Summer is here! It’s time to get out in the woods, in the trees, away from lights and people and noise and into Creation.
I’m going camping!!

Camping shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is. I didn’t camp last year but before that it was a staple of “our” life. There was a year or two that life, and work and lack of planning got the best of us and we missed it, but for the most part we were a family that loved Creation. We got out into it as much as we could. I missed it last year but I was blessed to have my mountain, my writing room, and my Leavenworth, so I was reminded every weekend, as the tourists drove up Icicle, that I lived where they came to camp.

This year, I set my mind on camping.

Why is it such a big deal?!

Because, for all my hours in the gym, I’m a girl (a 5’, $1.30 soaking wet, girl)? No, ok well, a tiny bit. Because I’m unattached? A little. Because I’m in charge? YES! There are plenty of ladies out there that like doing it themselves, and enjoy proving their independent side. Not me, which is ironic since I’ve been told (more than once) I have a very strong masculine persona. I don’t want to be in charge. Never have. I’m just Italian with ADHD and will interrupt you to tell you what’s up if you’re not making sense.

I’m a follower. I’ve joked for years that that’s why I got in trouble as a kid, because I followed. And it’s the truth. I say, “I do what I want” but I prefer taking direction. I’m a great follower, helper and contributor. You want me on your side because I will win the masses for you! I thrive there. And I’m unashamed. I am a follower! I’m strong, I’m opinionated, I’m sure of who I am, and who I am in Christ… and I prefer to follow. I’ve learned I need to seek leaders I can respect and stand with 100% but I feel my best when I’m in a support role.

How, exactly, does that tie into camping? I’ll tell you how, because I’m the lead on this, that’s how. I don’t want to be in charge. But I want to camp. No one is telling me what to do, therefore, by default, I must lead if I want to camp. I accept full responsibility for anything that goes wrong. And that’s scary!

But…

I’ve chosen this for The Middle. I would rather be strong and brave and courageous and do this… even if I am afraid, than whine and wish and not go. I would rather do the things I do not want to do partner-less than choose a partner on a whim, so I have someone to keep me safe for a moment, who will leave when he’s tired of my alpha tendencies, or when the wind changes. I would rather take this time, take this risk, take this life as it is, not as I would have it be, than screw things up again.

Honestly, I’m not in danger. I will not be alone, just unattached. The chances of the car breaking down on the way are slim. The odds that a bad guy will attack me are minimal. And, well, sorry to break it to you, but Sasquatch isn’t real… so he’s not a threat. I’ll be fine.

I can feel the fear and I can do it anyway! I am not who I was, waiting for someone to drive me where we’re going (although that’s what I prefer). I am new, and I will enjoy life, and Creation, and waterfalls, and time with people I care about, and railroad bridges and the wild, wonderful respite that comes from pine needles and green Coleman stoves.

I guess, in part, the fear is getting used to being alone, doing it my way, taking direction from no one. Some women like it and, assuredly, I’ve been accused of being too strong. But I’m not… really! If you keep my secret… the truth is… I am weak and delicate and afraid that one more Leaving will, quite literally, kill me. I don’t want to be alone, but I will be, for now, for The Middle, to be sure that I find a partner who will not leave me, who I can be sure of, who accepts me, as I am, for my strength and my fragility. I will be alone for now but not forever. AND… I am going to enjoy this summer of camping! It’ll be chaos and irony and good times with good people or all by myself and either way I will have fun!

This one is long and cathartic and very step #4ish. Don’t read it… I just need to write it.

I’ve had two people in the last week ask the same thing… “Have you forgiven yourself for your past?” I answer quickly, “Yes,” I say, “I’m forgiven. It’s my past,” and I move on with a joke and witty transition to another topic because the truth haunts me and I don’t want to talk about it.

You see, I needed a Savior because I was desperate for absolution. I needed forgiveness. I needed a power greater than myself to say my sins were forgiven because my sins were too great to not be punished. I guess there are people in the world who have little guilt. I suppose there are those who have never done anything so bad they feel deep, enduring regret, but regret and remorse for what I’ve done haunts me, every… single… day.

