I am a strange creature.

I always imagine that people only like me because they don't know me very well. They must only see the good parts about me. If they really knew how awful I really am, they wouldn't really want to be my friends. I know, everyone has their faults, and I've been afraid to come to terms with mine. I thought, maybe if I ignored them, they would go away or something. So, I had these random fragments of things I hate about me, and I decided to list them, because, if I can look at them, maybe they would not seem so daunting. And I did. And then after that, I decided to list the things I like about me too, because, well, I do like me too. And I won't pretend those flaws aren't there, lurking beneath the surface like some dark secret, but rather, acknowledge them and try to be better. So, here goes:

• I am lazy.
• I am selfish.
• I lie (by not saying anything at all.)
• I am VERY grumpy in the morning.
• I am particular.
• I am demanding.
• I am fat, unhealthy, and unattractive.
• I am joyful.
• I smile at strangers.
• I am kind.
• I am resilient and strong.
• I am devout and faithful and earnest in seeking a relationship with God.
• I accentuate the positive.
• I am agreeable.
• I am intelligent.
• I am successful.
• I have a beautiful smile and voice and eyes.
• I am good with children.
• I am a writer.
• I am a poet.
• I am inspired and inspiring.
• I am affectionate.
• I am enthusiastic.
• I am passionate.
• I am slow to anger.
• I am determined to grow.

Looking at this list comforts me. I will probably always be grumpy in the morning. I will probably always be particular. I will have to consciously work at improving the other things. And then, after that, I will find something else. . . But even if I am always all those bad things I listed there, I will still always be all the good things I listed there as well.

In my head, there is always this voice that says that only people who really know me, good and bad, are my family and that they have to love me. But really, if anyone else got close enough, they wouldn't love me, they wouldn't have to. All those little fragments of flaws slicing at me are really pieces of a bigger, more frightening statement: I am unlovable. I can even sift through and find the reason this statement was born, look at it in all its terrible wonder, and dismiss it as absurd and untrue. Unfortunately, its not as easy as all that, for doubts have a way of sneaking back in when we think we have banished them.

I know who I am. I know Who made me. I know how awful and wonderful I can be.

But I don't know where to go from here.