I'm trying to get back into my life, bit by bit. Bear with me, okay?
1. You might be a Pharisee if . . .
2. This made me literally laugh out loud.
3. This, on the other hand, made me want to stand on a table and cheer. But i didn't, because i was alone in my house, so that would have been weird. Actually, on reflection, i guess that would have made it less weird. Whatever. Just read it.
4. i used to think i had arrived somewhere,
until i realized there is no shore of arriving.
5. And if you're wondering how i've been the past few weeks, read this.
Showing posts with label broken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label broken. Show all posts
Monday, September 23, 2013
Wednesday, July 17, 2013
So there's a thing that exists that is bad and scary. Well. There are a lot of those things, but only one that i'm talking about right now.
That thing is "pro ana" culture. "Ana" is short for "anorexic", and "pro" means exactly what you think it does.
There are people who believe that anorexia, bulimia, and other eating disorders, are perfectly fine and valid and healthy ways to live. In fact, at the very far end of the spectrum, there are people who speak directly to "Ana". You could say they worship her. They ask her for the strength of will and body to deny themselves food. They believe that they have been chosen for something special. And they look down on those who try to emulate them, calling them "wannarexics".
In middle school, and in high school, and in college, and this week, i am and have been a wannarexic.
I lack the willpower and physical strength to deny myself food entirely. If i skip a meal and do not snack, i am shaking and nauseous and dizzy and seeing spots by the time the next meal rolls around. One meal is all it takes, and i'm falling apart at the seams.
I used to be angry with myself for this. I used to be angry that i couldn't hold out for more than one meal a day, angry that i could rarely go more than a few days in a row before i stopped skipping meals and ate regularly, angry that i couldn't just stop. Stop everything. Stop being fat, stop being ugly, stop being awkward, stop feeling uncomfortable in my skin, stop feeling uncomfortable in my head, stop saying and doing embarrassing things, stop being lonely, stop being afraid, stop being sad, stop being numb, stop being.
When i got a little older and a little wiser and learned a little more about myself and nutrition and mental health, i developed a healthy fear of that anger. I figured out better, healthier habits that would actually result in weight loss without making me physically ill. I climbed mountains, i swam oceans, i lost the "freshman 15", i gained the sophomore/junior 20ish, i lost the senior year haven't-even-been-weighed-in-years-but-all-my-pants-keep-falling-down, put on the real job with an actual paycheck and car now-i-can-afford-food-and-don't-have-to-walk-two-miles-for-it. And none of it bothered me that much. I would like, even now, to jiggle a little less. I would like to feel healthier and happier in my skin. But i would also like to eat all of the chocolate cream pie right now please, thankyouverymuch, and then you can bring me the fresh bread with butter and the beer and the buffalo chicken waffle fries with extra cheese and then maybe a bowl of whipped cream. To dip my peanut butter cups in.
Anyway. I'm mostly in a much better place, and things were going well for a while, and then i lost my gym momentum and while the ten pounds i lost in the first quarter of the year have stayed off, none of their friends have joined them.
And lately i've been depressed and anxious, what with all the uncertainty about jobs and student loans and will i even be able to afford groceries this winter and oh my God what if something happens to my car and everyone in my family keeps getting rushed to the emergency room and my boyfriend and i keep having uncomfortable conversations and i can't sleep and i really wish my thighs were a little slimmer, a little firmer. I wish my stomach was flatter. I wish i didn't have the tiniest shadow of a double chin. Because somehow, if i could magically become super hot and fit overnight, that would obviously fix all of my terrifying life problems.
And then i start to feel out of control.
And then i start to wish that i was chosen. I start to be angry at myself for my lack of control, for eating more food when i really wasn't hungry (even though the "more food" was fresh veggies, or raw almonds with dried fruit, or chicken lettuce wraps). I'm angry about my lack of motivation to go to the gym. I'm angry at my apathy. I'm angry at my depression. I'm angry at my body. I'm angry at Ana.
This week, i have honestly and legitimately had a lot of work to do, and it's been hard to go home for lunch. And every day, there's been some fresh disaster on top of the huge piles of work that i didn't get a chance to finish the day before. And ordering out is, unfortunately, not in my budget right now. So i really don't have a lot of options.
But i could still leave my desk and go eat lunch. Nothing i do at my job is so urgent, so crucial, that delaying it for an hour would spell the downfall of Western civilization. It wouldn't even spell the downfall of my job. And i could still pack myself a lunch to eat at my desk, knowing how hard it will be to get away and go home. I don't have a lot of options, but "not a lot" is more than "none".
And yet.
I keep skipping lunch. I skip lunch and i eat a spoonful of peanut butter at my desk, and then i go home and eat a snack and get busy until it's too late to eat a full meal, so then i go to sleep hungry. And then i wake up hungry and don't have anything fast and easy, so i eat a spoonful of peanut butter at my desk, or some almonds and dried cherries, and i drink a lot of water and tea and pretend that the hunger pangs are dehydration.
I don't have anything clever to say about any of this. I don't have any hope to offer. I don't have a light at the end of the tunnel. But it is two o'clock now and i am heading home for lunch.
That thing is "pro ana" culture. "Ana" is short for "anorexic", and "pro" means exactly what you think it does.
There are people who believe that anorexia, bulimia, and other eating disorders, are perfectly fine and valid and healthy ways to live. In fact, at the very far end of the spectrum, there are people who speak directly to "Ana". You could say they worship her. They ask her for the strength of will and body to deny themselves food. They believe that they have been chosen for something special. And they look down on those who try to emulate them, calling them "wannarexics".
