…having it all together

About a year ago, I started this blog post – or at least I saved the first draft of this post. It took several trips back to the computer to piece together what I felt like saying. I couldn’t invent the feeling of heaviness; the words needed to happen in the moment, and the moments were few and relatively far between. Most of the year rolled by with good days, happy adventures, and excited nervousness. Some days, though, or even just parts of some days, felt a lot like an unearthly weight dropped on my back. Those days brought me back to this post, to build on what I had written the last time I tried to put the feelings into words.

The content started building years ago, after I posted a blog about the drafts I store away. Shortly after posting, a friend reached out to see if I was okay; apparently the post revealed emotion I typically kept hidden. It struck me as odd, though I could not put my finger on why. It took several years to realize what happened.

My old blog post admitted I don’t have it all together. My friend saw a façade (even though I had not intended to present one), and a brief revelation of the life behind the wall looked – from the outside looking in – like a crack. While it felt good to open up, the observation of chaos brought concern. Instead of seeing the reality of my life, my friend saw a break in the image I portrayed, and worried I did not have it all together.

Actually, I never did.

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This post has been through a lot of iterations, each with its own flavor. I wanted to combine them into a beautiful synthesis, yet it always felt too messy to blend together. Finally, I let go of the ideal of a polished blog post. Suddenly I saw the post, fragmented and worn, ready to go. Here’s where it’s been over the past year.

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Attempt 1 – Starting

I’ve come back to this post so many times throughout the day week month year. It’s like my body knows I’m full of words I need to get out, then once I get here the words disappear or jumble up. I thought this would be a one-day post – something I would piece together and get posted on the same day. Now I realize this post is going needed to sit here for a while, for me to muster up the courage to post it with bravery instead of apathy. If I posted it today then, it wouldn’t be have been because I am felt ready to post it; if I posted this today then, it would be have been because I don’t didn’t care anymore.

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Attempt 2 – Dangling

It’s a weird place, sitting on the edge of depression with legs dangling over. Imagine looking down into a canyon and knowing exactly what it’s like in the shadows below. It’s not a new canyon, and frankly it’s probably not an isolated canyon, even though it seems abandoned from my perch on the edge. I’m sure plenty of people have explored the canyon and made the trek back to the rim, as I’ve done before. Yet, sitting here, with the heat crackling on my neck, the cool darkness in the canyon feels inviting. I know it’s a mess to climb back out, and I know the cool of the day quickly turns to a bone-chilling cold at night, and yet…

How did I get to the edge of the canyon? Life is good, right? I have a job with real purpose and a boss who affirms my abilities. My mind is constantly stretched from high-quality education and thought-provoking conversation. I have an incredible wife and there’s a baby girl on the way, and my heart delights in stepping into the “dad” role. Even still, I wandered to the edge of the canyon. For now, I’m just sitting here with my legs tempting the fall. The problem is I don’t know how to make sure when I stand up I step back from the edge instead of jumping into the known.

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Attempt 3 – Walking

For so long, I’ve walked along the rim of this canyon. I know full well how deep the canyon is, and how quickly I could fall into its absoluteness. Somehow it feels more deserved to walk along the canyon – like something I did or didn’t keeps me rightly one step from disaster. Walking so close to the edge is dangerous because life often throws rocks or a strong breeze whips through a hot day, and the natural response is to stumble to the side.

The problem is I don’t have a step to give. If I stumble to the side, I’ll tumble into the canyon. With practice, I’ve come to recognize this perilous path. Even though a consciousness of the danger should prompt me to take steps away from the edge of the canyon, what it’s actually done is give me an apathetic resignation to the ground beneath my feet. Instead of taking steps away from the canyon, I reason it is equally safe to walk with the ground crumbling beside me as long as I keep my attention firmly on my feet. Step by step, I plod along through life without lifting my eyes. While it may work to walk through life this way – one half step at a time, precariously close to disaster – it is emblematic of a fool’s errand. By staying so close to the edge, I am unable to look around and enjoy the view – I cannot watch birds flutter from one tree to the next; I cannot make pictures in the clouds floating above; I cannot see the people walking quite near me, if not immediately with me. When I keep my eyes on my feet, all I see is the potential to fall – and all I feel is a dull sense of dread.

