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A week ago, I deleted Facebook.

“Wait, what? Why?” My inner circle feigned shock, albeit the sincerity was a paltry offering because they know me.  Every version.

My words fell far from eliciting shock. Beheading the pinnacle of my social media presence has been a withstanding, but empty threat I’ve voiced many times over—I’ve literally had my indecisive fingertip hovering the deactivation button the subsequent of a couple years. It’s very similar to my parenting style.  All the threats with sporadic bouts of action.

Not true. I’m a perfect parent who follows through with strict discipline every time without fail.

Yes, I have a problem with writing lies.  Don’t worry it’s with innocuous intent.

But before you call me on it, let me clarify upfront that the first line of my post is relative. Your assumption (that you didn’t even know you were making) was right. I didn’t entirely delete Facebook. I only deleted the Facebook app off my phone, okay.

Whomp, whomp, whomp…

Let’s be real. The permanent online social disconnect?! Meh, ain’t happening. I mean, Facebook is basically my kids’ scrapbook. Plus, who has that type of will-power to scrap it all after nearly a decade of posting, anyway?

Not me. But that’s not a surprise. I’ve never been a poster child for will power. Hello, brownies are often my primary source of nutrition and much to my disdain, I’ve had a Y membership that I’ve made zero use of over the past few months. Like a bad habit, the guilt I succumb to as a result of the monthly YMCA bank draft only further adds to the problem, forcing me to make more brownies. The struggle–it’s a gluttonous muffin top speckled with cellulite. #realtalk

(Sadly, with summer next up on the seasonal deck, my safari history will be filled with long run-on sentences rather than solo keywords in my web browser. It will not say “bikini.” Nope, it will be something more like “full-body compression wetsuit that looks like a real bikini for people who eat too much and exercise too little” or “the real deal miracle diet that works off 30 pounds in 48 hours.”)

I apologize. Bear with me, I tend to veer off track. (shiny things syndrome) It’s who I am. For further proof, ask anyone who has shared conversations with me via phone.

“Sarah, I have to go.” Twenty minutes later…

“Sarah…I really have to go.” Five minutes later…

The dial tone followed by a text that says, “Sorry, call failed. Call you back later…” Again, it’s who I am. I’ve never met a person who I couldn’t make conversation with. Ever.  (Like hypochondria, it’s in my DNA.)

Soooooo anyway, I’m back on track and will not talk about brownies or body image for the rest of this post, promise (insert my pinky here).

I wish I could say taking the Facebook app off my phone was a contribution to my inner sanity, or a power move after some serious self-introspection (and by some standard it was), but that’s not the real reason.

To be honest, I feel trapped by Facebook. It’s become this invisible tether that is shadowing and starkly dictating my emotional stability and certain aspects of my life. Worse, it’s a building tide slowly washing away my authenticity.

Stripped down, raw, and vulnerable, I’ve become a rabid, incessant over-thinking anxious mess who feels pressured by a newsfeed that often robs me of sensible inner joy on the daily.

Translation: I’m on the edge of needing a script for Xanax.

Also, friends, to my dire horror…I’ve become a closet snowflake who cannot deal.

I’m drowning in the crippling amount of anxiety that plagues me after reading about 200 (of the 500+ people on my friend’s list) lives each week. It feels like binge watching every reality series, presidential debate, soap opera, and tear-jerker movie ever produced all at once every time I log on.

Never in my life have I ridden a ride that serves chin to sternum whiplash without one iota of motion.  But Facebook takes the cake, making the aforementioned ride a reality.

Over the span of nearly a decade, I’ve consumed the most horrific, tragic, and gut-wrenching stories via Facebook and it’s ramped my anxiety to unbearable heights.  One word: overstimulated. I should not be privy to reading this steep a level of really-bad-ugly-crap-that-can-go-wrong daily. It’s too much. I admit it.

I’ve argued with and been deleted by people I deeply care about, others I honestly don’t, and some I haven’t seen in years and yet, it bothers me all the same.  My initial emotional reaction of hurt feelings proves that I’ve been drunk on the please-everyone-like-me kool-aid despite knowing you-aren’t-for-everyone is the real gospel.

I’ve internally wrestled with pettiness, too.  And I’m not talking child’s play pettiness, either.  On a Richter scale of pettiness, it’s more like leveling an entire continent and possibly giving Kermit memes a run for their money. I’ve even played that ‘unfriend’ game with my pinky raised, too.

And yet, despite it all, I keep feeding the beast like some manic, addicted harpy. I’ve been captive to the innate drive to represent my most perfect self for public consumption. To hide the struggles that aren’t funny nor covered with self-deprecating humor.

I’ve bought into the “love everyone” rhetoric and it’s morphed into this metaphor for silence.  Fear has been the cognitive word circulating my brain on every front.  Do not speak one dang thing that holds substance on Facebook.  These days, the only thing acceptable to stand behind, openly promoting, is Taco Tuesday because you will never be in the wrong with tacos on a Tuesday, or any day, ever.

