The One About Why I Shouldn’t Date Demons. (Or Want to Run off & Marry Them in Vegas) Part 1 of 2

I’m pretty sure my past has caught up to me.

Back when I was in undergrad, a boy I loved broke up with me and I lost my marbles.  Of course,  I’m thankful now that he gave me the old heave-ho, but back then it forced me to face demons that frankly, scared the bejeezus out of me.  My neck started killing me, I had panic attacks and was severely depressed.  At the time, I didn’t believe in “depression,” thinking I was calling a spade a spade: a really frackin’ bad breakup.  I remember once my best friend asking, “Soooo, you have no hope and you want to die everyday and you feel like you can’t go on another minute and that no one has ever really loved you?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Okay, then I’d say you are officially depressed.”

I went to therapy.  Three weeks -three sessions later- I immediately ducked for cover.  Literally, I hid under the covers for three days trying like hell not to kill myself.

I spent 2 straight years in therapy dealing with the demons of my past, abuse, poverty and the like.  I even picked up therapy again after the hubster & I got hitched.  I continued to face family tragedy’s in and out of therapy.  It’s been 6+ years…and as long as were being honest here…I still go!

(Ain’t no shame in my game, y’all).

So, yeah in many ways I have all ready faced my demons.   Faced them, sucka-punched them.  I have kicked their bootays!

But, for a little while now…

My past has not only caught up to me, but chased me down, bitch-slapped me and put my face in the dirt.

Dang.

It’s been crazy.

It’s been a really wild few months.  Back-to-back trips, directing a regional conference and being too doggone tired to even rest well.  I barely got a deep breath from that when an old friend waltzed back in my life and threw my past in my face.

I started thinking about Detroit.  Remembering my childhood home.  I even went and saw it.  I cried.  I wrote.  I started working on my memoir again.

(Yes, incredibly awesome)

But…

Reliving abuse, remembering things I hadn’t… all of that brought some of those pesky demons right back into the living room of my head.

They got cozy.  Started demanding things and junk.

I considered controlling the demons.   But seriously?  That’s like trying to outpace the world’s fastest marathoner.

Though tired and jaded, I remain convinced the best way to face one’s past is not to try and outrun it, but to look at it.  Face it.  Engage with it.  Tussle with it.  Journal it.  Cry it. Pray it. Mourn it.  Sleep it.

Instead of all those *wonderful* ideas, I did the exact opposite.

I flirted with the demons.

I.E. C’mon in Mr. Demon, you wanna have dinner?  What’s that?  Steak?  SURE!

How about I wear a fancy red dress with a pair of stolen Christian Luiboutons?

Want to kill my family and burn my house down before we leave?  Awesome!

And so we dined.

But now I ate too much and I’m sick.

The problem is, for me at least, that the demons of your past don’t come wearing a “I’m Trouble” t-shirt, smelling like poverty and spitting lame jokes.  No, that would be far too easy to reject.

No, their cute and fuzzy.  Asking for a doggone hug.

Or, they come in fancy blue pin-striped suits with shiny cuff links, smelling like Versace and driving a Benz.  The demons of my past come correct!

The truth is, y’all: I get so sick and tired of trying to wrestle them off my back. Fighting the demons of my past is a lot like taking the road less traveled, the one that takes to you to what you really want out of life.  The one that’s harder because it’s the one that requires and demands character, integrity, patience, selflessness and love.

You know what?

Frack the road less traveled.  It’s exhausting. (And ends when?  After death.  *Awesome*)

I want you to know, blogging peeps, there are times I would like to throw in the towel on all of it.  My teeny-tiny little brain tries to tell me that if I threw out the “minister gig” no one would judge me for making mistakes because I would be a regular old nobody-who-is-not-expected-to-have-it-all-together-or-supposed-to-be-perfect.  Everyone would miraculously allow me to throw my life away and smile while saying, “good for you, Grace.  We are so proud that you decided to ruin your life!  Way.  To.  Go.  You be you, girl!  Do yo thang!”

Isn’t that the dumbest idea yet?

Minister or no Minister, throwing one’s life away on a mission for destruction is not smart no matter what religion you do or do not partake of.

Despite the seeming helplessness exuding from this depressing post I remain hopeful.

Somewhat.

First, Dave & I were able to come to conclusions regarding my childhood abuse and connections to life lately.

Secondly, my spiritual director and I were able to address some of the ways that I am refusing to believe in God’s love, grace & mercy for me.

While these things are *fab* I am still facing my consequences.

I am still reeling.

I am still hoping the Demons & I can finish our meal followed by a quickie engagement and marriage by Elvis in a tiny white Chapel on the Vegas strip.

I’m just sayin’…

The road many travel on is attractive. Also, leads to destruction.

And I’m not going down like a punk.

I’m from Detroit, y’all.

(That was a joke)

My strength, my grit, my determination comes from my God, (and yes, my culture and my streetwise upbringing).

My faith aint always pretty…but I got faith.

And I believe.  I hope.  I pray.  I know God will fight these demons for me.  I know God will see me through this madness.  I know I trust God to do things His way.

I wouldn’t have made this far if I hadn’t.

No matter how sexy these demons may be,

I press on.