Tough. Sharp. Witty. Snarky. Capable. Independent. Powerful. Like super-powerful, machine gun, taser wielding, ninja powerful. In control. Emotionally guarded. Mysterious. Beautiful…in an average-girl-made-alluring-by-her-mystery-and-inaccessibility kind of way. Likes others, even loves others, but doesn’t need anyone.
That’s the girl I want to be: Ziva David, Sydney Bristow, Kate Austen, Veronica Mars.
Today I read an article in Smithsonian magazine about Amazon women, in which the author, Amanda Foreman, suggests that girls don’t want to be girls unless we have powerful, warrior-like heroes and role models, like Wonder Woman. That ruffled my feathers a bit. Maybe some girls want to be girly girls…soft, submissive, sweet, meek. And that’s OK, right?
Then I sat down and devoured season three of Veronica Mars and realized – I am that article. I want, have always wanted, to be Sydney, Ziva, Kate, Veronica. I mean, I even dressed up as the Black Widow for our Christmas Card for crying out loud:
So maybe there’s something to this Amazon woman deal after all. Because apparently I want to be Wonder Woman. (With more clothes on, thank you.)
So what’s that about? Power? Control?
Is it bad? Is it wrong to want to be strong and powerful? Maybe not.
But to want to be always in control? (Eve calling….)
To want to be independent? To need no one else?
There is this part of me that wants to shut out the whole world. To keep my heart all to myself. To keep my love for others wrapped up tightly inside, hidden away.
So that all my love is mine. And all my pain is mine. And all my fear is mine. And all my joy is mine. And all my grief is mine. And all my shame is mine. And all my everything….is mine.
And you can’t have it. You can’t see it or touch it or feel it or know it. You can’t have it. Because you can’t have me.
And there it is.
A cursed and wounded heart, frozen by freedom’s great imposter: independence.
But I want it so badly. Today, more than any other day, I feel it – how strong it is, this idol that rules my heart.
And so I ride fences and seek pleasures that harm me. Always wanting what I can’t get. Pawing, stamping the dusty earth along the rails…butting against walls that hold me in, chasing freedom. Freedom from pain and people and expectations and false hope.
But walking through this world alone is its own sort of prison…with transparent, icy walls that deceive me into believing that love is safer when it can’t touch me, that seeing is enough. Will I ever be able to let someone love me? Tell me, Don Henley, when will it be too late?
This idol…this me wanting me all to myself…it has to go. It has to go.
But how? How do I surrender who I am? The only thing I have…me?
But do I even have me or is it just an illusion, a lie? Because who am I anyway? How did I get here and how will I go?
I am not my own. I didn’t make me. I can’t keep me.
Or more astutely:
It is when I turn to Christ, when I give up myself to His personality, then I first begin to have a real personality of my own…There are no real personalities anywhere else. Until you have given yourself to Him you will not have a real self…Your real, new self will not come as long as you are looking for it. It will come when you are looking for Him. – CS Lewis
Oh the futility of my fight. On my own, I am nothing.
And I feel tired. And I don’t want Him to love me or comfort me BECAUSE I AM ANGRY. Angry like a 6 year old girl who just realized that someday she will die. That this life – this awesome, beautiful, terrible, wondrous life – will end. Will be snatched out, like a carpet, from under her feet, knocking her hard on the floor and stealing the breath from her lungs. No more blue sky and green trees and grass to tickle the feet and beaches to wander and dreams to dream and futures to plan.
And she lies there thinking, “Who is this God that gives and takes away?”
And the pain and betrayal run deep. So deep that even nail-scarred hands that gave everything burn. Because this place is raw. And the healing hurts.
And I wonder…who am I? Why did You make me? Why did you make me a girl? What does it even mean? Who should I want to be? How should I want to be? Is it safe to want to be anything? Or will you snatch that out from under me too?
Or will you take this broken, wounded, angry girl…and remake me into something beautiful? Something strong? Something good? Something free?
There are so many things I want to be, but Lord, can You make who I am?
© Nichole Liza Q.
I’m not a girl, but I still enjoyed the read.