I Am Not in Control

A little peek into my blogging process: I’ve been aiming for weekly blogs the last several months, and I’d give myself a solid B on this endeavor. Certainly not perfect. But not lackluster. Some weeks I travel, and sometimes I don’t “feel it” (though I aim not to let this excuse derail me).

I am admittedly not feeling “it” tonight, and yet here I am. Forcing myself to write — writing for me, writing for an audience. My counselor actually recommended I do so this week and process three concepts: identity, relationship, and control.

We’ve talked about these three things in recent sessions, but I have no idea what’s about to tumble into the paragraphs to come. Which is not really all that different from any other blog, even if I have a strong idea for one at the start.

This is how all writing happens: one paragraph, one sentence, one cursed blinking curser at a time.

With a lot, a lot, a lot of procrastination.

— No joke, I just took a thirty minute Twitter / TikTok / make-some-hot-cocoa break.

Now I’m back with my cocoa as the night’s crickets chirp among a stronger chorus, and maybe I’m scared to take things to another paragraph.

I have control issues. I have known this about myself for a little while now. Counseling has helped me see it more clearly, though I feel I’ve known this for many years prior.

I don’t like being at the mercy of my circumstances. Especially the mercy of another human.

My fight-flight-freeze instincts kick in when powerless situations arise, and I’m a total flight guy.

Back in middle and high school, I could see the bullies coming a mile away. If ever I crossed paths with them, I was powerless to fight back (verbally, generally).

So, I made sure not to cross paths with them. As much as humanly possible.

Rather than enter into a situation beyond my control, I’d memorize the bullies’ schedules and consciously walk around them in the halls. Sometimes I’d wait in a bathroom stall for minutes if I heard them at the sinks or urinals.

(Stalls were always safer than urinals, regardless if it was #1 or #2.)

If classroom seating was open, I’d take the desk as far away as possible from the problematic kids. My worst moments in high school were the ones beyond my control — forced to sit directly beside, behind, in front of a guy who made fun of my acne or quietness or what have you. Fifty minutes of crippling.

This coronavirus crisis has been another test of my control issues. Forced to sit in the desk of this situation with a pandemic on all sides of me.

I have very little power right now. In some cases none.

I cannot work at a coffee shop like I want.

I cannot organize my new small group like I want.

I cannot build my relational momentum here of the last year like I want.

I cannot even travel like I want.

I recently suffered my worst allergy outbreak in 33 years, and I could not do simple things with my body like walk around a block or breathe without coughing or wincing or groaning, a near constant physical reminder that

I

am

not

in

control.

This pandemic has put my control issues on full blast…and it hasn’t been a fun couple months. I mean, yes, this virus has hit us all in a hard way. I’m not naive to think I’m alone in that aspect.

But when it comes to control. Man. Have I lost it.

I pride myself on my independence — yes, to an admitted fault — and I have been brought to my knees into forced dependence on the powers that be. God. The government. Science. The list that isn’t me unfurls to the floor.

RELATIONSHIPS

Beyond life’s basic logistics right now, I feel most powerless in my relationships. While I do give myself grace for not having had the best relational upbringing (what’s a guy friend? what’s belonging with other boys/men? are best friends actually real?), I still feel horrifically inept sometimes.

I say the wrong things. I don’t say things when I should. I’m not great at intentionality with some people, and I’m obsessed about it with others.

Ultimately, I feel most of my relationships are contingent upon the other party wanting to “re-up” for another year or quarter or week. I’ve lost some dear friends as an adult — my fault, theirs, whatever — and the pain has been guttural.

IDENTITY

My identity as a man is something I don’t struggle with (as much) anymore. Maybe that’s trivial for some or most men reading, but it’s a pretty big deal for me.

Once upon a summer camp, I genuinely wondered if I was wired with some other gender’s DNA, because I certainly didn’t look and sound and feel like the other 18- to 23-year-olds in my midst.

Physically, I was scrawny.

Emotionally, I was exploding.

And mentally, I couldn’t escape this constant refrain with the beat of my heart: you are not with them.

I’ve since made significant strides in the physical department; emotionally, I’m still very much swirling with explosions most days.

But I’m way less ashamed of my emotions now, especially after working in therapy environments with kids who literally could not put words to the feelings they felt. Kids who had to be taught about emotions by a color-coded wheel and this foreign concept of “talking about it.”

God am I grateful for outlets like blogs and books and therapy and actual friendships that have allowed me to talk about it. So much of “it.” Again, and again, and again.

I’m a man; it doesn’t feel strange to say anymore, even though I still feel that sense of different much of the time.

Again, chalk it up to my stubborn independent streak: I kinda like being different.

I used to shower in the dark as a kid because I hated catching glimpses of myself, even through the steam. But now I like who I see in the mirror.

CONTROL

I don’t know where this all leaves me today. Significantly stronger in my identity piece, still pretty powerless in my relational one. A struggler with control above all else.

Not so much with lust.

Not so much with fear.

Not so much with shame.

Not so much with all the other struggles I rattled off in Struggle Central.

It’s all control, I’m realizing. Sure, I do experience lust and fear and shame and a host of other unpleasant or unwanted things.

But it all stems from that powerless feeling.

I’m attracted to men and men only and can’t do anything to change that. So why not just give in from time to time and lust after one or two? (I’m firmly committed to singleness/celibacy with my convictions, but obviously chastity is no walk in the park, even for straight people I imagine.)

I’m afraid of this situation or how that friend may hurt me, and I can’t just ignore the fear throbbing in my gut. So why not respond by running away? (I literally hashtagged a 2-month road trip in 2015 #RunningAway for just that reason.)

I’m ashamed of my sin, especially my oft-repeated ones, especially as someone stepping into more leadership and ministry, and I feel like a hypocrite. So why not feel that perpetual shame? Don’t I deserve to feel like a loser?

CONTENTMENT

You know, y’all, I think if I can just learn to be content, I’ll be okay — not great, not blind to life’s injustices and sorrows.

But okay.

It’s the scripture I wrestle with most: Paul’s admission in Philippians 4:11-12 (ESV) that he has learned true contentment.

Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.

Sometimes I like to crack a peek at The Message just to see it spoken another way.

Actually, I don’t have a sense of needing anything personally. I’ve learned by now to be quite content whatever my circumstances. I’m just as happy with little as with much, with much as with little. I’ve found the recipe for being happy whether full or hungry, hands full or hands empty. Whatever I have, wherever I am, I can make it through anything in the One who makes me who I am.

Hands full. Or hands empty.

It’s so counterintuitive.

But if my hands are empty…then…they need to be made full again…right?!

And yet whatever identity deficiencies I face. Whatever circumstances go awry. Whatever friends hurt or leave me. Whatever struggles stem from my ultimate struggle with control —

There is the key. Empty hands. With contentment.

I am called to be content and trust the One who makes me who I am.

These empty hands feel powerless right now. I feel something missing in them. I feel I need more equipment or words or people or happiness or propulsion to take another step.

And yet, I suppose, like learning the names of emotions on a paper wheel, I am precisely where I am meant to be.