon only to hear my distant voice ricochet off the distant stoney walls. For the first time, I had given myself the permission to speak. I was like a teenager learning to drive stick. There were times when I shifted wrong and pushed the gas too much. Regrettably, I upset some people along the way.

Two people come to mind. A close relative kept tabs on my blog posts and would often passively aggressively chastise me for my honesty. A friend criticized my blogs during a wedding reception toast, sarcastically handing my new wife a mouse which she could use “to delete my blog posts as needed.” I’m embarrassed to say these voices still haunt me. There are days when it feels like “Kelly” and “Doug” are still on my shoulders, whispering their disapproval.

I recently spoke to my therapist about these voices. Her advice - talk back to the voices. Confront them. Put them in their place. They no longer have a hold on me. She’s absolutely right. As “Kelly” and “Doug” fade into the distance, other voices will take their place. Often subtly. Sometimes in a Facebook direct message.

There are definitely times when I need to take constructive criticism, but there are also times when I need to press on, regardless of opposition. Why? Because my voice matters. Not because I’m better than anyone else. My voice matters because my life is a testimony of God’s love and faithfulness. I’m where I am today because God has carried me through, despite my weakness, mistakes and doubt. This is why my voice matters. Am I screwed up? Absolutely. Do I struggle with motives? Yep. Do I say too much sometimes? Sure do. Will I offend some people along the way. No doubt. Am I human? As far as I can tell. Above everything, I’m believing that God’s grace is big enough to handle my moods and fall backs and insecurities. God continues to call me to get back up, try again and choose the voices of truth over the voices of accusation.