I think the depression pulls on so many people is because the last steps before the edge of the canyon feel a lot like the actual fall. The hyper-focused march along the canyon’s rim brings a paralytic numbness, creeping up from the toes to the heart to the head. When the rhythmic step, step, stepping plants apathy in my mind, I no longer care if I slip – and in this sense, depression already embraced me. If I fall into the canyon, I don’t notice the increased gravity of the situation.

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Attempt 4 – Questioning

I’m not sure it’s safer to sit down than to just keep walking.

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Attempt 5 – Sitting

I think I know it would be safer to sit down and rest along the canyon’s edge. I say “I think” because the uncertainty along the canyon clouds everything I think I know. In contrast to thinking it would be safer to take a seat, I also think it is “better,” for lack of a truer term, to keep walking. The risk is evident with every tentative step, because I feel my legs shake and the ground beneath me crumble ever so slightly. Yet, I think I know I need to keep it together. I think I know people expect me to keep moving, as if oblivious to the inherent threat posed by doing so. I think I know my reputation presents steady legs and an unworried pace, no matter the conditions of the earth upon which I walk. I think I know my value is greater if my consistency is protected.

But what do I know?

Part of my mind chants the mantras of self-preservation, of pride, of determination, of strength, and of consistency, while some small part of my mind pleads with me to just sit down and stay safe. Part of my mind echoes, “You got this; everyone’s watching, so just keep it together.” while the faintest whisper in my heart begs me to stop before it’s too late. This pitiful plea from the depths of my stomach grasps for my attention; “Alex, you need to sit down. You’re not going to make it, and I don’t want to fall.” The voices in my head speak louder than voices around me, and it’s at once so easy and so hard to argue with myself.

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Attempt 6 – Reasoning

Even if I do stop to sit, I don’t experience rest. Sitting on the edge of the canyon is safer than peering into its depths, yet the impending potential for destruction is ever present. The moments where I try to convince myself to let the tension subside only bring more stress, as some part of my body clamors its need to maintain the support of all my perceived expectations. Every “should” and “should not” stacks in my arms like boulders, and I can feel my muscles straining. Again, part of me pleads: “Alex, just let go. Drop the weight.” Then the chorus of my emotions echoes the fears of failure and disappointment. The doubt and confusion rattle inside me like useless noise in an empty room. But hey, life’s good, right? I’m good.

Mom – don’t read this next part, okay?
I think I’m actually homesick. Most of the time it’s okay, and being married is so much better than going alone. I just miss what I grew to love – the routines with friends, the hole-in-the-wall restaurants, the date locations…

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Attempt 7 – Ending

I don’t have it all together. In fact, I don’t even have most of it together – I’m not even sure what “it” I’m supposed to have together. I suspect nobody has it all together, and the people who seem to insist they do might even believe their own lies. Quietly, I hope the people who admit they don’t have it all together can make progress, because I would hate to admit I don’t have it all together only to find out I’m actually more alone in this than I thought, and the canyon truly is desolate. The only way to know for sure is to say something or dive into the canyon again, and I’m not sure I have the energy to do either.

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Like I said, I never had it all together; I still don’t.

After a year of wringing my hands with this post, it finally feels like it’s time to let it go. Leaving it messy seems to portray an accurate depiction of the thoughts behind the words – life often feels like a dangerous walk along the edge of destruction. It bothers me to know the risk and still stay so close, yet it now bothers me to pretend the risk is not there. If everyone else has it all together and I’m the only one who feels this way, then it’s okay – I’m okay starting, dangling, walking, questioning, sitting, reasoning, and ending on my own. After all, I know I’m not actually alone. Through the hard moments and the cautious looks into the canyon, the Holy Spirit never left my side. Sometimes He called me away from the edge, and other times He sat next to me and gave me permission to feel the heaviness of the burdens I needed to let go. Regardless, He never left me alone at all, which means it’s okay to not have it all together.

If everyone else is also just trying to keep it all together when it feels like it’s all falling apart, then maybe none of us are actually alone. Maybe, just maybe, we all feel overwhelmed sometimes, and don’t know how to express how heavy life feels. I’d guess most people, like me, probably don’t have it all together. I think it’s time we all stopped pretending.