Everyday Observations

I think I’m gonna hurl, I cautioned myself as her lips moved happily without sound. A year elapsed in the span of a two-minute interaction. My insides hosted a raucous rebellion. My nervous system quaked like hummingbird wings, and my guts were angry. I stood there with a fiery spear connecting the dots from one temple to the other, and my legs threatened to bolt if I didn’t cooperate.

“….brave……enjoyed reading……wanted to thank you….” Some of her words sliced through my consciousness.

We have a bad connection. I can’t hear you and I’m about to puke on your shoe. Please shut up, so I can run home, curl up in a ball, and cry for a millennium. Thanks for understanding; you’re a doll, my brain confessed. Thankfully….my mouth was parched by paralysis.

It was finally over. I stifled a violent retch as I walked across the preschool parking lot to my truck.

It was my first brush with the vulnerability hangover. It was nine years ago, and my first article had just been published in She Magazine.

In the snugness of my recliner, I had pecked out gratitude for my mama, highlighted against the backdrop of errant daughter antics. I had been comfortable alluding to late night drunken disasters during the college years from the isolation of my guest room. Having preschool-mom-I-know-not approach me during drop off and realizing I had shared my years as a lush and other personal details with all of this region of South Carolina was an enterprise of another variety.

What have I done? 

It’s the vulnerability hangover’s theme song.

My tolerance for public vulnerability has grown significantly over the past decade, particularly as I’ve seen the willingness to be openly human unlock the shackles for others – even if just for a brief respite to massage the wrists and ankles.

These days I consider myself a bit of a student of the vulnerability hangover. When someone opens the trench coat and emotionally flashes the world, I secretly forecast the imminent onset of the VH.

The afflicted replay their words like an Instagram video on an unceasing loop. And then they assume the universal posture of mortification:

Nothing invokes the VH symptoms like social media gaffes.

Can we all just agree that Facebook isn’t the best venue for soul-baring? Especially of the hurt or angry sort.

We need real live breathing people we share those feelings with – preferably those we are angry with or hurt by. I know it’s archaic but – for crying out loud – pick up the phone and dial ’em up.

Swiftly hide/unfriend/block if need be and move on, dear one.

Social media requires a health that eludes many of us. Since we are shooting straight here, there have been times when I was not healthy enough to 1) have Swiss Cake Rolls in my house or 2) log-in to Twitter. We’ve gotta know when it’s time to walk away for a spell, friends. Maybe BuzzFeed can crank out a quiz entitled “How Likely Are You to Post Something Emotionally Asinine?”

Lately my Facebook feed has felt more like a middle school hallway than a social network for adults, and that feels bizarro at 42 years-old.

I’m not complaining because I can easily sign out and live unaware. Rant on, angry post-er, if you will. Not my circus. Not my monkeys. But the people-lover in me (introvert though I am) wants all of us to have safe people we can vent to. Listening ears that can absorb our anger and kind voices that speak a balm over our raw emotion.

Conflict resolution is not a lost art. It’s an actual thing. But social media is not its address. I have never – not one single solitary time – seen a conflict dismantled on any social media platform.

That’s not its jam.

Forget BuzzFeed.

How Likely Are You to Post Something Emotionally Asinine?

• Are your nostrils flared due to a wild-eyed fury? Slowly back away from the keyboard.
• Are your tears and snot commingling as you croon out old school Percy Sledge? Just don’t.
• Is there a trace of alcohol in your bloodstream? Abstain, man, abstain.
• Are you writing a post with a specific, unnamed individual as its audience? Nope. Your veiled allusion fools no one.
• Are you trying to portray that you don’t give a rat’s butt about something that is eating you alive? Yo, we’re not buying it.

I’m a proponent of realness because it kicks artifice in the teeth. I’m a fan of authenticity because it unlocks prisons of shame and arbitrary expectations. I fly that flag and beat that drum all day long, but everything has a proper context.

Vulnerability works its magic when it debuts in safety.

And it captivates a room when it collects itself and then emerges publicly to help and encourage.

The vulnerability hangover may still beset the sharer, but when the motive is freedom and a desire to assist others, soul-satisfaction is its remedy. And with each episode of transparency, our guts develop greater immunity to the VH. I don’t think we’re ever impervious to its effects, but we become prone to a much milder case.

