Vulnerability

I have been told, recently and frequently, that I need to work on my vulnerability because, as a pastor, people are going to want to see that vulnerability from me. People keep saying to me, "They want to know you're human!"

Really.

They want to know I'm human.

What, this shipwreck of a body isn't enough to convince another person that I'm human? You need to see something more than this frayed hair and these frumpy clothes, these wrinkles and these rolls, the dozens of tiny scars and scrapes and cuts on my skin, in order to know that I'm human? I walk around daily in my vulnerability just like you do, but I don't demand proof of emotion before I see you as human.

And while we're at it, why should I have to join the scores of people I know who have outed themselves as survivors of sexual harassment or assault? For many of us, that just comes with the territory of having a female body. But maybe you want some more disaster tourism of the emotions on your timeline so sure, let me tell you about the time that I got catcalled when I was in a vulnerable state. It got to me so much that I had to write about it so that I could get it out of my head. Is that enough for you to accept that there's a problem? Or do you need something "more real", something that would "actually count"? Because I can go digging back into the pain and panic of another story I don't tell for a reason, if the #metoo isn't enough for you to believe me, but don't expect me to like you on the other side of that. I'm not Jesus. You don't get to dig your finger into my side to see if it still hurts and expect graciousness from me.

I just don't understand what you think I am, if I have to start naming my troubles in order for you to see that I'm human. I'm here, aren't I? Is there any person on this planet that hasn't had a share of sorrow? How do you walk through this life, live in a limited body like this, without trouble visiting your doorstep? Who do you think I am, to have avoided being ravaged by the same deep pain that has seeped into the soil of this world and ruined you in some way too? Do you need to see how my mind hurts? My body? My heart? Do I need to unravel every one of my monsters for you before you can say, Me too? Do I have to show you how a comment can send me into the depths of my fears about myself before I earn the right to have you to sit down across the table from me and call me sister?

Listen, I hear all y'all when you say that I need to open up more, but I'm still kinda puzzled. How do you not see the bandages I've wrapped around my wounds? Sadness seeps into my every smile like a beacon-- how did you not notice that? There are days when I've used every ounce of energy I have left to drag myself to the places that I need to be, where commitment is the only thing propping my shoulders up and Someone Else's kindness is the only thing that can find its way out of my mouth, because goodness knows I have nothing left to give. You're telling me that on those days you don't see how I'm taut like a cello string a turn away from snapping? I'm that good at hiding it?

Well. Coulda fooled me.

Guess that makes me kinda human, huh?