In middle school, and in high school, and in college, and this week, i am and have been a wannarexic.
I lack the willpower and physical strength to deny myself food entirely. If i skip a meal and do not snack, i am shaking and nauseous and dizzy and seeing spots by the time the next meal rolls around. One meal is all it takes, and i'm falling apart at the seams.
I used to be angry with myself for this. I used to be angry that i couldn't hold out for more than one meal a day, angry that i could rarely go more than a few days in a row before i stopped skipping meals and ate regularly, angry that i couldn't just stop. Stop everything. Stop being fat, stop being ugly, stop being awkward, stop feeling uncomfortable in my skin, stop feeling uncomfortable in my head, stop saying and doing embarrassing things, stop being lonely, stop being afraid, stop being sad, stop being numb, stop being.
When i got a little older and a little wiser and learned a little more about myself and nutrition and mental health, i developed a healthy fear of that anger. I figured out better, healthier habits that would actually result in weight loss without making me physically ill. I climbed mountains, i swam oceans, i lost the "freshman 15", i gained the sophomore/junior 20ish, i lost the senior year haven't-even-been-weighed-in-years-but-all-my-pants-keep-falling-down, put on the real job with an actual paycheck and car now-i-can-afford-food-and-don't-have-to-walk-two-miles-for-it. And none of it bothered me that much. I would like, even now, to jiggle a little less. I would like to feel healthier and happier in my skin. But i would also like to eat all of the chocolate cream pie right now please, thankyouverymuch, and then you can bring me the fresh bread with butter and the beer and the buffalo chicken waffle fries with extra cheese and then maybe a bowl of whipped cream. To dip my peanut butter cups in.
Anyway. I'm mostly in a much better place, and things were going well for a while, and then i lost my gym momentum and while the ten pounds i lost in the first quarter of the year have stayed off, none of their friends have joined them.
And lately i've been depressed and anxious, what with all the uncertainty about jobs and student loans and will i even be able to afford groceries this winter and oh my God what if something happens to my car and everyone in my family keeps getting rushed to the emergency room and my boyfriend and i keep having uncomfortable conversations and i can't sleep and i really wish my thighs were a little slimmer, a little firmer. I wish my stomach was flatter. I wish i didn't have the tiniest shadow of a double chin. Because somehow, if i could magically become super hot and fit overnight, that would obviously fix all of my terrifying life problems.
And then i start to feel out of control.
And then i start to wish that i was chosen. I start to be angry at myself for my lack of control, for eating more food when i really wasn't hungry (even though the "more food" was fresh veggies, or raw almonds with dried fruit, or chicken lettuce wraps). I'm angry about my lack of motivation to go to the gym. I'm angry at my apathy. I'm angry at my depression. I'm angry at my body. I'm angry at Ana.
This week, i have honestly and legitimately had a lot of work to do, and it's been hard to go home for lunch. And every day, there's been some fresh disaster on top of the huge piles of work that i didn't get a chance to finish the day before. And ordering out is, unfortunately, not in my budget right now. So i really don't have a lot of options.
But i could still leave my desk and go eat lunch. Nothing i do at my job is so urgent, so crucial, that delaying it for an hour would spell the downfall of Western civilization. It wouldn't even spell the downfall of my job. And i could still pack myself a lunch to eat at my desk, knowing how hard it will be to get away and go home. I don't have a lot of options, but "not a lot" is more than "none".
And yet.
I keep skipping lunch. I skip lunch and i eat a spoonful of peanut butter at my desk, and then i go home and eat a snack and get busy until it's too late to eat a full meal, so then i go to sleep hungry. And then i wake up hungry and don't have anything fast and easy, so i eat a spoonful of peanut butter at my desk, or some almonds and dried cherries, and i drink a lot of water and tea and pretend that the hunger pangs are dehydration.
I don't have anything clever to say about any of this. I don't have any hope to offer. I don't have a light at the end of the tunnel. But it is two o'clock now and i am heading home for lunch.
Monday, July 1, 2013
i'm too sleepy to think of a title
1. "For a long time, I've puzzled over those two lines from that bikini post that everyone's been talking about. Is it really that simple? I just . . . save some extra cash from baby-sitting? Are we living in the adult world? With adult women who pay bills and work jobs and have to feed themselves and pay back student loans?
'It's just a little extra cash' has me scratching my head. If there's anything that solidifies modesty culture as the domain of the suburban, middle class, white, evangelical church, it's this 'it's just a little extra cash' attitude."
This one hit me hard. First of all, i'm a "curvy" (fat) double D. I have big, full breasts and round hips and my gay boyfriend recently told me that my ass was amazing. I have a lot of skin to cover up, is what i'm saying. I have hundreds of camisoles and tank tops, because if i don't layer them under my shirts and dresses, i show too much cleavage and/or midriff. I have tights and leggings to cover my legs under skirts. I wear the longer-cut shorts from Old Navy to keep my thighs in check. I spend a lot of money on clothes, and on modesty clothes (like tank tops and leggings), and i have a whole complicated system for figuring out what i can wear to work, vs. what i can wear to church, vs. what i can wear on a date, vs. what i can wear at my boyfriend's parents' house, etc. It's a lot of time, and a lot of money, and a lot of fabric. Packing for a weekend is an ordeal. Packing for longer than that requires medication (which i can't afford, so i buy $7 bottle of chocolate flavored wine and call it a day). So now we're talking extra baggage fees, carrying heavy suitcases on the train, buying a larger suitcase in the first place, and so forth. And that's just packing. I haven't even touched on clothing storage in my own house. In other words, it's not just a little extra cash to buy the more modest bathing suit. It's a little more cash for every garment you ever own, plus extra cash to find places to put all of those garments.