There are things I’ve done, things I’ve never admitted, I need to confess. There’s a particular part of my life that possibly reflects the sins of my youth. I have two choices. Hide, hush, not say anything, whether it’s right or wrong to do so, or, breathe it all out, for once, whether right or wrong.

I choose to breathe it out.

So here goes…

I have failed as a mom.

I’m not talking the little mom regrets most mothers with good intentions have. I have failed my children miserably and I am watching helplessly as one is letting his life nose-dive and fear if I had done different it wouldn’t be this way.

We’ve all seen them, the kids we know are the way they are because their parents are the way they are. I’m that parent. I wish I wasn’t, but I kinda think I am. I tried hard not to be her, but I was, and probably in this very moment I am. I am utterly, completely alone and lost and clueless to know what’s right and I stand back and watch and fear it is largely my fault.

It’s no secret that I was a methamphetamine user in my past. I’ve adamantly professed that I didn’t use while I was pregnant.

The truth is… That’s a lie. I’ve lied all these years. It’s time to confess…

The truth is… I stopped using when I had the pink line on a stick in my hand. I knew good and well with both my boys long before I peed on that stick that I was pregnant. I just ignored the truth because I wasn’t ready to believe it.

With my oldest I was “only” smoking weed, popping pills and drinking. I suspected earlier with him and quit using earlier with him (except for smoking… I smoked like a chimney the entirety of both my pregnancies). I probably used some sort of illicit drug or alcohol for the first six weeks of his gestation.

What else can I confess? I was prepared to abort him, but by the grace of God, his biological father demanded that not happen. If for nothing else, I respect that man for that one demand. One of my absolute most favorite humans in the history of the world is a known entity because that man (really only a boy at the time) demanded I not terminate the pregnancy. I owe him my eldest son’s life and my utmost gratitude.    

My second born, third oldest child, wasn’t so lucky. By the time he came along I was knee deep in a mire of methamphetamine addiction I was powerless to control. I had birth control pills that I took sparingly. When I realized I’d skipped a day or week or however many I’d missed I caught up in one day and told myself it was cool. That, coupled with rolling days of tweaking and partying and crashing and surprise, surprise somehow I missed periods.

I figured it was the meth or missed-and-caught-up-pills and ignored the facts. Honestly, at that time in my life I was so messed up and fried I cannot remember the sequence of events. But I remember the bathroom I was in when I expected my period for the second or third time and it didn’t come. I knew what I didn’t want to know. And so… I peed on the thing and wasn’t surprised when the line showed up.

I hid it though, from everyone but the father. I was a mess, with a blind child already. We were a joke of a couple bouncing from house to house, family member to family member, jail cell to jail cell. The last thing we needed was another kid. And yet, I was knocked up. Again. Idiot! What a colossal failure I was, at life, at everything.

I’d like to say I quit with my second son right there and then, after eight or maybe possibly twelve weeks gestation. In truth the meth and weed did stop. But I still smoked, and one time, around five months gestation, when he was still a hidden secret,  I drank a shot of blueberry schnapps from someone because to have turned down the shot would have been too obvious.

That’s horrible. I did drugs while I was pregnant. I’m the worst of the worst. Can I forgive myself for that? Do I have the right to? Maybe I could … if my kids turned out OK, but that’s a big, fat ????? that only time will tell.

Some people can boldly say they did the best they could and their kids turned out bad or good and they can own that they at least did right by their kids. I can’t say that. I failed my kids before they were even born.

And after… Still failed… My second son was born August 15th 1998, I was drunk and high the first night home, August 18th or 19th. I didn’t quit using for nearly a full year. These boys, these innocent kids went through so much. They were powerless to protect themselves from our binges, our fights, our moves and parties. They were victims, collateral damage. And now I am haunted by the fear that I messed them up.