All tacos aside, if it’s anything that relates to humanity and choice, more often than not, you will offend that one person who will troll you, wielding the sword of tongue at your jugular.  Or you’ll play mind games with that passive aggressive “friend” who unfriend’s you or posts passive aggressive posts with the “you know who you are” tone attached to it.  Gah, the cycle is exhausting.

In whole, and as a result, I’m overwhelmed.  I’ve reached the landscape where the negative terrain is outshining the positive.  Let’s not forget how out of shape I am.  Again, I can’t deal.  It’s no longer about “I’m here for family and friends.”

I feel partially sick over it, and mostly terrified.  But the bottom line is a dark well of inner disappointment.  It’s deeply saddening for my accountability to self that I’ve let Facebook and the consummate negativity that lives within its confines have any control in my life. Period.

But it’s my mistake and I’m owning it. Today.  

Jesus did not create me to be a closet snowflake. 

Joshua 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

(Also, not once did Jesus say I’d go to hell if I didn’t share your 29 posts a day that state “share if you believe in Jesus otherwise you don’t” either. Give them a rest. Seriously.)

As of today, I’m taking back control. And I’m pressing pause on Facebook to reassess and redefine what its platform truly means to me.  I need clarity something fierce.  You can roll your eyes (I get it) but pray for my anxious little heart, too, friends. Most days, I’m still learning (the hard way) and willing myself to speak to it.

And yes, I probably should have just written this in my diary, but I didn’t.  Deal.


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August 1998: The weather and celebration agreed, the sun and wind were an enhancement versus a disruption. And in Oklahoma that was a rarity (Midwest weather was known for having the emotional stability of a three-year-old). But that day, the harmony made for sunshine and giggles— perfect companions for a child’s birthday party.

My twelve-year-old self, dressed in the utmost adult-like outfit I could pluck from my wardrobe, was smiling with my lanky arms pressed into my sides, my hands clasped together at my belly. As of late, my too-formal outfit and serious demeanor were a recurrent theme, as I stood on the scalped lawn of my parents’ yard and the very precipice of teenagedom.

I was off to the side, observing a line, more curved than straight, of children. My eyes rode up and down, the slightly askew uniform line of children a rollercoaster ride of heights and ages. Although not in line, I was the oldest, save for the neighbor boy–I’d once gotten into a physical fight with over tadpoles. The memory of it now makes me smirk.

Chasing some level of internal maturity, I’d felt like a spectator, although my parents would probably remember me as a participating child standing in the line waiting for my chance to pin the tail on the donkey—a hit at my brother’s birthday party.  But I didn’t feel like a shareholder of childhood then.  There was a disconnect to the experience, a proverbial bridge I’d started crossing and further refused to trek back to the starting point, too far gone.

At twelve-years-old, I had no clue, but I’d started an evolution of self, turning the page to the beginning act of shedding my childhood skin.

Now as a mother, there is a certain sensation of sorrow I feel recalling it, reflecting on the memory. Only because now, my memory is currently live, happening in real-time—no longer just a mental page filed under Sarah’s childhood.

Except at the present, it’s not me cast, instead, now headlining the same play, very act is my oldest daughter, who turns eleven next month. And God, it hurts to be in the audience knowing I can’t change the outcome because growth is a visceral part of being human.

Placed on the tipping edge of my seat, soaked in perspiration and terror, I feel helpless as I scream for her to turn back. It’s futile. My warning is silent, unable to pierce the veil of her growing human instinct that separates her and me.

All I have power to is clutching the back of her shirt in my fists with my face caught between the proudest grin and ugliest sob, in an attempt to drastically slow her speed on the track of life by the dig of my heels acting as a lead anchor.

And the experience is the most agonizing exhilaration.

God Bless this motherhood of mine.

Pity Party for One, Please…

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I cannot recall the precise day I started planning my pity party. Truly, I don’t think it was a conscious choice.

“I want to feel sorry for myself.” —said no one ever.

Or, “I want to buy a cactus and then choose to sit on it, repeatedly, for enjoyment.” —said no one ever.

But I admit it. I planned it, collecting imaginary decor ideas straight from Pinterest. I’d even gone so far as to creating a private board (you know the ones on Pinterest, where people hide what they really research, but are ashamed to admit…think “51 ways to get rid of your double chin”).

I pinned all of my emotional inspirations on its dark, secret page, labeled “I wanted to be an adult so bad. Now, look at me, just freaking look!” With my dignity on the floor, I had a webpage full of sad sketches of animosity, resentment, isolation…

With its conception (months in the making) complete, I sat down at the head table of my ugly pity party, toasted myself and then completely denied all of it. To everyone.

“Are you okay?”

“Yep, I’m fine.” I’d answer evenly, using the most “I’m not fine” adjective—this is pity party rule number one (also known as passive aggressive syndrome), in case you’re wondering. I’d been ignoring, with a heavy dose of vengeful pride, the truth forming in the small grooves of my tongue. I’d been refusing to admit it out loud, but the lead weight of the truth was rapidly crumbling the frail shoulders of my conscience.