Second, a little more cash for me right now is the difference between eating fresh veggies, pasta, chicken, fruit, yogurt, oatmeal, salmon, eggs, mushrooms, salads, and drinking water and coffee (and yes, the occasional $7 bottle of chocolate flavored wine) for three healthy, satisfying meals a day, and eating rice and beans twice a day. Notice i'm not talking about preparing gourmet feasts of veal steak and oysters and toasted Brie and ordering sushi and pizza every weekend. I'm talking about eating real, healthy food that i prepare myself. I've lived on rice and beans before. I'm not eager to go back to that. It's only a couple of extra dollars for this one bathing suit, and only a couple of extra dollars per tank top to layer under your clothes, and only a couple of extra dollars per cardigan to layer over them, and only a couple of extra dollars for the longer shorts, and then suddenly your bank account has nine dollars and seventy-three cents left in it and you haven't bought groceries yet. I have lived (and am living) this reality. Modesty is sometimes purchased at the expense of physical health.
2. "Figuring out my stance on homosexuality felt like a life and death decision. When I described the intensity of my concern to other Christians, most would say, "but, why? You don't even have a gay family member." This response was very confusing to me. Isn't the whole point of Christianity that we are all family? . . .
And while we're at it . . . that still, small voice suggests to me often that He'd appreciate if Christians picked up a couple more issues other than homosexuality and abortion to address. You know, maybe a couple He actually mentioned . . . like care for the poor and sick and lonely and hungry and imprisoned and widowed and orphaned and recently immigrated. Maybe we should all be required to pick an issue that requires US to change and not OTHERS to change. I think that'd be good."
3. Shame has no place in the Kingdom of Heaven. Let's not get into the habit now.
4. Yup, this is pretty much Jesus.
'It's just a little extra cash' has me scratching my head. If there's anything that solidifies modesty culture as the domain of the suburban, middle class, white, evangelical church, it's this 'it's just a little extra cash' attitude."
This one hit me hard. First of all, i'm a "curvy" (fat) double D. I have big, full breasts and round hips and my gay boyfriend recently told me that my ass was amazing. I have a lot of skin to cover up, is what i'm saying. I have hundreds of camisoles and tank tops, because if i don't layer them under my shirts and dresses, i show too much cleavage and/or midriff. I have tights and leggings to cover my legs under skirts. I wear the longer-cut shorts from Old Navy to keep my thighs in check. I spend a lot of money on clothes, and on modesty clothes (like tank tops and leggings), and i have a whole complicated system for figuring out what i can wear to work, vs. what i can wear to church, vs. what i can wear on a date, vs. what i can wear at my boyfriend's parents' house, etc. It's a lot of time, and a lot of money, and a lot of fabric. Packing for a weekend is an ordeal. Packing for longer than that requires medication (which i can't afford, so i buy $7 bottle of chocolate flavored wine and call it a day). So now we're talking extra baggage fees, carrying heavy suitcases on the train, buying a larger suitcase in the first place, and so forth. And that's just packing. I haven't even touched on clothing storage in my own house. In other words, it's not just a little extra cash to buy the more modest bathing suit. It's a little more cash for every garment you ever own, plus extra cash to find places to put all of those garments.
Second, a little more cash for me right now is the difference between eating fresh veggies, pasta, chicken, fruit, yogurt, oatmeal, salmon, eggs, mushrooms, salads, and drinking water and coffee (and yes, the occasional $7 bottle of chocolate flavored wine) for three healthy, satisfying meals a day, and eating rice and beans twice a day. Notice i'm not talking about preparing gourmet feasts of veal steak and oysters and toasted Brie and ordering sushi and pizza every weekend. I'm talking about eating real, healthy food that i prepare myself. I've lived on rice and beans before. I'm not eager to go back to that. It's only a couple of extra dollars for this one bathing suit, and only a couple of extra dollars per tank top to layer under your clothes, and only a couple of extra dollars per cardigan to layer over them, and only a couple of extra dollars for the longer shorts, and then suddenly your bank account has nine dollars and seventy-three cents left in it and you haven't bought groceries yet. I have lived (and am living) this reality. Modesty is sometimes purchased at the expense of physical health.
2. "Figuring out my stance on homosexuality felt like a life and death decision. When I described the intensity of my concern to other Christians, most would say, "but, why? You don't even have a gay family member." This response was very confusing to me. Isn't the whole point of Christianity that we are all family? . . .
And while we're at it . . . that still, small voice suggests to me often that He'd appreciate if Christians picked up a couple more issues other than homosexuality and abortion to address. You know, maybe a couple He actually mentioned . . . like care for the poor and sick and lonely and hungry and imprisoned and widowed and orphaned and recently immigrated. Maybe we should all be required to pick an issue that requires US to change and not OTHERS to change. I think that'd be good."
3. Shame has no place in the Kingdom of Heaven. Let's not get into the habit now.
4. Yup, this is pretty much Jesus.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Psalm 29-65
Psalm 60:1-2
O God, You have cast us off;
You have broken us down;
You have been displeased;
Oh, restore us again!