I got my free pass in May of 1999. I can’t explain it on human terms. All I can say is I knew one night in May of 1999 that God was giving me one chance to be free of my addiction and I took it. I had no withdraws, none of the stuff that should have followed an addiction like mine, only a drastic and dramatic change in lifestyle.

I let go of everything that was behind and pressed on to a new and clean life. I took my boys with me.

I was a mess but for once we stayed in the same house for more than a few days or weeks and stayed in an apartment I paid for, by myself, for months. It wasn’t a perfect time but it was a walk into functional living. It was a time for me to break free from abuse, addiction and blame and for the first time own my life and put others ahead of me.

Up til then, I blamed my life, my choices, my sad state on my upbringing. When I surrendered my life, and pledged my fealty to Christ, for once Someone mattered more than what I wanted in life. In that transition, I realized that it wasn’t “just” Christ that mattered more than me and my wants, my boys did too.

There was great power and responsibility in being their mommy. For once I didn’t want to just be better than my other drugging acquaintances, I wanted to be a good mom. Honestly, I had no clue what that looked like. There was a therapist that came to see me and my boy every… single… week. No matter where I was staying, where I lived, she came, she taught me how to work with him. I have always been academic, even at my lowest point, so I applied the techniques but I started asking questions after I got clean and saved. I wanted to know what good moms did. I wanted to be a good mom for my boys.

I tried.

I listened to her. I checked out books from the library. I found ladies at my new church that I thought were good moms and asked them how to be a good mom. I took my boys to parks and watched the other moms and picked out the good ones and did what they did, said what they said. I wanted to be a good mama. And I tried. And I prayed that my mistakes, my sins, my drug use and fights and parties wouldn’t damage my boys. And I moved on.

I don’t know if I was able to forgive myself. How does one forgive that? The closest I could get was that Christ died in my place. I deserve death for putting my boys through that. It was so bad sometimes and I put them through that… and I didn’t care. They had no choice.

I just moved on and hoped and prayed my past would fade away.

I thought it did. I gave myself a year to be just me, Jesus and my boys. To figure out who I was in Christ, who I was without a man, who I was clean and sober and as a mom. And then when the year was done, I was ready for a man.

You see, I prayed for a man like The Leaver… specifically like him. I saw him with my friend and I thought he was such a good man. I didn’t envy her, but I remember praying for a man like him for my husband. And then, like a fairy tale, like a sign from God, two days after my year to be alone, he came and knocked on my door. Their relationship had ended and he was standing at my door. I thought it was meant to be. I thought he was the man for the rest of my life. There were differences, difficulties, things to sort out, yes, but there was kindness and love and a promise of safety and companionship forever. He also looked at my boys, with a gentle smile and wanted to be the father they didn’t have.

It worked well enough. We were a good family, honestly the kind of family I wished I would have had growing up. Dad went to work and came home to a wife waiting for him, unless I was working. He played with the kids while I made dinner then we ate together, did the bedtime ritual and yeah… it was good. Did we have flaws yes, faults, plenty, but good and godly and fun and full of life and faith and love of nature and natural living.

There were times with my oldest when he’d have horrific temper tantrums. We didn’t understand them, no one did, and I was so afraid someone would think we were hurting him that I recorded most of his fits. They happened at school too and so I worried less but I feared it was because of how I did him wrong those first few years.

There were times with my step-daughter’s mom we fought about time with us vs. time with her. It wasn’t good for any of the kids. I still wish she could have been with us more. But that’s not the way it played out and I was a reformed junkie pulling my life together so what could we really offer?

I remember one time, I’m not sure why, but my youngest boy made me so mad I backed him up against a wall when he was probably 7 or 8. I was yelling at him, maybe I did it before and don’t remember, or maybe that was the first time. He doesn’t look like me, but his eyes reflected the way I felt when my ex-step-dad used to yell at me. I stopped yelling, mid-sentence, and promised him I’d never do that again. And I walked away. I didn’t finish the lecture, whatever it was about, I just apologized for yelling like that and walked away.    

Then, after all those years of doing wrong, of mending and figuring out how to “do it right” I, we, got to the place where we could give back. We decided to be foster parents.

