Our family moved away from the house with the swing set. Consequently, I haven't walked across swing set bars in years. Not literally. Granted, even if we did have a swing set, I'd probably consider myself "too old" to walk across a bar, but still.
But last night, as I lay awake in the wee hours of the morning because of a near panic-attack, I realized something.
Yes, I still do walk across swing set bars. Figuratively, of course. My swing set bars come in the form of confronting my anxiety, when it would be easier to give in and hide away. My swing set bars come in the form of allowing myself to cry in front of another human being. In throwing a pair of scissors across the room, because if they're anywhere near me, I can't trust myself to not self-harm. In telling people my testimony, even when I'd rather keep all my heartache to myself.
To accomplish these things is to go against the lies that tell me I can't do it. I no longer have to prove ten-year-old girls wrong, but I do have to prove wrong the lies and the liars from whom the lies come. They tell me I can't do the impossible, but I know that they really believe I can. They're just afraid of looking stupid when I turn out to be stronger than they are. I think that the devil and (sorry, girls) the group of ten-year-olds have a lot more in common than I'd originally thought.
As I write this, I remember that I haven't eaten breakfast yet. I've been quite depressed lately, and whenever I'm depressed, the thought of food repulses me. But to avoid eating because it makes me feel miserable would be the same thing as backing down to those ten-year-old girls: cowardly.
This is a bar I must walk across, to defeat the lies that haunt my mind. A small bar, granted, but in order to win wars, winning smaller battles is necessary. So I'm going to take some of that seven-year-old courage and beat back the voice in my head that says I can't do this.
I think that the "coolest" girl, who was wearing a navy blue jacket that I really, really liked, has taught me a lot.