You have made the earth tremble;
You have broken it;
Heal its breaches, for it is shaking.
There's nothing like reading the Psalms during a manhunt for the terrorists who attacked your city. The really crazy thing is remembering that, not only were the Jews subject to this kind of violence and oppression thousands of years ago, but they still live with these realities every day. And so do lots of other people, all over the globe. It isn't only Boston that has been terrorized this week. It isn't only West, Texas. It isn't only Korea, or Israel, or anywhere. The whole earth trembles. The whole world is broken.
O God, You have cast us off;
You have broken us down;
You have been displeased;
Oh, restore us again!
You have made the earth tremble;
You have broken it;
Heal its breaches, for it is shaking.
There's nothing like reading the Psalms during a manhunt for the terrorists who attacked your city. The really crazy thing is remembering that, not only were the Jews subject to this kind of violence and oppression thousands of years ago, but they still live with these realities every day. And so do lots of other people, all over the globe. It isn't only Boston that has been terrorized this week. It isn't only West, Texas. It isn't only Korea, or Israel, or anywhere. The whole earth trembles. The whole world is broken.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boston Marathon 2013
You know what's weird? It's weird when you're in Boston, where you've been dozens of times in the last six years, and you've just watched your little brother cross the finish line on a handcycle, and you and your cousin and her boyfriend are finishing up lunch, and then your boyfriend calls to see if you're okay.
"Yeah, i'm fine. Why?"
"There was an explosion close to where you are. A couple of explosions. Stay away from the trains."
And then it's weird when the trains are all shut down and you can't get back home. It's weird when you're looking at news pictures of devastation and destruction in exactly the spot where you were just two hours before, and you think, "Thank God all the amputees got out of there before the explosions triggered their PTSD," and then your mom is texting you, saying, "Get a cab. I'll pay for it." but you can't find a cab, so you take the Silver Line to the airport. And then it's weird when you realize that the airport is probably a horrifically unsafe place to be, but so is the place where you were, and anyway what choice do you have? Walk the eight miles to your apartment? It's weird when you get to the airport and take the Blue Line to Beachmont, and then your cousin's grandmother picks you up, and then you and the grandparents and Agelseb and her boyfriend all stay in Revere over night. It's weird when you're seeing the devastation of your own city on the news. It's weird when you wake up the next morning to a text from your dad saying that the FBI searched an apartment in Revere because they got a lead on the person behind the terrorist attack. It's weird when your brain puts two and two together and you realize that you were just two blocks away from a terrorist attack as it was happening. It's weird when you have to call your boss to say that you can't come in, because the of the explosions.
It's weird. For a long time, it's not terrifying or upsetting or sad or anything like that. It's weird, and it's stressful, and it's annoying, and it's uncomfortable, and it's inconvenient. It's weird to drain your cell phone battery calling people to tell them that you are alive and to make sure that they are. It's weird.
Today, i have a major event at work that i'm sort of co-running. Actually, i'm kind of running the whole thing. So it's weird to get back home at 8:45 in the morning, change your clothes, and run straight to campus to start setting up slide shows and posters and making frantic phone calls. It's weird and anxiety-producing and super stressful. It's weird to look at the gorgeous LBD and pearls you had picked out for today, so that you would be appropriately polished and professional when you are running a major campus event, and then reach for an old t-shirt, jeans, and your rattiest sneakers, because you haven't even showered yet and you forgot to change your underwear and you'll be running around for the next eight and a half hours so why bother? It's weird to spend the day eating trail mix because you're too nauseous to eat real food and you don't want to pass out. It's weird to see your Facebook news feed filled with information about this thing that almost happened to you. It's weird to sit quietly in the back of the auditorium while someone lectures about using GPS signals to predict earthquakes and totally ignore the lecture to read Dorothy Parker, because it's Dorothy Parker and you love her and all you want to do is read and relax, and then you remember that you almost got blown up yesterday and you just keep breathing.
I've been hit with tiny waves of realization from time to time. Mostly, i've been weirded out. Yesterday, i was mostly stressed about normal tiny annoyances ("The Red Line isn't running! Check the Orange Line. Oh, they're only going to Forest Hills. Where the fuck is Forest Hills? Whatever, it's the wrong direction. Can we get a cab? I haven't seen any cabs in hours. Wait, does this bus go to the airport? Agh, i have to pee!"). Last night and this morning, i was anxious to the point of nausea and insomnia because of this huge event today and all of the things i still needed to do for it. Every now and then, i get sad or scared or anxious about the attack, but mostly i've been wrapped up in other things. Mostly, it's just been weird.
And it's going to be weird next year, when the marathon comes around again and everyone gets nervous. It's going to be weird in fifteen or twenty years when my kids learn about this in school and their teachers give them an assignment to interview their parents and i tell them how close i was, i pull up a map to show them where i watched the race (right next to the finish line) and the P. F. Chang's where i was during the actual explosions. It's going to be weird when we find out who was behind this and watch the bloodthirst take over.
It's going to be a weird time for all of us, for a very long time. But life is weird, and wine is good. Give lots of love to your friends and family. Pray, or meditate, or think happy thoughts, or do whatever it is you do in times like this. Keep eating and drinking, even if you're nauseous and/or distracted, because the last thing your loved ones need right now is for you to pass out from dehydration or malnutrition (says the girl who has yet to eat an actual meal today). Sleep. Take a shower. Give someone a back rub. Snuggle. Watch a happy movie (i like Bringing Up Baby). Sleep and eat and love some more. Things are always going to be weird, so just keep breathing and you'll get through.
