Different? or not...

I don't know why I think I'm different...but I do.

(NOTE: a revealing post - please do not read further if you desire to see me as an "all-together" person who is always "with it"

Maybe it's my intention or fierce passion to not be a typical "minister's wife" but I guess I am ----- the supportive, caring, compassionate wife who is willing (most of the time) to put her schedule off for his...the understanding listener...modest dresser...and mother who chases around the toddler at church all while daddy shakes people's hands, listens to their stories and is a guide to a weary world.

Maybe it's the "you'd have to know my past" to be able to understand why I want to understand people so much or to be understood. Is it the depression? the postpartum depression? the anxiety that roams my mind? the experiences I had while struggling with a big vice for 8 years? the hurting? the college basketball player who fell short of glory & her potential? the teen who couldn't meet her own expectations or who criticized her body image so much that her view was distorted? the perfectionist who cried herself to sleep or didn't sleep when a term paper was due even on a topic she loved? the little girl who had so much security and confidence about herself until "that relationship or incident happened"? the grad student who wanted to become someone else and reinvented herself? the client sitting in front of the "experts" who were to help her but instead they pigeon-holed her and placed her in a box because she had to be "just like everyone else and that is why she struggled with this or that"? the isolated hermit in her dorm room who seriously contemplated ending everything?

Or maybe I think I'm different because I'm a dreamer, who peruses creative blogs and dreams of creating awesome/meaningful gifts for friends, journals, prints, frames, patterns, quotes, ideas, ideals...freedom...

Maybe it's the not-so-normal mother who struggles to play with her child out of anxiety that he will throw a fit becoming more independent as he needs to, the mom who doesn't want for sugar to touch her baby boy's lips (though realistically in moderation it's ok and she knows that), the mom who doesn't want to be defined by "mom" and plays a tug-of-war with her identity.

Or maybe the woman who knows that perfection isn't attainable and that imperfection really is beautiful, that authenticity and truth are more important than facades and perceived belonging, that friendships which are deep are worth the time but those that are surfacey might as well take a hike, the woman who seeks tranquility while enjoying adventure.

Maybe it's the runner in me who has more of a female softball player's build, who defies quickness and embraces participation over speed, who runs to transform her mind, heart and body, who sees her shorts rubbing against her thighs but realizes it is part of the territory, whose love handles are a-plenty and whose aim is to feel good and feel better.

She comes together, she is me, she is different but not really.