Avoidance

Ok . . . This is a first attempt at writing again--so it's rough & raw. Anyone willing to take a shot at editing/critiquing is welcome.

Avoidance

“But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”
--James 1.5 (TNIV)

I must have Avoidant Personality Disorder . . . I read the description of it in a psych book once—the one that all the doctors use—it was my college roommate’s textbook. And the description seems to fit. You see, I get scared by the littlest things—like seeing a friend by chance at the grocery store. I hide if I can, sneaking around the next aisle just so I won’t have to say, “Hi, How you doing?” and start a conversation from there. Throughout most of my life, it has been easier to avoid conversation starters than have to frantically think up the words that become small talk. Perhaps because I am not a “think on your feet” kind of communicator. Or perhaps because small talk eventually becomes deeper conversation, the kind where you place your heart on your sleeve and hope the other person accepts you. And I have deep expectations for friendship—some that I won’t be able to fill, and others that I don’t expect anyone else to fill either. So, instead of talking to that person in the next aisle, I walk the other direction, intent on looking for the right brand of . . . something.

This avoidance disorder doesn’t just happen when I’m faced with unplanned conversations . . . My self-diagnosed psychosis has a hand in nearly every area of my life—except maybe for brushing my teeth and eating breakfast—you know, the usual out-of-bed routine.

My family labels me a procrastinator, and that label would apply, for I’m writing this three hours before my new writer’s club meeting . . . but I’m discovering that this need to avoid goes beyond procrastination’s normal realm. While I wait until the last minute do some routine things, the tendency to avoid begins when I am face to face with personal opportunities for success and failure. Decisions to volunteer my time, to start healthy eating habits, and especially, to write again. And while I hate to admit it, my avoidance has a lot to do with doubt.

Doubt in my God-given abilities to try—and to succeed. Succeed not just once but over and over again. It’s one thing to write for a college assignment. It’s an entirely different thing to write for the sheer fun and work of writing. What if I actually write something of value and people read my words—and then want me to speak on that subject? What if I have no words left to say than those already on the page? Or—and this may be my worst fear—what if my words are valuable to no one but myself?

I’ve taken a break from writing—The last three years I’ve only written emails and grocery lists; I haven’t even journaled. Nothing creative or reflective has graced my computer screen or paper. And I wonder, have I buried the gift God gave me? Buried it so deep that the gift is now lost? Do I have the courage to see if it is still there—hidden and waiting to be born one more time? Am I ready to birth whole essays, poems and stories not just for myself, but for others’ eyes and hearts, as well? And what words will come first? Words that will cut or heal?

And so I stand here with my doubts, wondering and waiting, and a little bit believing too. And I think I'd like to make a choice.