"Yeah, i'm fine. Why?"
"There was an explosion close to where you are. A couple of explosions. Stay away from the trains."
And then it's weird when the trains are all shut down and you can't get back home. It's weird when you're looking at news pictures of devastation and destruction in exactly the spot where you were just two hours before, and you think, "Thank God all the amputees got out of there before the explosions triggered their PTSD," and then your mom is texting you, saying, "Get a cab. I'll pay for it." but you can't find a cab, so you take the Silver Line to the airport. And then it's weird when you realize that the airport is probably a horrifically unsafe place to be, but so is the place where you were, and anyway what choice do you have? Walk the eight miles to your apartment? It's weird when you get to the airport and take the Blue Line to Beachmont, and then your cousin's grandmother picks you up, and then you and the grandparents and Agelseb and her boyfriend all stay in Revere over night. It's weird when you're seeing the devastation of your own city on the news. It's weird when you wake up the next morning to a text from your dad saying that the FBI searched an apartment in Revere because they got a lead on the person behind the terrorist attack. It's weird when your brain puts two and two together and you realize that you were just two blocks away from a terrorist attack as it was happening. It's weird when you have to call your boss to say that you can't come in, because the of the explosions.
It's weird. For a long time, it's not terrifying or upsetting or sad or anything like that. It's weird, and it's stressful, and it's annoying, and it's uncomfortable, and it's inconvenient. It's weird to drain your cell phone battery calling people to tell them that you are alive and to make sure that they are. It's weird.
Today, i have a major event at work that i'm sort of co-running. Actually, i'm kind of running the whole thing. So it's weird to get back home at 8:45 in the morning, change your clothes, and run straight to campus to start setting up slide shows and posters and making frantic phone calls. It's weird and anxiety-producing and super stressful. It's weird to look at the gorgeous LBD and pearls you had picked out for today, so that you would be appropriately polished and professional when you are running a major campus event, and then reach for an old t-shirt, jeans, and your rattiest sneakers, because you haven't even showered yet and you forgot to change your underwear and you'll be running around for the next eight and a half hours so why bother? It's weird to spend the day eating trail mix because you're too nauseous to eat real food and you don't want to pass out. It's weird to see your Facebook news feed filled with information about this thing that almost happened to you. It's weird to sit quietly in the back of the auditorium while someone lectures about using GPS signals to predict earthquakes and totally ignore the lecture to read Dorothy Parker, because it's Dorothy Parker and you love her and all you want to do is read and relax, and then you remember that you almost got blown up yesterday and you just keep breathing.
I've been hit with tiny waves of realization from time to time. Mostly, i've been weirded out. Yesterday, i was mostly stressed about normal tiny annoyances ("The Red Line isn't running! Check the Orange Line. Oh, they're only going to Forest Hills. Where the fuck is Forest Hills? Whatever, it's the wrong direction. Can we get a cab? I haven't seen any cabs in hours. Wait, does this bus go to the airport? Agh, i have to pee!"). Last night and this morning, i was anxious to the point of nausea and insomnia because of this huge event today and all of the things i still needed to do for it. Every now and then, i get sad or scared or anxious about the attack, but mostly i've been wrapped up in other things. Mostly, it's just been weird.
And it's going to be weird next year, when the marathon comes around again and everyone gets nervous. It's going to be weird in fifteen or twenty years when my kids learn about this in school and their teachers give them an assignment to interview their parents and i tell them how close i was, i pull up a map to show them where i watched the race (right next to the finish line) and the P. F. Chang's where i was during the actual explosions. It's going to be weird when we find out who was behind this and watch the bloodthirst take over.
It's going to be a weird time for all of us, for a very long time. But life is weird, and wine is good. Give lots of love to your friends and family. Pray, or meditate, or think happy thoughts, or do whatever it is you do in times like this. Keep eating and drinking, even if you're nauseous and/or distracted, because the last thing your loved ones need right now is for you to pass out from dehydration or malnutrition (says the girl who has yet to eat an actual meal today). Sleep. Take a shower. Give someone a back rub. Snuggle. Watch a happy movie (i like Bringing Up Baby). Sleep and eat and love some more. Things are always going to be weird, so just keep breathing and you'll get through.
Friday, December 14, 2012
Hebrews 7-13, James, 1 Peter 1-2
James 2:13
For judgement is without mercy to the one who shows no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgement.
I had some things to say about this, but they have all been preempted by the shooting at an elementary school in Newtown, CT. More than thirty people are dead, and most of them are children.
I am sick. I am sad. I am angry.
I read James 2:13 and i think, "Hell yes. This person shot small children in the face on purpose multiple times. Show him no mercy." And then i remember that anyone can love good people, but Christ has called us to love our enemies. I remember that if i do not show mercy to him, no one will show mercy to me. I remember that violence breeds violence, and that venting my anger on this sick, hurting, broken young man will not undo what he did, will not make me or anyone else feel better.
And then i think, "Fuck that. You can't kill people and have it be okay. I don't care what Jesus said; he also started whipping people for disrespecting the temple. You can't tell me that He would have wanted us to show this piece of shit mercy."
Then again, He's also the guy who prayed for people as they were beating Him.
I don't know what to think. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel.