Michael. Michael Jonasson was our first boy. I failed him. His brokenness, the abuse he suffered, his behaviors were too much for us. So this little boy, this sweet little man, who was entrusted to us to help heal and keep safe was thrown back to the system because we couldn’t do it.

It devastated me. I’d tried so hard to be better for my God, for my boys, for my husband, for this little innocent 6 year old who was, like my boys, a victim of his parents drug addiction, and I failed. Once again I FAILED. It killed me. I worry over that boy to this day. And I don’t even know how old he is, maybe 12. He’s why I’ll never change my phone number. My address, my name, my life may change but maybe one day he’ll call me the way I called that one number I memorized.

Then came our oldest. From the moment I read her report from the state I felt a connection to her. I can’t explain it but I did. I wanted her. We got her. It was supposed to be temporary and then life changed on her. Drugs gripped her mother by the throat and she was suddenly in need of a forever home, as were her sisters. Without praying, I worked with the state to bring the girls together.

That one decision ruined everything. It was a tragedy of Shakespearean proportion. Kids, doing more than kids should ever know how to do, got caught in the act. We reacted in panic. The state reacted according to WACs and RCWs forgetting common sense like it didn’t matter. Our girl and the sisters were ripped from us and thrown to the system. I cannot speak for the sisters, it appears they have happy upbringings in forever homes but for our girl, she ran away… and so did we.

The pain and the humiliation of it all, of having a child that did “that,” or housing children that infected our own, and of losing our girl was too much for our fragile relationship.

The family unraveled.

We were never the same. How can you be the same after that?

We got counseling for our kids who were involved. The foster agency we worked with did some family counseling but we were broken and didn’t mend.

We had a chance to run and we did.

Leavenworth.

If you have to run, might I highly recommend Leavenworth to run to! What a beautiful place! I mourned losing Arlington, my church (Christ the King – Arlington), my volunteer activities and friends but I LOVED, still love Leavenworth. You can’t be there and not feel at one with the Creator. It’s a place of such beauty and majesty. It’s a place of escape. A vacation destination, a shelter at the feet of the mountains and a place of refuge. With God, and in the shadow of the Cascades, I mended but my children struggled.

I was so wrapped up in my own healing I neglected them. It’s hard to be a parent. I was more focused, I think, on running from the shame and finding our girl than focusing on the three kids I still had.

I tried to look the part, be a good mom and do the right things. But time after time I felt like, still feel like, my actions and motives are questioned. I felt like I couldn’t do parenting right, no matter how hard I tried. My blind one was still unhappy, my spirited one was still getting into trouble, the tension between the “ex” and my, now, ex-husband caused drama every time my step-daughter was with us and our girl was still a run away.

We were a farce of a family. Or maybe not. Maybe everyone could see the reason the kids were the way they were was because I was a failure as a wife and mom.

And then our girl came back. It should have been a “happily ever after” and it was for a bit, then the youngest boy acted out, The Leaver wanted him gone, I resisted but then acquiesced. We adopted our girl while our boy was essentially a runaway.

We were a farce. A failure of a family. The commissioner swore us in as parents to one child as another was lost to us.

Then The Leaver left. And I was left with two phrases #1) “You are an alpha female” and #2) “Good luck”

So I tried to take charge, power through it and keep together the joke of a broken family that we were. I tried to make dinners and sit at the table and read the bible with only 3 of 6 people who made up our “blended” family.

I tried to enforce rules and insist on propriety. I failed.

I tried to keep our house. I failed.

I tried to keep our town of Leavenworth. I failed.

I tried to keep the youngest intact until he was 18. I failed.

I tried to smile through it all and have faith that it will all work out. I AM FAILING. I AM A FAILURE.

I can’t do it. His hurt, his defiance, his pain, his need to be his own man is too strong for me. I fail. He’s not 18 and I’ve let him go.

