A friend asked me why I don’t do any long-form writing anymore, and I simply replied that I didn’t see the point of expressing my thoughts and opinions in blog form anymore. She was referring to my other blog which is free of any reference to faith/gay struggles, but my response stands.
I used to ask myself why I wrote. Why I blogged. What was the point? Early on, on my other blogs, it was a means of expression, but it was also to write for an audience. Like their acknowledgement and agreement with my thoughts and opinions meant validation. Cogito ergo sum. And you agree with me, so you agree that I am. But this place was always different. I didn't stop writing here because I didn't need validation anymore. I think we always need validation, and it comes in different ways and forms throughout our lives. No, I stopped writing here because much of what I had to say, I have already said.
But lately, I've had people ask me for my thoughts. And I've been reminded about how a repository such as this of thoughts and ideas and emotions can be helpful, not only for me, but for anyone reading. So here we are again.
In the span of time since I really wrote anything proper, a lot has happened. And not all of it good. A while back I had encounters with a guy I fell head over heels for, and we both knew the dangers and the hurt that would come, but we went on anyway.
I guess I thought I loved him. But in hindsight, it was just the validation I craved. I wanted to be wanted. For once in my life, after all those years of wanting others and yearning for connection, someone wanted me back. Someone desired me too. Someone looked in my eyes and felt how I felt.
The thing is, in the days before I plunged into that sin, I distinctly remember praying and hearing God tell me, "You know that if you do this, it can only end badly." And yet I did it. I brought forth pain and hurt. I brought forth spiritual death and sent a man spiralling away from God. Sure, if I think back on it, I could somewhat vindicate myself and say that he was already moving away. But I cannot deny that I was probably the catalyst. If he was a powder keg, it was I that lit the fuse. I cannot deny my hand in his descent. I cannot in good conscience stand before God and say it wasn't my fault. Because it was. And is.
It could only end badly. And it did. We don't even talk anymore, and though we both know there's blame to share, sin doesn't discriminate. It can drag down everyone and anyone, regardless of how differently you may fight or not. And all I have left is to call out to God for forgiveness, and ask Him to help me clean up the mess I made. That somehow, maybe He can undo some of the damage I brought about.
We've both moved on from those days, or perhaps simply just moved past. The stains of sin are still there, some wounds left unhealed, some cuts still deep. But I was the one who held the knife. And the scars may be ugly and may have taken their toll, but they also serve as a reminder of the dangers of sin. They remind me that I do not have the willpower to say no if faced with deep, complex emotional temptation.
Most of all, they remind me of my ever-present need for my Saviour's grace and mercy and strength.