Romans 8:26
Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.
For judgement is without mercy to the one who shows no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgement.
I had some things to say about this, but they have all been preempted by the shooting at an elementary school in Newtown, CT. More than thirty people are dead, and most of them are children.
I am sick. I am sad. I am angry.
I read James 2:13 and i think, "Hell yes. This person shot small children in the face on purpose multiple times. Show him no mercy." And then i remember that anyone can love good people, but Christ has called us to love our enemies. I remember that if i do not show mercy to him, no one will show mercy to me. I remember that violence breeds violence, and that venting my anger on this sick, hurting, broken young man will not undo what he did, will not make me or anyone else feel better.
And then i think, "Fuck that. You can't kill people and have it be okay. I don't care what Jesus said; he also started whipping people for disrespecting the temple. You can't tell me that He would have wanted us to show this piece of shit mercy."
Then again, He's also the guy who prayed for people as they were beating Him.
I don't know what to think. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel.
Romans 8:26
Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
an open letter to Jesus
Hey,
Listen. You need to cut this shit out. When i stood in chapel week after week and sang, "Break my heart for what breaks Yours", i didn't mean it like this. I didn't mean that i wanted to fall to my knees in tears when someone uses their misunderstanding of science to harm women. No one has called me a slut. No one has pressured me to keep the baby of my rapist. I've never even been raped. I didn't want to feel this much for those who have. I wanted to be able to continue living my life while feeling sort of vaguely bad for people who are worse off than me, and i really think that You should have understood that.
I didn't want to be reduced to tears of rage when hate exploded toward the LGBTQ community, when a chicken sandwich became the symbol of discrimination and intolerance. I'm not a lesbian. I've never even been bi-curious. I mean, sure, it sucks that gay people find themselves disowned by their families, friends, and churches, that they lose their jobs, that they get bullied, that people are actively raising money to prevent them from accessing basic human rights, but i don't even want to be involved in this discussion, so why am i so heartbroken over what other people are saying?
Did You know that a version of Jim Crow is back? Did You know about the Invisible Children? Did You know about homelessness, malnutrition, AIDS, cancer, cyberbullying, domestic violence, mental illness? Did You know that some people preach hate in Your name?
Come on. I don't have time to worry about this. I don't have the emotional capacity to feel for all of this. I have problems of my own, You know: rent, terrible roommates, college loans, student teaching, family drama, health concerns, depression and anxiety, separation from friends and loved ones, work stress, a fight with my boyfriend, my car is unregistered and uninsured, and i hardly seem to have time for myself anymore.
When i said "Break my heart for what breaks Yours," i didn't mean actual heartbreak. I didn't want to empathize, i wanted to sympathize. I wanted to feel gently sorry for people who were worse off than me, and then get back to my caramel iced coffee and air conditioning and wishing i could buy more organic food. I wanted to cling to my first world concerns.
Empathy fucking hurts. Is it too late to take it back? Is it too late to return to fuzzy sympathy? Because You know, all these feelings are too much. If i keep feeling all these feelings, i'm going to have to do something about them.
If i keep feeling these feelings, if You keep breaking my heart for what breaks Yours, i won't ever be able to return to sympathy. I'll have to be an advocate for the voiceless, a lobbyist for the powerless, a trailblazer for those lost in the wilderness. If You keep peeling back the layers of my ignorance, removing the blinders from my eyes, softening my heart, i won't be able to feel sympathy ever again. I won't be able to return to personal, first-world concerns. If you keep this up, i will be consumed by the least of these. I will feed the hungry, instead of merely buying food from companies that promise to donate a fraction of the proceeds to a "feed the hungry" charity. I will clothe the naked, instead of merely buying shoes that promise to give one pair to a child. I will visit the sick and imprisoned, instead of merely praying that Your spirit will visit them.
If You don't cut this out, i will have no other choice than to become You, to be Your hands and feet, to love with Your heart, to see with Your eyes. I will have no choice except to be transformed into Your image, to become the light and the salt, to be Christ to a world that desperately needs a Savior. And just because that's what You told us all to do doesn't mean i was supposed to actually do it, right? I thought it was more of a combined teamwork thing where everyone does a little from their armchair and suddenly the world is in harmony? When You allowed me to be born into privilege, when You made me white and straight and American and pretty and healthy and sturdily middle-class and intelligent, You didn't really intend for me to use my position of privilege to help those of less fortunate births, did You?
Did You?
Monday, August 27, 2012
scars, 2
There are other kinds of scars. The kinds that don't show up on your skin. The kinds that are reminders of wounds to your heart, your soul, your mind. The kinds that take years to heal, and meanwhile continue to bleed and throb. The kinds that can infect your whole self if you don't take care of them in time.
Those are not the kind you can inflict on yourself accidentally. Those are the ones from other people, from spending time with people who are close to you. Strangers can hurt you, but it takes love to really damage someone in the way that lasts. Nothing scars like love.
I was born with fragile emotional skin, the kind that easily splits open, the kind that bleeds freely, the kind that does not heal smoothly. There is a lot of mental illness in my family -- depression, bipolar disorder, addictions -- a lot of tendencies and predispositions to inherit.
Here's the thing about mental illness: you can inherit all kinds of tendencies without actually showing symptoms. My dad's whole family are addicts, though nothing has (yet) flipped that switch in him. My siblings and i are also free from addiction (except maybe to The West Wing and bacon). But we all know that that predisposition could become a reality. On both sides of the family, there are long histories of depression, of delusion, of suicidal thoughts and crippling self-doubt and anger and fear and anxiety and panic and mania. Some of these things have already begun to surface in the four of us, and there are times when it feels like we are just waiting for the next crisis to hit.
