What to Do When Hungover with Doubts
I woke up this morning with a hangover–not the kind from too much booze or a bad dream of being trapped in a meat-packing plant after watching a documentary on veganism {true story}.
Last Friday, I treated myself with a Starbucks chai latte to celebrate my discipline–5 mornings of waking up at 6 a.m. to write for 90 minutes straight. Now a new week has started. Although my body was up and ready to frantically type, the real Olivia was not.
I had a lot of excuses.
It’s freezing outside and I deserve an extra hour nestled in my personal cocoon of flannel sheets.
I stayed up late watching my home football team, the Kansas City Chiefs, win a game that sent them to the play-offs. Making the buffalo wings, the stress of the game, my constant searching for a shot of Taylor Swift in the stands–these all tired my soul.
Those were the first round excuses and gave easy blows. During an extra hour with eyes shut but mind awake, the real bruisers entered the arena.
Why do all this hard work when it will go nowhere? You don’t get paid for it. No one reads it. No reward is coming your way.
You don’t have what it takes to be a writer. You’re all alone, get too depressed, and you cannot sustain the discipline.
You’ve told yourself before that you would finally do it–write! Every time you’ve tried, you’ve promised, and you have failed. This time will be no different.
Reader, you know what I’m talking about.
You’ve stood in the same boxing arena.
You entered the ring with confidence and a cape of white satin that was still shiny.
You trained until you knew you had the fight in ya.
Your coach, and everyone else, said you could do it.
Then a giant of an opponent stepped into the ring. His large pecs gleamed under a layer of oil; a big gap between two gold front teeth that could bite your right ear off.
You are scared. I’M SCARED. And it’s easier to gather the sides of my flowing cape, jump over the ropes, run past my coach and proud husband in the stands, and quit it all (or just stay in my warm sheets).
And what am I guaranteed if I stay for the fight?
Bruises and pain.
Broken teeth that I too may be forced to encrust in gold.
Proof of a fight that shows who I am–not who I seem to be.
I rarely see my true self. Instead I see a softened version that is much more comfortable hidden in the corners of life–busy with work emails and trips to grocery stores, saving up for vacation or kids’ college bills, filling my waking hours with news stories, Netflix, Instagram and podcasts.
C.S. Lewis reminds us of who we really are:
If we let Mike Tyson strip away the gaudy cape, and destroy our body, what would be left beneath the pile of skin and rubble of bones? C.S. Lewis says it—a powerful, eternal being whose light is so beautiful you’d tremble and worship or whose darkness is so grown that it belongs in a horror film.
I know. The voices in your head are fighting with the great Lewis. Reminding you that you cannot be that extraordinary. You deal with depression; make a salary that allows you to barely scrape by. You lack the discipline to accomplish dreams, or are simply alone.
Although I am certainly not the God of the universe, I am also not a mere mortal who is defined by teeth that get busted or bite marks on ear lobes. I do not write for a chai latte every Friday or to finally make enough money to permanently delete that dreaded budget app on my phone. These are things I crave because all I’ve known is a mortal world, but I am more. You are more.
Forgive me.
Most days, I step into the ring and cower instead of bringing the powerful light and extreme goodness of my true self–someone built in the image of a generous, unshakable God.
Forgive me.
Some days I don’t see you. I want you to do everything possible to help my weakened mortal self feel safe. Always be kind to me (even on Facebook). Don’t make me feel inferior through your smarts, your promotions, your Christmas vacations in Aspen donning expensive ski gear. Avoid sharing your beliefs that radically differ from mine, and for God’s sake, learn to use a turn signal when driving left onto Randolph Ave.
This sorta life is beneath us all.
Get out of those flannel sheets even though they are comfy and embroidered with doubts.
Wake up, look in the mirror.
Don’t see the quickly forming wrinkles or the zit on your chin everyone at school will notice.
Peel back the mortal and stare into your eyes. They are stars–powerful, and filled with light that neither miles of darkness or years on earth could ever consume.
Say hello. Looks like you’ll be sticking around for a while.
***Look below the video for the “I Am Here” Journal Entry question for this week. Healing takes work, but we all need the real you.***
Get out your journal and try your best to depict your true self—the immortal one C.S. Lewis talks about.
You can list qualities you know reside in your eternal self even if you rarely see it emerge. They are still there. Kindness? Strength? Regal? Wise? Calm? Peace in a room? Generosity?
You could even try drawing yourself with unabashed beauty and light. When your body eventually fades, what will emerge? Draw him or her. That is the true you—one that Lewis said people would be tempted to worship encountering your God-given beauty.
Finally, think through the rest of your day today and tomorrow. List the appointments, stressful calls or zoom meetings, the upcoming times of interaction with your kids, partner etc.
Close your eyes and tell your mortal, scared self that although they have served you well all these years, it’s okay. Your true self, made in the image of God, will be the one who steps into all of these meetings and relationships.
How would you act?
What sort of presence would you bring into the room or tense situation?
May it be so. Amen.