The Opposite of Love

 

ShittyWomen_Indifference(This blog will take the average adult roughly 4 minutes to read.)

“Indifference is the opposite of love.”

The pastor of the church I attend spoke on this some weeks ago. And I’ve been ruminating on it in my head and my heart ever since.

I wax indifferent when the storm tide rises. I can be a very calloused, apathetic person. It’s nothing shy of a defense mechanism. It’s how I’ve learned to deal with the storm surge in my life that has yet to recede.

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“Self Love” makes me feel hopeless.

This blog will take the average adult about 4.5 minutes to read. 

I see a lot of drivel on the internet about “self love”. (Perhaps the fact that I used the word “drivel” to describe it might cue you into how I feel about it.)  I just can’t get on board with it from an emotional, spiritual, or intellectual standpoint. And honestly, after a handful of discussions and months of observations, I don’t think many of you really can, either—if you’re honest with yourself. It’s why attempts at self love always crash and burn—it’s not because we’re “just not there yet”—it’s because we know it’s a fucking crock of shite.

It’s like that scene in Inception where Saito asks Cobb & Arthur if inception is possible, and Arthur explains why it’s not. (And yes, over the course of the movie Cobb proves Arthur wrong—but let’s not forget that, to the best of our knowledge, there’s not really any dream hijacking going on in real life.)

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The way we talk about overweightness needs to change.

(There are 1,465 words after this. That’s a little less than five minutes of reading for the average adult. This is a continuation from An introduction to being overweight.)

“Oh my gosh, I’m so fat.”

*shoves food into mouth* “Haha I’m gonna get so fat!”

*is telling a story from the day* “… and this fat woman—and she was huge—did this *mildly offensive thing*…”

“He was like—disgustingly overweight.” 

*after eating a meal* “I feel so fat.”

“Oh my gosh did you see the fat lady on the bicycle? She looked so ridiculous!”

Those are all things I hear on the regular—from people who I love, and from people who love me. They’re not about me—but it feels like they are. The ones I listed above actually come from specific memories—I recall each of those moments clearly because they felt so uncomfortable.

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I am my favorite idol.

 

There are 795 words after this. That’s under 3 minutes of reading for the average adult. 

I write a lot about failure. Specifically, I write a lot about failure as it pertains to womanhood—because, quite honestly, I perpetually feel like a failure at womaning.

It comes up often in my head and heart with the words “not good enough”. Lately, those words have been playing in my head on repeat as I repeatedly come to terms with the fact that most of my friends are married and many are having kids. I want that so badly—but I’m not good enough. That’s why I’m 30 and am seemingly unwanted on the romantic front—I’m not good enough. (I’ll write more on that later. I can feel it welling up inside me like vomit.)

In my own head, I’m not good enough for a plethora of reasons. I won’t list them out here—a lot of them can be found in past (and future) blogs. Summarized, I am a shitty woman.

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An introduction to being overweight

There are 1,248 words beyond this point. That’s just over 4 minutes of reading for the average adult. 

I’m not entirely sure I have the courage to post this—I certainly don’t have the courage to speak face-to-face with anyone about it. And I know that by posting it, I’m only inviting that face-to-face conversation that I’ve dreaded since these thoughts started swarming about in my head about five years ago. This isn’t so much a proclamation of my courage if I hypothetically actually click post on it, but an invitation for you to be cautious how you talk to me about it, if you know me personally.

I am an overweight (Christian) woman. It’s actually easy for me to say that part.

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Don’t tell me God thinks I’m beautiful. 

So—right after publishing my last blog Why “Shitty Women”? I took a shower, and like you do in showers, had a bit of an “aha” moment about one of the things I wrote briefly about.

Specifically, it was this sentence:
“No one responded to me with the vacant “God’s daughter” and “God thinks you’re beautiful” shite that made no sense to me.”

In its context, you see that I implied that people had used those women’s ministryisms in the past, and that does not seem to be part of my current life. (Praise God.)

Let me give you some context into my life, and how the phrase “God thinks you’re beautiful” has been used by others toward me:

I have not been told that I’m beautiful much in my life.

Stop. Halt. This is another one of those places where I feel like I should tell you to not respond with coddling and “encouragement”. Sit. Put away those feelings of needing to fix it. 

Of course, being a female, there’s the occasional “girlfriends” moment where another female tells me I’m beautiful—but, full disclosure: I don’t generally trust those moments. It feels contrived about 97% of the time. We can talk about trust issues later.

I can count the number of males that have called me “beautiful” on one hand—if I was missing my thumb and forefinger. I can count the number of times that a male, who wasn’t my grandpa’s age,  called me beautiful on one finger. (Note: This excludes instances of sexual harassment on the bus and downtown. I’m really talking about times where being called beautiful felt safe and made me feel loved—not the times where I’ve felt objectified and dirty.)

