Shedding Baggage

For many years, I traveled to schools and churches and gave programs ranging from anti-bullying messages to full-on evangelical Gospel programs. The crux of my program was giving my personal story of coming to faith. I illustrated all of that with a heavy rucksack I laid down at the end as a metaphor for our personal baggage.

This showed the weight we all carry, and how walking in faith lightened our load. I curated the program for the audience. Meaning, if I were in churches, I’d combine it with scripture, and in public schools, I would talk about sharing our burdens with counselors and trusted friends to help us be free of the things that weighed us down.

This point was further illustrated when I asked the expectant audience if they wanted to see what I was carrying around in my bag. Then, I’d pull a large boa constrictor out of the bag and explain that the things we carry sometimes start small but eventually become something that could choke the life out of us. Usually, this was met with gasps of wonder. Sometimes an “aww, hell no” was hollered as someone ran out the back door—this happened more than once, and in churches.

Lately, I’ve realized that maybe I should have listened to my own sermons. I’ve been carrying things I shouldn’t have for years. This extra emotional weight has served only to slow me down and limit my potential. If you’ve read these articles over the last year with any semblance of consistency, you likely felt concerned for me more than once.

Vulnerability as a writer is something many of us tout as the crux of good writing, and often, I’ve been uncomfortably open in these musings. So much so that after a few of the articles, people called and checked to make sure I was okay. Still, I hold way more inside than I’m willing to bleed on the page, at least publicly—as one should. This isn’t designed to be a weekly trauma dump, but sometimes my creativity was hijacked by my swirling personal chaos, which resulted in very raw articles some weeks.

I appreciated the concern when folks would reach out, and would lie and say I was okay. Then, I’d shove down all those emotions into the army duffel bag of my inner life, adding weight to the bag I’ve been dragging most of my life. A month or so ago, my turbulent inner life sort of hit a crescendo. You could say the bag was full to capacity. I hit an emotional wall, and life felt very overwhelming. I’ve been a raw nerve more often than not. These weekly posts have likely suffered; my focus at work has been nonexistent, and life just felt gray for a very long time.

I decided to take the advice of a good friend and seek counseling. Instead of just dismissing his concern and saying I’ll look into it, I just took his word sight unseen and booked an appointment with his guy. I’ve needed to take accountability and responsibility for my mental health for a long time. After some deep introspection surrounding that choice and a handful of sessions with a counselor—and copious amounts of online self-study—I’m feeling lighter.

I’m laying down all the things that have kept me in this negative feedback loop. I no longer want to listen to my misanthropic inner dialogue. I’m choosing to see the positives where I can and not letting past trauma dictate present reactions. I hope I can continue to lighten this emotional load.

People close to me have already said they are noticing a marked difference in my countenance. Here’s hoping I can continue to do the deep work necessary to become the person I was born to be, not the one I defaulted to along the way. I have a long way to go, but it feels like I’m finally starting to become the man I pretended to be on paper.