Keep it real, fam. Buck the notion to paint your life perfect and temper your rush to spew anger and hurt. Walk the balance between authenticity and instability. Cultivate genuine, safe community, and fight against the VH’s ambition of keeping you fake.

And beware of those who thrive on oversharing; they’ve been vaccinated against the vulnerability hangover. Lord, help us all…

I recently spent the night in jail.

The door in front of us unlocked as we approached. We were passed through a metal detector, briefed, and sent to booking where we were patted down and surrendered our keys.

The institutional white coated the hallway that stretched half a mile. Immaculate distance. It was cold inside.

Maximum.

Pod A.

Pod B.

Pod C.

Pod D……

We walked past, on and on. Past solid doors with small, square windows.

At the last solid door, we awaited entrance. We heard it click and pulled its heaviness open to reveal another locked door six feet inside. Again, we waited. It clicked and we pulled again to enter the women’s pod. The inmates knew one of the ladies in my group, so they quickly emerged from their cells, joining us in the common room.

“Do you remember me?” one girl asked in my direction.

??????????

“I don’t. Remind me where we know each other from.”

“NewSpring,” she answered. And right in that moment I learned that small talk fails in jail.

“Good to see you again.” No.

“What you been up to?” Nope.

“We’re sure having crazy weather.” Not so much.

“How’s your mama and ’em?” Just no, no, no.

“Well……if you can’t come to church…..we’ll bring church to you,” I finally pulled myself together enough to spit out. Lame and awkward, Cookie, lame and awkward.

Nineteen ladies in orange jumpsuits and orange slides; some with socked feet, others bare. They filled in chairs at the small round tables, chatting with their friends, smiling, and looking our way.

Their eyes.

Their eyes surprised me most. They were soft. Not at all what I expected. They were kind. They were young. Very young. Most in their early twenties.

Their eyes teared easily. So did mine.

As an observer, I followed the lead of my experienced companions. Kim, the primary speaker for the evening, invited the ladies into the course of life that led her to Jesus; she challenged and encouraged them, not skirting the reality that these ladies had made destructive choices; these ladies were incarcerated. I valued that honesty – as did the women.

Let’s not all pretend we’re attending a prayer meeting in the church social hall. Okay? Thanks.

As I listened, I buzzed inside, the likes of an internal electric fence. I wanted the chance to speak. Kim’s boldness fed my own. My soul fidgeted with animation, as I prayed and heard Scripture echo off the pod walls.

This may be one of my favorite places.

When Rita asked if I wanted to speak, I sprang out of my seat like an amped up kangaroo and dove in. We talked about a Jesus who dared dignify a despised and hopeless woman. The Jesus who refused to allow her to slink away unnoticed. That same Jesus who frees from suffering and authors freedom.

Just as we were concluding, another member of the ministry team arrived through the slamming door with his guitar and flute.

We worshiped in that place.

And I thought to myself, “This beauty is not lost on me.”

We offered to pray with the ladies, and to my knowledge, they all responded for prayer….and some even more than once.

I held their hands. I peered into their faces. I said their names and fought for them before the God of the universe.

And it was powerful.

For me.

As I have worn that night on my heart since then (I get to go back Sunday!), I wonder if some of them ever had a chance. Do they even now?

I found myself not wanting them to be released….back to the call of pimps and pushers and violence and needles and all manner of destructive escapism.

Not all walls are bad. They can be protective.

Not all prisons are government-run.

As a little girl, did she ever have a chance?

Who fought for her?

Who told her she was lovely?

Who put aside their own jacked-up self absorption for her?

Who?

Not even me.

This is when I want to shake middle-class Christian – myself so included – accessorizing our church fashion with Starbucks and yell…

Fight for somebody!

Help somebody without a chance!

Put aside your self-indulgence and stand for what’s good in the world!

That’s the full life He means.

Not the spiritual obesity of comfort and luxury.

The guard called me over to the control station and said, “Central just sent me a message and they’re all waiting for you guys in the front.” We thanked her for allowing us to stay longer – though we had no idea we had been at it for two hours. No clocks or watches. We were on guard time.

After collecting our keys and rejoining the team, we held hands and celebrated all that the God of the universe had decided to do that night behind slamming doors.

Who knows how many different churches and denominations were represented in that circle of fifteen. More importantly, who cared? All of the trappings of man were irrelevant.

There was only one. Who loves prisoners and despised, hopeless women, and little girls who never had a chance.