He doesn’t live with me anymore. I’ve tried. As God as my witness, with everything I am, I promise I've tried. And I’ve failed. I’ve studied, I’ve applied, I’ve listened to advice, I’ve prayed, I’ve searched scripture, I’ve consulted friends, the law, the state and what I come up with is I AM A FAILURE. I cannot parent my child. He is gone to me.

I hope and I pray that like his eldest, adopted sister before him, like his eldest (only)  100% blood related sibling, like his adopted-half-sister after him, like his mother, he chooses to fight for what’s good and right.

The thing is … maybe I don’t forgive myself. Maybe I do. I fucked up! BAD! I can’t take it back. I can’t erase my past or make it disappear no matter how far I run, no matter how much “good” I do. I fucked up! I’m sorry. I’m sorry to my boys. I’m sorry to Michael. I’m sorry to the sisters and my girls but I can’t take it back.

What I know is the four children I claim as my own are remarkable kids! They are bright, super intelligent kids, young adults, actually. They are able to separate my mistakes from their own choices. They are able to sift through the mistakes and see the motive. They know their mama loves them no matter how much I failed. I pray to God they know I love them and since I gave my life to Christ I have done my best to be the best mom I could be.

Have I forgiven myself? ???

Is my forgiveness contingent on my kids turning out “OK” despite my failures? ???

Can I forgive myself? ???

This fearless and moral inventory stuff sucks… and yet the thing is, with all of this... I CHOOSE life, I CHOOSE Christ, I CHOOSE to make tomorrow better than today, I CHOOSE not to give up, not to grow weary in doing good, not to quit. I am strong, I am brave, I am FORGIVEN! I don't know how it all plays out, all I know is that since I decided to do it right, I've done my best and I have repented of my sins. To my children... I am sorry. To anyone that has seen the farce of a family or a mother I presented... I am sorry. Since July 1999, with God's help, I have done my best. I can only pray I am seen for who I truly am since then... and that my kids turn out ok despite my failure.
 

I screwed up! I caused pain and for that I’m sorry but I learned an amazing truth about good men of honor. My paradigm has shifted, my mind been blown, and though there was pain I’m grateful for this new truth that I can walk in. It modifies my plan but it’s necessary in order to maintain my dignity in the eyes of the good men I want to get to know.
 
The thing is, the cardinal rule when analyzing data is that you “let the data speak for itself.” Never make the data fit assumptions, never mess with the data to rationalize theories; but that is exactly what I did because I wanted my plan to work.

Why my plan anyway? Why can’t I just leave love to chance or God or time or whatever? I’d like to say I think my plan does leave love to all of that BUT also takes into account some sad, sorrowful truths.

#1) I’m looking for a partner to share my life with and this will be my third marriage. I am not going to be that woman with five husbands and the one I end up with won’t even be one I’m married to. This is it. I have NO margin of error.
#2) We live in a society with a 50% failure rate at marriage… that doesn’t even count broken relationships where love once was that never make it to marriage.
#3) In the evangelical Christian culture, divorce is humiliatingly higher than the overall average population.
I believe if I seek a partner the way it’s being done in our society now, the way I’ve done it before, I’m going to fail again. It needs to be different. I thought my plan was a near-perfect way to avoid the pitfalls of feeling in love and falling in love without rationally thinking it through.

I don’t want to fail at love again, I want the next time to be the last time. While I love The Middle for being able to do what I want, when I want with whom I want, I don’t want to be single and searching any longer than necessary. I don’t want to be alone. Thousands of good, kind, loving men just in my local area don’t want to be alone either. I’m a quality woman that wants the best in a relationship and so do they. There’s no point in messing around for years to find “the one” when there are literally hundreds that are suitable. I figured the best way to save time would be to be a quality casual date for guys right now and get to know several good guys at once.

My theory made sense to me... condense the men into the shortest amount of time possible, see whom I am most compatible with (knowing no one will be 100% compatible), take time to maintain my individual identity as I continue to heal, and when the time is up… see how it plays out with the most compatible guy of whomever is there, rinse and repeat, as needed until one gets me in the boat. The plan provided time, because I KNOW I’m not ready for a relationship right now, but not too much time so that I end up becoming a woman of such independence that I’m not going to want to share life with someone but will rather want them to do life my way.