My honesty (self-induced suffering) was growing to fruition, sitting at the gate, ready to cross the threshold of my mouth. It wasn’t necessarily premonition, more acknowledgment that I was going to have to have a “Come to Jesus” meeting with myself. I was on the verge of imploding.

My dignity didn’t want my less than stellar emotions to be formed, molded by my lips into an illustration of sounds. My truth would not be built, cemented as so, by words—you can think it, just don’t speak it.

Spoken words have a certain finality.

But it is also a testament that resentment will break you.

“I have been hating life for a hot minute.” I choked out, half surprised, and even more relieved by own confession. After four months, I’d broken my silence and it was unsettling—the moment those nine words tumbled out of my mouth, falling into the phone receiver, I was blindsided by deafening guilt and a sharp stab of shame.

It’s easy to be disillusioned—plunged, drowned by the conditioning of social media—the make it illuminate in all shades of beautiful regarding my not-real time social media feeds. We all on some level live the lie that life is only as meaningful as a glowing highlight reel.

In the slight space, the tiny pause before my closest friend could respond to my statement, I had severe verbal remorse. I wanted nothing more than to rapidly grab my declaration out of the airwaves, like it was ugly butterflies, and strangle them, squeezing the truth out of my words. (I’m aware that strangling innocent butterflies sounds slightly violent. I promise I’m not a butterfly killer, nor a psycho. *insert rolling eyes emoji here)

I nearly followed on the tail end of my confession with, “I was just kidding, har har har!” Or add some self-deprecating humor directed at motherhood that alluded to my current depression level, but I couldn’t.

It’s hard to justify sadness against what you know are your blessings. How can I feel sad, overwhelmed, lonely when I have so much to be thankful for, when my highlight reel SCREAMS I AM HAPPY?

And at the very same time, stress is plain stress, a silent breaker of souls.

“I was worried when you told me you were moving to Kansas. You know that moving is one of the top-rated stressors in life, right?”

I wanted to laugh, and then balk at the truth of it all. (In my adult life, Travis and I have moved nine times. I have the act of moving down to almost an art.) My pride, in support of my husband’s career, didn’t want to admit defeat. Do not complain, Sarah, I have often told myself. Nobody likes a complainer (also, an act I’m extremely efficient at).

So how did I respond?

I went on an incessant bitching rant about life and how heavy and frustrating it can get.

“I think you’re lonely. Being in a new town is rough. You need to get out and make some friends.”

“I have friends!” I huffed. “I don’t need new friends.” I wanted to be mad at her, because the black well of my sadness needed her commiseration to keep thriving. At this point in the conversation, I was basically jumping up and down on my cactus.

And my sad, sulking state needed her to take a seat at my pity party table, not stand at the podium offering solutions, like a real life motivational speaker there to motivate me to change my life. #poursomeblacktea #dontgivemerealtalk

“Sarah…(more real talk that started shredding my self-pity).”

It’s semi-painful when you have to cut your own bs—nobody at a pity party wants to be dethroned of the Petty Queen title. In the past couple of months, my resentment had been at work building the sloppiest proverbial “pig pen” and I’d been transitioning into the fattest pig.  There I was—an obese pig rolling in the mud and (insert shocking curse word here) loving it.

Except I really wasn’t loving it. My confession, and the relief I felt by it, to my closest friend (and also to my sister and Mama) told me so. My heart covered in all of its depressive mud knew I needed her to breathe some light into my moment of darkness. My confession was a plea for help.

And she was there (and they were there)…not because I was giving her something, or offering a highlight reel moment—because I needed her to acknowledge that it’s okay to be sad, and it’s even okay to own a damn cactus—just don’t sit on it.

You can be frustrated, stressed out of your ever-loving mind, but at the end of the day, when you can’t stomach yourself another day, you have to do something about it…you can’t be a pig forever (unless of course, you are one of those adorable pigs that swim in the bahamas—they are real my friends. It’s worth a google. Cuteness overload).

This is why relationships with people who deeply care for you (in all the right ways) are so important—they can bring you back to life. The art of soft, loving accountability that lives in them are a lifeline. There is something to be said for the friends who grow you (the ones who show kindness in the face of your ugly madness, who want only the best for you, and truly, truly mean it–even when you refuse to accept it. #sigh).

“I don’t know what I would have done so many times in my life if I hadn’t had my girlfriends. They have literally gotten me up out of bed, taken my clothes off, put me in the shower, dressed me, said, ‘Hey, you can do this,’ put my high heels on and pushed me out the door!” —Reese Witherspoon

To my closest friends, my sister, you are my haven, my village…thank you for toasting me at the ugliest party you’ve ever not attended (because my denial is still real), for letting me roll in the mud and not judging me, for picking me up—angry and dirty, for washing me off, and then forcing me to seek joy again. I love you all, and yes, I threw away the cactus, are you happy now?

P.S. Be this friend to someone—grace changes everything.