That one instance happened in my junior year of high school, while I was out on a band trip, and a friend of mine—nothing more—was in the elevator with me, turned to me, and said, “Kim, I just want you to know I think you’re beautiful. Inside and out.” and then we reached our floor, and he walked out.

There were times when I recounted this—the fact that I’ve not been told that I’m beautiful much, and the story I just told you—to women I was around, and without ever acknowledging the feelings I might’ve been feeling (presumably because I’m really fucking bad at expressing emotion)—they would respond with “Well… God thinks you’re beautiful.” Sometimes they might even put the lye-soaked cherry on top with, “and I do too.”

And I would realize that once again my feelings and experience had been dismissed, and that the conversation was over for me. It kind of felt like I was saying, “Excuse me, I have a gaping wound.” and the response was my friend soaking a bandage in lemon juice, rolling it in salt, and applying it to the wound.

In my shower after writing that last blog, as I was all snot and tears and full of fear from writing those words, it hit me: What a terrible fucking invitation to idolatry. 

No wonder those words were never comforting to me—because they were rooted in the idol of beauty—an idol that I hated but could never escape. An idol, that for years has spewed at me, “You are not even worthy to worship at my feet.” An idol that I simultaneously railed against, and hated that I railed against it. An idol that I planted my feet against, held up both middle fingers, and worshipped the fact that I didn’t worship it.

Now, I don’t want to dismiss all beauty as idolatry—I believe, in the words of Levi the Poet, that “beauty pulls me beyond myself like I don’t even have a choice, so I know I don’t believe in nothing.”—that God himself is the very definition of beauty, and that every echo of beauty we see in this world is a refection of the divine image.

And I’m certainly not saying being beautiful, or wanting to look beautiful (by whatever standard) is sinful. But that the temptation to worship beauty, instead of the Beautiful One, is real, and prevalent.

The response to the story I told those women to be, “Well… God thinks you’re beautiful…” is nothing short of an invitation to idolatry. It thrusts the notion of beauty back into my hands, onto my body, as though it ever belonged there to begin with—and says nothing to Christ’s beauty. It says that God is concerned with making me beautiful—rather than slowly changing me into a better reflection of His beauty.

It says this is about me. It says beauty is about me.

Rather than Him. His glory. His beauty.

The only reason God the Father might look down on me and see any amount of beauty whatsoever is because He created me in His image, and I am clothed in the beauty of His son. None of the beauty He sees when He looks at me is my own. It is all—ALL—His.

It is my hope that in all things I might reflect His beauty—I know it’s not the case right now—but I also know it will be someday in eternity. I often think about this when I’m downtown during the sunrise. From downtown Seattle, you can’t see the sunrise, because there’s a large hill to the east—but you can see it reflect in the distorted and often dirty and fog-laden windows of the skyscrapers.

I want to be that distorted dirty window that reflects the beauty of the sunrise for others to see when they can’t see the sunrise for themselves. And I believe that one day He’ll make me perfectly clean to reflect that beauty back to its rightful owner.

Rather than trying to reassure other women (and men) that they are beautiful—or that God thinks they’re beautiful—perhaps we should remind them of Christ’s beauty. It is beauty that doesn’t expire with age and gravity. It is far longer lasting (eternal), and more faithful than the sunrise itself.

“The Christ I see in you is beautiful.” is a far higher compliment.

Why “Shitty Women”?

Of course immediately after starting a blog, I hit a two-week long wall of writer’s block. I have a list of 23 topics to write on in a list on my phone, and I could not write a cohesive paragraph on a single one of them.

I think the winds are changing.

miss congeniality fail scene

This blog was born out of a lifetime of feelings, decades of women’s ministry, and many, many conversations with women on two particular topics:

  1. We feel like failures when at womanhood.
  2. We fucking hate women’s ministry.

 

If you’re not committed to reading this post to the end, please don’t read past this point. There are 980 words beyond this point. That’s roughly 3.25 minutes of reading for the average adult. 

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Ahoy.

This is a blog for shitty women (and other shitty people, too).

I regularly feel like a shitty woman—for a plethora of reasons. I regularly also feel like a shitty person—for a plethora of reasons. I am also saved by the grace of Jesus Christ. This blog will be a place for me to write about real life things, and confront real life lies with Biblical truths. It is my hope that the truths that I’m learning will be helpful to you as well.

I intend to be honest with my experiences, thoughts, and language. (<- that’s my warning that I’m going to use all the words.)

Here are some topics you can anticipate reading about here:

  • Anxiety
  • Feeling like a failure of a woman
  • Being an overweight woman
  • Suffering
  • Introversion
  • Sin

I’ll be writing about these things—and how the gospel is impacting them in my life. And sometimes I’ll probably be writing about how I don’t see the gospel impacting them, because I intend to be honest about the shitty, frustrating, parts of being a Christian (woman), too.