I still think the intention behind my plan is good… but the execution neglected to take into consideration a trait inherent in the hearts, minds and souls of the best kind of men. I’d like to call it jealousy, and then ask any good men reading this to hang on before you defend yourself against the word. That’s one of the things I learned; good men will try not to call it what it is. Men of valor live by a code of honor and the way we throw the word jealousy around now, it is not an honorable trait. When we think of jealousy, ideas of possessive, angry, insecure, controlling jerks come to mind. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about righteous jealousy; it is so mind-blowingly different. It’s actually a beautiful thing now that I’m letting the data speak for itself. So beautiful. An honorable trait, a godly trait. One to be desired in a good man. One to be respected as I continue to date.

Let me explain this good jealousy as I’ve seen it play out over these last five months…

I’ve intentionally studied and watched men I identify as the good kind. Are they prefect? No, but they are so amazing that I am in awe at their acts of noble strength, kindness, courage, humility, service, support, protection, activism and involvement. These men, the good men of the world, know better than we women can understand, the heart of a good man and how pure it is despite the secret insecurities and mistakes they may make. They are real-life heroes as opposed to the bad guys. Bad guys are evil, vile perpetrators of bad stuff. Good men take pride in humbly, faithfully protecting our world from them, in big things like military service and small things like assessing the people around them to identify any possible threats and walking on the street side of the road to protect those they’re with.

They know they’re not perfect but they also know they make an active choice to be a good man every day. In the context of dating what I’ve observed in my, and my single lady friend’s dating adventures, and from the lives and words of others is that a good man is willing to meet and date a quality causal woman until it breaks the code of honor. What I’ve observed is that there comes a point when a man believes himself to be a suitable partner, the kind that would love and protect the woman they’re dating and something inside them can no longer be cool with quality casual. Either it must change or end because… jealousy.

They are good men, they know what they can offer and have no intention or desire to compete with anyone, who in their opinion, wouldn’t be the best option. These good men I write of are sure of what they are able to provide. It’s not insecurity; I feel like it’s the exact opposite, righteous jealousy, is assurance they are the best for me and an intolerance to be compared to someone else.

What I think I’m realizing is that good men in general appreciate the opportunity to show a woman they are dating who they are, what they do, think and feel in a non-competitive arena. Be sure of this, if they’re into a lady enough, they will, um … “fight” for their opportunity because they believe they’re the best (and it's honestly kind of humbling to be the object of that kind of desire). BUT it’s disrespectful and dishonorable of me, if I choose to identify myself as a dignified woman, to purposely put them in that position (although if they know they're the best for the lady they should fight for her if they believe she's misguided in her attentions). That’s where I screwed up.

I’m not dating losers, neither are my friends. These are good, kind, honorable, respectful men and one after another this same aversion to quality casual dating appears. The data speaks, I must listen. My plan must be, and has been altered. If I want a good man, I must give good men the opportunity to reveal themselves to me within an arena of undivided time and attention. NO that doesn’t mean I’m having a relationship! NO that doesn’t mean my plan or timeline changes except that there is only one good man I’ll be doing fun stuff with at a time. It scares me because, honestly, I think it’ll be much harder to hold my emotional and physical boundaries because, for me, familiarity breeds comfort and I’m a creature of comfort. But I think the change must happen in order to maintain my honor in the eyes of good men. So, I screwed up, I learned how beautiful righteous jealousy is, I am giving one good guy at a time undivided attention and I must now ferociously guard my heart to be sure I don't slip and fall in love but still stay the course and find rational love that makes sense.

