My grandmother was one of the wisest, most complex and most amazing women I have ever met. She was colorful, unique and a 4’11” force to be reckoned with. Known for her raspy cackling laugh, a near irreverent sense of style and propriety and the occasional well-placed f-bomb, she was a woman of many sayings and witticisms. Some, not fit for print, have stuck with me for the last 20 odd years since she has passed but none more than this one darn near vulgar saying that I can never seem to let go of.
“You can’t polish a turd.”
I told you my grandmother was awesome.
Originally meant, albeit in a very crude way, to imply that money cannot fix up your insides, this saying has haunted me for years. It’s stuck around, a faint echo in my heart, for reasons that would probably cause my sweet grandmother to regret ever uttering it in my presence. It’s stuck around because for years, more than I even care to admit, I have felt like, well, a turd.
I don’t know why. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But somewhere along the way I began to grow a very deep rooted sense that I was worthless. A fraud, shiny and neat on the outside but empty within.
I have worked my entire adult life on polishing this terrible thought away. Subconsciously pushing, pushing and pushing to appear better, more status quo, more “the Joneses” than I have ever really felt. I’ve danced for years as fast as I can to polish, polish, polish–never realizing that all of the work, all of that endless effort I was putting in made my surface taut, worn thin and so very vulnerable to cracks.
Cracks that occur when for COMPLETELY LEGITIMATE AND UNDERSTANDABLE REASONS friends tell me that they wouldn’t be able to make a 40th birthday weekend that I was hoping to plan for myself. Cracks that say, “see, no friends. why would you ever think people would celebrate you?”
Cracks that chime in, louder than clanging cymbals, to remind me over and over that I’m just not quite up to par when my son can’t behave at cotillion and the saccharine condescending velvet hammer words of the Southern Junior League ladies running it make me feel like I’m not a good mother and my son is doomed to fail.
Cracks that mock me as a I try to hold back hot burning tears of embarrassment and shame when I hear “I told you so” over and over.
Cracks, moving from hairline fractures to full breaks. Cracks, straight from the devil, threatening all of the hard fought work that has been done to polish, polish, polish.
Cracks.
If I’m being honest here, these cracks have been creating deep fissures for weeks. Echoes of past doubts and insecurities growing louder and louder in my heart. I’ve done so much work over the past two years to silence them–to put them back in their rightful place-but somehow they’ve crept back in.
And it’s tremendously painful.
I don’t know what there is about old wounds that makes them particularly vulnerable to re-injury. I don’t know why ancient self-doubt is tougher to beat than anything we can conjure up in adulthood. I wish I did.
But I find that for most of us, this is the case. You can work forever to heal old scars, but all it takes is one well-timed and well-placed blow to take you right back. Innocent things can turn into harsh rejections with Forrest Gump like “seats taken” emotional consequences. A childs behavior issue can Steel Magnolias “bless your heart” you right back to your worst self.
Friends, Satan loves these old wounds. They’re his favorite playground. And lately, I’ve absolutely let him have his way with me. Sitting here at 1:00am I see the damage I’ve let him inflict. My heart is weary and worn and I feel like I’ve been through a battle. And I guess in many ways I have.
I’ve been fighting tooth and nail against these feelings, trying to get back on some level of equilibrium. I’m pulling out every weapon I have in my arsenal. I’ve learned through the years what works and what doesn’t, what is a balm to my soul and what is just a temporary salve. I’ve learned that the only thing that fights lies is truth and the only thing that pushes back the darkness is the light. 
So when I’m feeling rejected and set aside, I run straight to the word that tells me that I am not. It tells me that I am chosen. Not forsaken. That I am loved. I repeat it over and over and over. I sticky note the heck out of my favorite verses and put them everywhere my eyes will see. And when I feel judged and unworthy I repeat again and again and again those same verses that speak life to my soul. I ask a mentor whom I love and trust to pray with and for me. I laugh as a friend who knows my soul sends me GIF after GIF to cheer me up and remind me that I am, in fact, pretty ok even if me and my particularly rowdy brood of Yankee ruffians will never ever fit in with the white glove set.
I let the tears come. But I don’t let them stay. Instead of fighting against the darkness, I lean into it. I don’t push it down and try to cover it up with beautiful temporary band-aids that make me feel like I am normal. Instead, I hold this darkness up to the light. I look at it. I examine those cracks. And after a while, the darkness seems somehow smaller. Somehow less than.
Light has a way of doing that. Light always wins.
I have no idea what your cracks are. Maybe you’re really lucky and you don’t have any. But if I were a betting woman I’d say that you probably do. They probably don’t look like mine and they definitely don’t have the same weird saying attached to them. But I bet they’re there.
Clearly I can’t tell you how to wipe them away forever. I have no super glue for the soul to offer you. But I can tell you that love always wins. If you fill your heart with truth it will eventually drown out the lies. And the truth is that you are valuable. You are loved. And you are worthy.
Do you know how I know this? I know this because God doesn’t make turds. And God made both you and me.
Welcome to BurntToast! My name is Meaghan, and this is my safe space, a place where we can share stories, share recipes and share life. It’s my dream that you can come here, kick your shoes off and pour yourself a glass of wine while you read, laugh, and maybe even hop into the kitchen. This is my heart, for all of you to see. And ALL are welcome here.
I love this post and your writting style!
I am so sorry you have been battling against darkness. But like you said, God is your light, truth and savior! In my blog PhDmind I talk about how I deal with depression and anxiety, and how God is the number one solution. Take care, and don’t give up. You are a WARRIOR!
Thank you so much! I am going to check out your blog. Clearly I can use the help and it sounds like it would be a great resource for my readers as well!