I came home from a night out just ranting and he looked at me and said, Sounds like you need to write this one out, babe. And I was quick to shoot something back, but it left my mouth so thoughtlessly that I don't recall it now.  I'm sure it was something like No one else is worked up about these little things or I can't do that, it wouldn't be kind.

The problem is, I'm still hurting from that conversation nights ago and I'm growing tired of shaking it off.  So maybe I can write it and maybe I can do it kindly and maybe no one else does care, but I do, I really do.  And it is burning a hole in me right now.

I first noticed it at one of our earlier dinner parties and after it happened I thought and talked and shook my head over it for days.  But I excused it because no one else seemed very bothered by it all and because I easily excuse people; I'm recently recognizing this as one of my larger flaws.  But after that night, I noticed it everywhere.  And I noticed myself, too.  The way I checked out.  The way I no longer cared about eye contact and proper responses and no, I will not ask you a follow up question, I will not partner with you in this mad place you are dragging us all.

I didn't recognize the toll of it until earlier this week when I was on the phone with the oldest, dearest friend and I began to warble over nothing really.  I didn't realize how out of place I felt until I talked with a person I fit so well with and I didn't realize how badly I needed to be heard, asked good questions, laughed at.

I believe there is power in language.  I know this is true because He made it all--everything out of words.  I know this is true because He left the Great Book for us and because that Great Book knows me in ways I do not know myself, speaks new life from ancient words, binds my heart, binds it.  And I have felt the gift of words-- how hungry my heart is for the right ones, how desperately I need to hear certain things out loud over and over and over, I love you, beautiful girl.

And as calming and satisfying as language and conversation are, they are infuriating also.  They are robbing, thieving tools when used badly or thoughtlessly and conversation may be the most isolating act I know.  There is something that snaps and cracks inside me when offered the gift of conversation and then not allowed a place inside of it.  There is something wild inside of me that pouts and growls when bad conversation captures me and holds me for minutes and hours with no thought to me in particular at all (the audacity).

There.  I've had my rant and I've done it with a smile and a laugh at myself.  And as ridiculous as I let myself become, I am a little afraid.  That next time I will maybe push my chair back and stand on it and hold a finger to my mouth hushing them all.  That I will do more, that I will tell them, I know this story because I have heard it now four times and what I really want to know is you, not this story of birthing and hospitals and pushing, I want to know you-- I want to sharpen with you, I want to love you, I want to get excited over Him with another person and you are taking that from me with your competitive birthing stories and opinions on epidurals and midwives and hours of labor (what?!) and how did we get here.  HOW.  He has put glory in our hearts and He could be speaking right now but we are roaring over Him and you are missing me, too.  I am here and you see me and you are plowing right over me with all your words.

Maybe someday I will get over my PTSD from hearing hours of birthing stories and I will have my own child.  And then maybe I will partake in this madness of one-upping labor stories on my nights out.  But if I do, I hope someone taps me on the shoulder and shakes their head at me.