Stigma

Dear Dad,

Today in church the revelation of not fighting your way, but my way to walk through all that’s not okay, hit me like a ton of bricks. My stigmas were still muted enigmas. It took me three years to see the power of my hidden paralyzing fears. 

I didn’t know I was supposed to press play, today no longer flowing in my go of yesterday. The flow of my mist of listed stigmas are no longer an enigma. Through my fall, I see the lame in my shame of not giving my all. 

My expectations created hesitations. In my crawl I kept my wall. I didn’t push, my flesh god cushion in my missed mark of dark. This ribcage stressor was always designed for my alignment. I’m a daughter of God, that’s full of assignments.

Three years of expectations, and my lark was silent in my violent bark. I’m unconditionally loved by God, flawed full of weeds that make me bleed. It’s okay for me to play my own decay of delay. It’s okay for me to replay my dismay of my newfound worth. I always didn’t know my hurt. I will always peel my feel, and see that I’m always going to need to be set free. 

My cries were dies in my lies, that were all inside. In my risen weed I internally bleed, and outwardly show the go of no need. But that’s not true, it’s still blue times too. I have pride that hides the lies inside. I struggle with hurts and battling believing my worth. 

My desire is always to be on fire for my King, who makes my soul sing. My ready ring, is full of stings. I don’t believe what I keep receiving because my faith, became the blame in my hesitate. And my faith has so much tests that disrupted my rests. 

My stressor is a survival on my terms, where there was no room to move with God. I couldn’t almost die again because of a man. I couldn’t relive battling anorexia again. I couldn’t have a nervous breakdown again. I just couldn’t be worldly worthless Crysta ever again. 

That’s why I said no, to what God showed. Everything on the surface triggered my hidden fears, in my analyzing paralyzing years. I wanted to be healed on my terms. Not God’s terms. The click in the puzzle to J to C was nothing but trouble according to me. 

I was too busy in my buzz, to create fuzz of flesh god facades. In my access I am a hot mess. My flesh god facade is a diss in my own torturing hiss. My rage is an escaping stage, where I aged, and feel like there was so much waged. But only God is my gauge. 

I realize my paralyze in all my lies. My confetti never replaced, the space of my empty. I’m missing the he to my Stir, which completes me as her. It’s my pastor to heal my created disaster. I grew slim and dim in my trim. 

I lost weight eating, eating became ate. To me it was too late. But there’s no desire without my growing fire of this he to my Stir. My limp in this wrestle, is my barren seed that God is removing, because I’m deciding to choose His voice as my ongoing choice.  I’m now aware of the need of my self care. 

My patrol in control is old and cold, and will never be the bold in forever, because only he + He + her is going to edify and magnify His Stir. My stigma is no longer an enigma. It’s still three strands land in His Kingdom Band. All parties still stay in this covenant dome, God will always call Home. 

But I feel lame in my newfound shame, of my expectations that caused all these hesitations. My mind can’t rewind time. I can’t take back all these setbacks. My attacks are Cadillacs of recurring themes of lean, mean and glean. 

It’s easy to blame the shame, on the finger that pulled the trigger. The trigger is bigger. Both the he and the her in this Stir, pulled the triggers. I pulled first. My vulnerability is so hard for me. It’s always been abused, where I was used, and fell back in my attack of nineteen. It’s a reel I still feel.

Anything wrong in my strong, was my throng to never ever be hypnotized by lies that I’ll always feel victimized by. Revelations show these hesitations, and penetrations. My fears I had in all these years. 

My fears keep being pulled out, despite my flesh god facade of all is well. There’s a swelling in this dwelling. There’s a birth in this hurt. There’s a revival in my survival. There’s an awakening in my remaking. I’ll always be God’s and I’ll always be the her in His Stir. 

So I accept my neglect to forgive and forget. I step aside to make room in the zoom, that only God can make come true. Because it’s still blue times two in this he + He + her. This is still the path to correct math, after all this time, nothing can undo this truth. I’m his and he’s mine. God is my Proof. Times three, it’s still me. His Stir will occur even after all that’s gone wrong. There’s no strong for me as her or him as he, we will still be set free. We are still meant to be. 

Only God can renew and revive, the stained pained we both choose to stay, in the remain of delay. It’s fearful lame. Only God can make this all shame have a gain. In my confess, I profess that I will always fight on Your Might, to be the see you are setting free God. I’m not alone. I’m not a drone. I cannot do this on my own. So I wait as you paint me from choke to evoke. 

Only you can make me be godly provoke, and complete this equation, without any hesitation. I choose to Be Still. I choose to edit my credit on You God. I choose to cling to my ring, that you choose to set free; and allow the follow in my bow. Thank you Dad. You make me glad. All is well within my soul. I will choose to trust in you. God, you will always be true.

The flow of my mist of listed stigmas are no longer an enigma. You solved my puzzle in my trouble. There’s no more bubble. Just love, from your beautiful Sacred Dove. Paint away, and I will no longer delay in my healing dismay. I no longer feel stronger, in believing the lie that makes me die in cries. Do your new work God. Make all things new for blue times two. For this pending love is true. 

Love your daughter, free falling boldly not coldly. 

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