OK, OK, yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m dating and enjoying time with good guys but it’s not just purposeless hedonism. There is a point. Obviously the intention is to find someone that I can be compatible with for the rest of my life. I’m just not in a hurry nor am I ready to settle down quite yet. I’ve been researching this dating/courtship/partner thing and found a name for what I am. I’m a “quality casual” date. I can go out, have a good time and, no, he’s not gonna get lucky, or laid, or anything remotely close to that because I’m a woman of honor and dignity, but he will have a real fun time with a genuine woman. I’m quality and I’m causal. I like it! It suits me … for now, not forever, not for long, but for now. I think “quality casual” is a good way for us more seasoned singles to get to know people without the burden of deeply intimate emotional and physical connections. I like the term and the intention behind it.

I found another term that rocked my world and affirmed a character trait I’ve embraced as long as I remember. It’s called the “Upper Limit Problem” and, according to Gay Hendricks, many people deal with this notion that there is such a thing as too much success. What?! When I first heard it I balked but then I listened to my soul and knew I had an Upper Limit Problem. Somewhere, deep down inside that’s what I do, that’s what I’ve seen many peers and contemporaries do… success comes and we self-sabotage, to continue to fit-in, to avoid envy from others, to avoid challenging our own abilities, etc.

For years, this is where I’ve lived. I’ve reduced myself. I am an intelligent woman, not the smartest but I am a woman of thought and intellect and I like to think deep, read to expand my mind, memorize to challenge the sleeping places in my brain, study to learn new ideas. Sometimes I “geek-out” and see people’s eyes glaze over so I reduced myself to fit in. But I’m intimidated to find others who are like-minded, learners, readers and, dare I say smarter than I am so that I’m intellectually challenged and not reduced in my capacity.

Physically I’ve reduced myself around other ladies. No, I’m not the most fit woman but I’ve always enjoyed physical activity… as long as I didn’t outperform any of my girl-friends and make them feel bad about their physical level. I’ve reduced my food choices to a lower level to not make someone less nutritionally balanced feel badly. I chose to underperform and eat bad so I didn’t come across as “better than” anyone else and in so doing become the brunt of their envy.

Emotionally and socially, well, I’m an odd duck so I’ve never had to worry about reducing myself socially, except that I don’t like to captivate an audience. I’d rather the people around me speak their thoughts, insights, memories and feelings than to put mine out there. I withhold what I share of myself. True it’s because others have value, but also I feel like my self has less value than theirs. Why?

Spiritually, I reduce myself. I LOVE the Word, to study it, hear others preach on it, memorize it, know it. I could talk theology or Biblical history for hours! But… when I know an answer others are looking to find I don’t want to come across “holier than thou” so I stay quiet. When people mix up Bible stories I don’t want to seem arrogant and correct them so I let them go on unless it’s grossly inaccurate. I study in secret and seek out deep thinkers like Ravi Zacharias to listen to alone to nurture my hunger to go deeper without looking puffed up.

I fear being “better than” anyone at anything and I have reduced myself to avoid anyone accusing me of that. I already know I’ll never be the smartest, strongest, most charismatic or theological person in the world, but I am smarter, stronger, more gregarious and Biblically knowledgeable than I’ve allowed myself to be. I've stunted my own growth for the sake of others and ease. This is a challenge for me. How do I be the absolute best version of myself and not diminish the success, intelligence, ability or progress of others at a different level or be the object of envy which really makes me feel yucky and bad about being a better me? I don’t know how to address this Upper Limit Problem of mine. I’m working on it.

What I know is in every romantic relationship I’ve ever been in I have reduced myself in some area; physically, intellectually, socially, emotionally or spiritually so as not to hurt the ego of my partner. I don’t want that this time. I want a man that I can celebrate and cheer on in his strengths, that knows it is important to improve. I want a man that I can challenge in the areas he wants to strengthen, that I can be proud of for his accomplishments, desires and ministrations to God those around him… and I want the same. I don’t want to be an object of envy in my lover’s eyes. I don’t want to feel like I’m wrong for improving or desiring a higher level of success in any aspect of my life. If he can’t “keep up” in some area, I at least don’t want him to “keep me down” I want him to believe in me the way I’ll believe in him.

And then I wonder … does Quality Casual dating help or hinder my Upper Limit Problem? …