So life becomes a balancing act, dancing across a tightrope with the black abyss opening up on every side. One wrong step means an endless plummet from which there may not be a return. And a safe return does not guarantee security from future falls.
In this grand balancing act, my mother is my partner on the high wire. But instead of being a serious, trained professional who understands the seriousness of what is happening, she persists in believing that the slender, swaying wire is only a few feet above a level floor surrounded by walls and ground and firm foundations. While this may be her reality, it is not mine. But she persists in believing that i dance on the wire because i don't want to walk on the floor, because i am too stubborn or silly to get over my fear and walk free. This belief is a large factor in her divorce from my dad, another high wire act who has taken his share of falls.
Instead of proceeding with gentle understanding of my tenuous position, she tries to get me to run across the wire to the platform on the other end, to climb down to the floor, to get over this morbid fascination with instability. She threatens, she pleads, she cajoles, she cries. I wobble and beg her to let go of my hand, to stop dragging me down.
She often tells me how like my father i am. When i was little, i believed that this was a good thing, a source of pride. Now i know that she was trying to warn me, trying to save me. But she doesn't know what i know about my dad. She doesn't know how much strength it takes him to have lived so long in freefall, with her beside him all the time, screaming at him to stop falling and stand up. She doesn't know how miraculous it is that he is still alive, still functional, still capable of things like hope and joy and love. She doesn't know what an inspiration he is to me. She doesn't know how badly i want to be like him.
Those are not the kind you can inflict on yourself accidentally. Those are the ones from other people, from spending time with people who are close to you. Strangers can hurt you, but it takes love to really damage someone in the way that lasts. Nothing scars like love.
I was born with fragile emotional skin, the kind that easily splits open, the kind that bleeds freely, the kind that does not heal smoothly. There is a lot of mental illness in my family -- depression, bipolar disorder, addictions -- a lot of tendencies and predispositions to inherit.
Here's the thing about mental illness: you can inherit all kinds of tendencies without actually showing symptoms. My dad's whole family are addicts, though nothing has (yet) flipped that switch in him. My siblings and i are also free from addiction (except maybe to The West Wing and bacon). But we all know that that predisposition could become a reality. On both sides of the family, there are long histories of depression, of delusion, of suicidal thoughts and crippling self-doubt and anger and fear and anxiety and panic and mania. Some of these things have already begun to surface in the four of us, and there are times when it feels like we are just waiting for the next crisis to hit.
So life becomes a balancing act, dancing across a tightrope with the black abyss opening up on every side. One wrong step means an endless plummet from which there may not be a return. And a safe return does not guarantee security from future falls.
In this grand balancing act, my mother is my partner on the high wire. But instead of being a serious, trained professional who understands the seriousness of what is happening, she persists in believing that the slender, swaying wire is only a few feet above a level floor surrounded by walls and ground and firm foundations. While this may be her reality, it is not mine. But she persists in believing that i dance on the wire because i don't want to walk on the floor, because i am too stubborn or silly to get over my fear and walk free. This belief is a large factor in her divorce from my dad, another high wire act who has taken his share of falls.
Instead of proceeding with gentle understanding of my tenuous position, she tries to get me to run across the wire to the platform on the other end, to climb down to the floor, to get over this morbid fascination with instability. She threatens, she pleads, she cajoles, she cries. I wobble and beg her to let go of my hand, to stop dragging me down.
She often tells me how like my father i am. When i was little, i believed that this was a good thing, a source of pride. Now i know that she was trying to warn me, trying to save me. But she doesn't know what i know about my dad. She doesn't know how much strength it takes him to have lived so long in freefall, with her beside him all the time, screaming at him to stop falling and stand up. She doesn't know how miraculous it is that he is still alive, still functional, still capable of things like hope and joy and love. She doesn't know what an inspiration he is to me. She doesn't know how badly i want to be like him.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
a little less hope
Have you ever met one of those couples that, when you look at them, you think, "That's it. That's the real thing."? Every time you see them together, you have a little more hope in relationships. You know that love is real, and that love lasts.
Have you ever seen that couple ripped apart by infidelity and lies?
My star couple fell in love in a matter of weeks. They spent every minute together. They were best friends. I lived with her two summers in a row. One of those summers was right before her wedding in August.
I went to their wedding. They were the first couple that John and i went on a double date with. I saw them at events, helped her plan an elaborate birthday party for him, watched their life together grow for nearly three years.
Then the truth was revealed: during their engagement, he had cheated on her twice. Scared and disoriented by the speed at which their relationship was progressing, he panicked and did something terrible.
He had also been addicted to prescription pain killers and pornography for nearly their entire relationship. While she knew that he had had these struggles in the past, he had assured her that it was all over. Five months after they started dating, it all started again. He even stole pills from members of her family.
They're in counseling, but they don't know yet where they will end up. She wants to leave, but she feels that the right thing to do is to give it one last try.
Last night, she got very drunk, made out with a stranger, and ended up in the ER. Her husband met us there and drove us home. She asked him to put her rings back on her hand. It may mean nothing, or it may mean everything. A bond like theirs can withstand a lot. But it has taken a pretty heavy blow. Even if they survive this, we all know now that things like this can happen. Grief like this can come to any of us. Love is not all you need.
I still have hope in them, in love. It's just a little bit less.
They're in counseling, but they don't know yet where they will end up. She wants to leave, but she feels that the right thing to do is to give it one last try.
Last night, she got very drunk, made out with a stranger, and ended up in the ER. Her husband met us there and drove us home. She asked him to put her rings back on her hand. It may mean nothing, or it may mean everything. A bond like theirs can withstand a lot. But it has taken a pretty heavy blow. Even if they survive this, we all know now that things like this can happen. Grief like this can come to any of us. Love is not all you need.
I still have hope in them, in love. It's just a little bit less.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Broken
A few weeks ago, a minor spat with John spiraled into a total emotional breakdown on my part, including an hour of sobbing incoherently and talking about my parents. (To be clear, this was not at all John's fault. The minor spat was a conversation we'd been needing to have, and one off-handed remark of his opened my eyes to something in my life that i hadn't seen before and desperately needed to deal with.)
I knew that i had the power to hurt other people if i wished. I came to terms with that power a long time ago, and i try to use it responsibly. I am fully aware that i can intentionally hurt others with my words and actions.
What never struck me was how easily i could hurt someone unintentionally just because of who i am.
I am broken.
It's hard for me to be loved. Some of that comes from my stubborn streak, some of it from my natural independence, and some from bad experiences with my mom and Casey. Both of them hurt me a lot because of who they are, because of their brokenness, and some of my own brokenness comes from them. But somehow it never occurred to me that i could turn around and do the same thing. It never occurred to me that pulling away and putting up walls and drawing deeply into myself -- simply because that is who i am and i don't know another way to be -- hurts other people. Even when people would tell me this, in an attempt to help me open up to others and improve both my life and theirs, it never really clicked.
I am broken, and the shards can cut those who want to hold me close.
I had an epiphany a while back about letting people help me. I realized that turning down help is denying another person a chance to be blessed. I resolved to get better about accepting help from others, realizing that my pride was not worth more than another person's happiness.
And while i did get a little bit better, i was still placing myself at the center of the issue. I was blessing other people by allowing them to do things for me. Therefore, when i allowed someone to help me, i was really doing something for them.
Sometimes, i need to put my pride entirely away and allow myself to be opened and broken and emptied, so that i can be filled anew. Sometimes, i need to care more about another person's joy than my own. Sometimes, i need to allow myself to be uncomfortable for the sake of making someone else's day better.
I am broken, and cannot mend myself.
While there are some things that i simply need to process all on my own, there are many more times when i need to turn to someone else. Whether this is God, a counselor, a teacher, or a friend, there are times when someone else has to help me smooth out the rough parts, match up the pieces, and glue it all back together.
I need to be more honest with myself and with others about my brokenness, and warn them about the edges. I need to know that they understand that i am broken, and that getting too close means that they will inevitably be cut from time to time. It is not my job to protect everyone in the world from everything that could ever hurt them, even when that includes me.
I need to know that being mended leaves scars. Some of them will be stronger than before. Some will be weaker. Some will ache. None will ever be entirely forgotten. I will live with my broken places every day, and so will the people who love me. Because they love me, and that's what you do.
I am broken.
I knew that i had the power to hurt other people if i wished. I came to terms with that power a long time ago, and i try to use it responsibly. I am fully aware that i can intentionally hurt others with my words and actions.
What never struck me was how easily i could hurt someone unintentionally just because of who i am.
I am broken.
It's hard for me to be loved. Some of that comes from my stubborn streak, some of it from my natural independence, and some from bad experiences with my mom and Casey. Both of them hurt me a lot because of who they are, because of their brokenness, and some of my own brokenness comes from them. But somehow it never occurred to me that i could turn around and do the same thing. It never occurred to me that pulling away and putting up walls and drawing deeply into myself -- simply because that is who i am and i don't know another way to be -- hurts other people. Even when people would tell me this, in an attempt to help me open up to others and improve both my life and theirs, it never really clicked.
I am broken, and the shards can cut those who want to hold me close.
I had an epiphany a while back about letting people help me. I realized that turning down help is denying another person a chance to be blessed. I resolved to get better about accepting help from others, realizing that my pride was not worth more than another person's happiness.
And while i did get a little bit better, i was still placing myself at the center of the issue. I was blessing other people by allowing them to do things for me. Therefore, when i allowed someone to help me, i was really doing something for them.
Sometimes, i need to put my pride entirely away and allow myself to be opened and broken and emptied, so that i can be filled anew. Sometimes, i need to care more about another person's joy than my own. Sometimes, i need to allow myself to be uncomfortable for the sake of making someone else's day better.
I am broken, and cannot mend myself.
While there are some things that i simply need to process all on my own, there are many more times when i need to turn to someone else. Whether this is God, a counselor, a teacher, or a friend, there are times when someone else has to help me smooth out the rough parts, match up the pieces, and glue it all back together.
I need to be more honest with myself and with others about my brokenness, and warn them about the edges. I need to know that they understand that i am broken, and that getting too close means that they will inevitably be cut from time to time. It is not my job to protect everyone in the world from everything that could ever hurt them, even when that includes me.
I need to know that being mended leaves scars. Some of them will be stronger than before. Some will be weaker. Some will ache. None will ever be entirely forgotten. I will live with my broken places every day, and so will the people who love me. Because they love me, and that's what you do.
I am broken.
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